Page 35 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

“H-Hello,” she stammered, blinking at him. “What a . . . pleasant surprise. What brings you to Little Mineola?”

Arkenoth met her gaze evenly. “We were hoping to enjoy some lunch—if you are still serving.”

Lunch? Here?

She wasn’t sure why that discombobulated her. People came to The Witching Flour for lunch all the time, didn’t they?

But Arkenoth wasn’t . . . people.

She cleared her throat. “You—yes. Yes, of course.” She gestured toward the room, a little too broadly, struggling to school her expression into anything that wasn’t stunned disbelief. “Take any seat you like.”

He gave a small nod but didn’t move. Then he turned slightly and gestured toward his companions. “May I present my friends? Meridan Caius and Elios Rhodes.” He nodded at them. “This is Miss Aura Cassia.”

The first, the elf, carried himself like a man accustomed to courtly decorum, his every gesture poised. He inclined his head in greeting. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Aura.”

Meridan? Cassia frowned slightly. She hadn’t heard of an elf family by that name, and she was certain—judging by his physique, aura, and the effortless way he carried himself—that he was an elf. Yet, if he belonged to one of the well-known noble houses, she would’ve remembered.

Then, there was the other one.

Cassia turned toward the massive demon, and recognition flickered in the back of her mind. She had read about him before—not recently, but the gossip papers loved to dredge up old scandals whenever they found a slow news day.

Elios Rhodes.

Who in Angelene hadn’t heard that name?

His family was one of the oldest and most revered Aureli houses—an ancient line of sun-elves whose pride ran as deep as their reverence for lineage. Scholars, ceremonial architects, and aristocrats, the Elios family had shaped elven ritual for generations, and expected their children to carry that legacy forward without deviation.

But about three decades ago, Lady Elios had done the unthinkable: she bore a child from an indiscretion with a demon. Not just any demon. A Furia—a Rage Demon.

And yet, Sir Elios had claimed the boy as his own—whether out of pride, duty, or something else—sending shockwaves through Meredith’s nobility.

Cassia had always thought that Elios Rhodes was exceedingly fortunate. A half-demon, half-elf man whose very existence should’ve been a scandal buried and forgotten, or so the Echelons would have preferred. And yet here he was: towering, self-assured, utterly unapologetic for what he was.

He grinned, broad and easy. “You made those honey cakes?”

His voice was a deep, warm rumble that grounded the moment and made it feel a little less surreal.

Cassia hesitated. “I did.”

The cakes. Arkenoth had implied he shared them with others. Were these the people he spoke of?

Rhodes let out a low huff, shaking his head. “I took one bite and knew I must meet the Kitchen Witch behind them.” Then, without hesitation, he took her hand—engulfed it, really. His grip was firm, warm, his calloused fingers rough against her knuckles. “Your hands should be a national treasure, Miss Aura.”

Cassia’s brow arched. “They were that good?”

“Better,” he said solemnly.

Everything she’d read about Rage Demons—the violence, the battle-frenzy, the legends of mindless destruction—seemed absurd standing in front of this man, who was cradling her hand like it was made of glass.

A small laugh escaped before she could stop it. “Well. I’m glad you enjoyed them.”

She turned to Ark—just in time to catch the way his gaze flicked to her mouth at the sound of her laughter. Just for a moment.

Cassia cleared her throat. “Please have a seat anywhere you like. I’ll get you some tea and tell you about today’s lunch specials.”

She tried not to grimace when they gravitated toward the table at the back, the one closest to Opalina and Lilibeth, who were both staring unabashedly—not that they were alone in their curiosity. The rest of the bakery had gone silent, everyone practically leaning in to catch every word. The Witching Flour received plenty of patrons, but never anyone quite like these three.

The table and chairs, perfectly suited for the average customer, looked almost comically small beneath them—especially Rhodes. The seat let out a protesting creak as he settled into it, the sturdy wood visibly straining under his size.