The evening meal at the Scarlet household was usually a loud, vibrant affair, filled with overlapping chatter, the clattering of wooden spoons against ceramic bowls, and Marco's endless enthusiasm. Tonight, however, the atmosphere was thick with a quiet, uneasy tension.
Lencar sat in his usual chair at the worn wooden dining table, leaning heavily on his left elbow. He kept his head bowed, the white linen mask still tied securely over his nose and mouth. He pushed the pieces of roasted root vegetable around his plate with a slow, lethargic rhythm, making sure to eat only a fraction of what he normally would. Every few minutes, he would turn his head away from the table, burying his face in the crook of his arm to muffle a harsh, rattling cough that shook his broad shoulders.
It was a performance, but it was a masterful one.
Marco and Luca sat across from him, unusually subdued. They picked at their own food, their large eyes frequently darting toward Lencar with genuine worry. Even little Pem, sitting in Rebecca's lap, seemed to sense the shift in the room's energy, remaining quiet instead of throwing his food onto the floor.
"You really aren't eating much, Lencar," Rebecca noted softly. She reached out, her fingers hovering just inches from his arm, as if she wanted to check for a fever but was afraid of breaking the quarantine boundaries she herself had set.
Lencar let out a heavy, tired sigh that sounded painfully raspy through the fabric mask. "I'm sorry, Rebecca. The food smells wonderful, as always. My stomach just isn't agreeing with me tonight. The thought of swallowing anything solid is making my throat burn."
"That's alright, don't force it down," she said quickly, pulling her hand back. "You need to rest your body, not fight a heavy meal. I can boil some chicken broth for you if you think you could manage a liquid?"
"No, thank you. Water is fine for now," Lencar replied, offering a weak, appreciative nod. He forced another coughing fit, making sure his chest heaved with the effort. When he settled back into his chair, he let his posture slump completely.
Marco, clutching his wooden spoon, looked up with a small, hopeful frown. "Lencar? Since you're home early, are you still going to tell us a story before bed? I want to hear the one about the knight who fought the giant mole!"
Before Lencar could even formulate a response, Rebecca shook her head firmly.
"Absolutely not, Marco," she scolded gently. "Look at him. Lencar is sick. His throat is sore, and he needs to save his voice. There will be no stories tonight. In fact, as soon as you finish your carrots, you and Luca are marching straight to the washbasin and getting ready for bed."
"Aww, man," Marco groaned, though he didn't put up his usual fight. He looked at Lencar with a sympathetic pout. "Okay. Feel better soon, Lencar. The invisible goblins might attack if you're not here to guard the pillow fort."
"I'll... do my best... to recover quickly," Lencar rasped, giving the boy a tired, crinkling smile with his eyes.
Dinner concluded shortly after. The kids were surprisingly obedient, clearly understanding that the usual playtime was canceled. They brushed their teeth, changed into their sleeping clothes, and lined up by Lencar's chair to say goodnight from a safe, Rebecca-enforced distance of three feet.
"Goodnight, Lencar," Luca whispered, waving a small hand.
"Goodnight, you two. Sleep tight," Lencar replied softly.
Rebecca herded the children down the short hallway to their room. Lencar remained at the table, listening to the muffled sounds of blankets being pulled up and final goodnights being exchanged. A few moments later, Rebecca emerged from the hallway, carrying an empty water pitcher.
She walked over to the table and began stacking the dirty plates and bowls. She looked incredibly tired herself, the long day at the Rusty Spoon clearly taking its toll.
"Leave the dishes, Rebecca," Lencar said, making a move to stand up. "I can at least wash them before I go lie down."
"Sit down, Lencar Abarame," Rebecca commanded, her tone brooking no argument. She pointed a soapy finger at him. "You are not touching a single dish, a single broom, or a single rag in this house until you stop sounding like a dying dog. I am going to wash these plates, wipe down the table, and then I am going to bed. And you are going straight to your room, locking the door, and sleeping until noon tomorrow."
Lencar held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Alright, alright. I know better than to argue with the head of the house. But I'll take my own plate to the basin."
He stood up slowly, making sure his knees trembled just a fraction, and carried his nearly full plate to the stone sink. He rinsed it quickly under the pump.
Rebecca grabbed a towel, wiping her hands dry. She walked over to him, her expression softening into deep, maternal concern. "Please, Lencar. Go get some sleep soon. You scared me today. I haven't seen you look this terrible since the day you first washed up in Nairn."
The genuine worry in her voice made a sharp pang of guilt flare in his chest. He hated deceiving her. She was a good, honest person who had opened her home to a stranger. But he reminded himself of the horrific, violent chaos that was about to descend upon the Clover Kingdom tomorrow. He was building a wall of lies to ensure the fire didn't spread to this small, peaceful house.
"I will, Rebecca," Lencar promised, looking her directly in the eyes. "I'm going to lock the door and sleep through the night. Don't worry about me. Go get some rest yourself."
She offered a weak smile, nodding slowly. "Goodnight, Lencar."
"Goodnight."
He watched her walk to her bedroom, waiting until he heard the distinct click of the latch falling into place.
The house plunged into a deep, heavy silence, broken only by the steady, rhythmic drumming of the rain hitting the wooden roof shingles.
Lencar's slouched, exhausted posture vanished the second the door closed. He stood up straight, his broad shoulders squaring as the intense, calculating energy of his true nature flooded back into his limbs. He didn't drop the act entirely—he still let out a muffled cough into his elbow just in case the walls were thin enough to betray him—but he moved with absolute, silent precision.
He approached the stone washbasin. The stack of dirty plates, bowls, and wooden spoons sat waiting. Instead of grabbing a rag and soap, Lencar extended his hand over the pile.
He drew upon a tiny, microscopic thread of his Water Magic, blending it seamlessly with a pulse of Wind Magic. The water resting at the bottom of the basin rose up in a swirling, localized vortex. It wrapped around the dirty utensils, moving with the speed and abrasive force of a fast-flowing river. The grease and food remnants were stripped away in a matter of seconds. With a subtle flick of his wrist, a warm gust of air blew across the clean ceramic, drying them instantly. The entire chore took less than ten seconds, completely silent and flawlessly executed.
Lencar stacked the clean plates back in the cupboard, turned on his heel, and walked quietly down the hall to his own bedroom.
He stepped inside and closed the heavy wooden door behind him. He reached up and slid the iron deadbolt into place, locking it firmly from the inside.
The room was pitch black. Lencar didn't light a candle. His eyes, adjusted to the gloom through countless nights in the wilderness, saw everything perfectly.
It was time to build the alibi.