Chapter 5 - Emotionally Constipated? We Have a Brew for That
Gideon wasn’t sure what he expected a “book café” to look like, but this wasn’t it.
The watchtower still looked like a fortress from the outside. Weathered gray stone, narrow windows, and an old House Deneith emblem barely visible on the lintel.
But as soon as he stepped inside, the world changed. It smelled like cardamom and paper. The air was warm and dry, charmed just so, enough to chase away Karrnathi chill but not dry out the parchment lining the shelves. The bottom floor had been transformed into a circular lounge, with low tables, arcane lanterns that flickered in soft lavender hues, and a slow, enchanting melody humming quietly in the background. Books hovered from shelf to hand with a gentle pulse of magic, and steam rose from ceramic cups etched with shifting sigils.
It was... calming. Strange. And, to his surprise, kind of nice.
He stood awkwardly by the entrance, still in half-armour from his morning drills, not sure if he was meant to seat himself or be summoned like a spell.
Then he heard it: “Oh stars, he actually came.”
Devon.
He appeared from behind a beaded curtain, sleeves rolled to the elbow, ink smudged on his fingers and a tea towel draped over one shoulder. His horns glinted softly in the lantern light, and he wore that usual lopsided grin. The one that said I’m not surprised, but I’m going to pretend I am anyway.
Gideon cleared his throat. “Caelan said you made something drinkable.”
Devon raised a brow, grabbing a ceramic mug off a floating tray. “Did he now? That’s rich coming from a man who once tried to steep black tea in boiling wine.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“I’m stalling. Sit.”
He did, stiffly, carefully, like the chair might snap beneath his armoured weight. It didn’t. Devon snapped his fingers, and a book floated over to settle on the table between them. It opened itself to a page titled Cleansing Blends for Clarity and Focus.
“I’ve got just the thing,” Devon said. “Don’t move.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
Devon disappeared behind the counter and reemerged moments later with a steaming cup in hand. He set it down in front of Gideon, then leaned an elbow on the table and studied him, as if watching a rare creature try to acclimate to a new habitat.
Gideon stared at the tea. “What’s in it?”
“Focus leaf, sage blossom, a hint of dried brambleberry. And no, it won’t make you hallucinate.”
“You’re sure?”
Devon smiled wider. “Mostly.”
Gideon took a slow sip, trying not to show how much he liked it. Devon didn’t press. He just leaned back in his chair, watching his friend relax by inches.
“So,” Devon said softly. “What do you think?”
Gideon glanced around. At the glowing sigils. The floating books. The warm lighting and gentle sound of pages turning on their own. The soft clink of mugs. The feeling — unexpected, unfamiliar — of not needing to be anyone other than who he was.
He looked back at Devon. “I think this place is very you.”
Devon blinked, then smiled. Not wide this time, but soft. Real.
“Yeah,” he said. “I think it is.”
It was late afternoon in the Outer Wards, and Inkwyrm & Co. had entered its lull between the lunch rush and evening regulars.
The lanterns had dimmed to a warm gold glow, and soft instrumental music drifted lazily through the space. The scent of cinnamon bark and ink hung in the air, and in the corner of the café, three chairs were tucked around a low circular table beside a wide window, where afternoon light slanted across the stone floor.
Caelan lounged with practiced ease, sleeves rolled, a steaming cup of something fragrant in one hand. Gideon sat across from him — upright, composed, and very much trying not to look out of place in a civilian setting. Devon, sleeves ink-streaked and half-tucked, leaned against the windowsill with a smug little smile that said he was very much enjoying this rare combination of chaos and calm.
“So,” Caelan said casually, swirling his tea. “Now that we’ve successfully avoided talking about work for a whole thirty minutes... shall we circle back to my favourite topic?”
Gideon exhaled. “No.”
Devon perked up. “Oh, this should be good. Let me guess, your paperwork backlog?”
Caelan smirked. “Close. My brother’s complete inability to make romantic connections.”
Devon gasped, a little too dramatically. “You mean the city’s most eligible baby-faced bruiser hasn’t found love yet? I’m shocked.”
Gideon gave him a look. “You’ve known me long enough to know that’s not a mystery.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t make it less of a tragedy,” Devon quipped, pouring more tea into Gideon’s cup. “You’re kind, dependable, emotionally repressed in a charming way. A rare catch.”
“I don’t need matchmaking,” Gideon muttered into his cup.
“No,” Caelan said dryly, “what you need is a conversational starter that doesn’t involve tactical formations or tea preferences.”
“I have other topics.”
“Name three.”
“...”
“Exactly,” Caelan finished, satisfied. Devon chuckled and leaned back, resting his chin in his hand as he studied Gideon with exaggerated scrutiny. “Honestly, you’re adorable when you’re annoyed. Like a very serious guard dog who just had his tail stepped on.”
“I don’t see how this is productive.”
“Oh, we passed productive three jokes ago,” Devon said, smirking. “This is for my own enjoyment now.”
Caelan raised a brow. “That’s dangerous. You’re going to make him sulk.”
“I don’t sulk.”
“You brood,” Devon corrected. “There’s a difference. Much more dignified.”
He tilted his head thoughtfully.
“You know,” he added, “for someone so large and armoured, you really do give off ‘pouty little brother’ vibes sometimes.”
Gideon blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Gid. Come on. Gidlet. It fits. You know it does.”
There was a beat of silence. Caelan snorted into his tea. “Gidlet?” he repeated, clearly delighted. “Oh no, that’s sticking.”
“I hate this,” Gideon muttered.
“You’ll survive it,” Devon said sweetly, nudging a cinnamon biscuit toward him. “Here. Eat something. You’re cuter when you’re not scowling.”
Caelan leaned back, sighing with deep satisfaction. “You know, I should’ve invited you to dinner years earlier.”
“Right?” Devon grinned. “Imagine all the missed nicknames.”
Gideon, despite himself, took the biscuit. Slowly. Carefully. And didn’t respond.
But the corner of his mouth, just barely, twitched upward.