Dear Auntie,

You would laugh to see me now, stirring stew at the Hearth Tavern while explorers roar of relics, duels, and the fortunes they claim are just one mission away. They slam mugs on tables as if the noise itself could prove their courage. In truth, I think half of them only come here to be heard.

The walls of the tavern bear carvings of names upon names. Each explorer believes theirs will last, etched into oak, though oak rots like everything else. Sometimes I wonder if the wood remembers more than flesh, and if it grieves for the names it can no longer hold.

From where I cook, I glimpse the Hearthfire itself—a coal said to be drawn from the Creator’s forge. It burns steady, unblinking. They say it has not dimmed in a hundred cycles. Some explorers kneel before it as though it were a goddess, while others laugh at such devotion, only to vanish on their next outing.

I confess, Auntie, that I sometimes speak to the fire when I am alone. I do not know if it hears me, but I find comfort in believing that something ancient still listens, even to a cook’s mutterings.

With love,
Marna