You'd think, after rebuilding a forge, hosting diplomats, and surviving a siege, we'd earned the right to not start the day with theft.
But no.
Because this morning began with Cinders standing in the middle of our provisional cook station, holding a ladle like it had insulted her family, and asking, in the calmest murder-voice I've ever heard:
"Where's my spoon?"
And I don't mean "a" spoon. I mean the spoon. The slightly warped, reinforced iron-band one with a handle short enough to burn your fingers and a bite in the curve where something—probably Tinker's first golem—once tried to eat it.
That spoon had been through things.
Cinders didn't yell. She just narrowed her eyes and went still. Which, for her, is like watching a flame decide it doesn't need oxygen anymore. The entire expedition squad froze.
"Someone," she said, very clearly, "touched my spoon."
---
Relay blinked up from his logistics slate.
"I thought it was in the supply bin last night?"
