The golden light of late afternoon spills across the farmhouse porch, painting the wooden boards in warm hues as Shadowheart leans against the railing, a half-peeled apple in one hand and a knife in the other. The blade moves with practiced ease, the peel curling away in a single, unbroken ribbon—a small, unnecessary bit of skill she'd picked up just because she could. Because she wanted to. The scent of ripe apples and fresh earth hangs in the air, and the distant trill of songbirds completes the peaceful scene.

Across the yard, her partner wrestles with an overenthusiastic chicken, its wings flapping wildly as she tries—and fails—to herd it back toward the coop, hands on her hips as the bird darts past her again, triumphant in its defiance. The grass tickles bare ankles, still warm from the day's sun, and the chicken's feathers catch the light with an iridescent sheen.

Shadowheart watches, lips quirking into a smirk. "You do realize," she calls, voice laced with dry amusement, "that we've faced down mind flayers, a Nether brain, and the literal Chosen of the Dead Three... and yet this is what defeats you?" Her voice carries clearly across the short distance, the warm breeze carrying the faint scent of the apple she's been preparing.