His pale eyes unreadable in the dim light. "Guard."
The armored man stepped in without a word.
"Take her to the kitchen. She’ll prepare the next meal."
Ira, still sitting with her arms clenched around herself, looked up. Her voice was quiet, hoarse. “Before that… may I clean up? Please.”
Sigrid didn’t respond for a long moment. Then he waved his hand dismissively. “Fine. Don’t take too long.”
The bathroom was colder than the hall. Stone walls. A narrow window. A tin basin and a cracked mirror hanging from rusted nails.
She closed the door and sat hard on the edge of the basin.
Her hands were shaking.
Her reflection stared back with unfamiliar brown eyes under a mop of dark hair. Pale. Hollow.
“Pull yourself together,” she whispered.
It came out more desperate than she intended.
She splashed water on her face, scrubbed away the streaks of dirt and dried tears, rinsed her mouth with bitter-tasting well water, and tied her hair back with a torn strip of cloth.
“You are not going to fall apart in front of an angry fantasy man with trust issues,” she muttered.
With one last glare at the mirror, she walked out.
They said the kitchen was the heart of any home—but this one throbbed like something ancient, breathing slowly through charmed flames and heavy stone.Massive hearths lined the walls, their fires licking lazily. Cauldrons stirred themselves. Enchanted herbs drifted overhead, adjusting their bundles when someone walked beneath them. Spices in tiny floating pots hummed softly to themselves.
At the far end, a young man stood with his back to them, hacking through slabs of meat with focused aggression. He had the air of a seasoned warrior—short, scarred, and moving with unnerving precision.
The moment they entered, he paused. His eyes flicked to her.
“She’ll be making food for the master,” the guard said. “Keep an eye on her.”
The knife slipped from the man’s hand and clattered on the table.
He said nothing. Just nodded and picked up another blade.
Ira approached the pantry.
Her hands reached for tomatoes first—deep red, ripe, slightly cracked at the stems. Basil, crisp and fragrant, filled the air the moment she tore the leaves. Garlic. Olive oil. A wedge of cheese.
Her movements became fluid. Confident. Controlled.
Olive oil hit the pan with a sizzle. Garlic followed, golden and sharp. Tomatoes burst under her knife, their juices staining the board. She added them to the pan, and the scent began to build—rich and warm and tangy. Basil went in last, just before blending.
She turned to the bread. Cut thick slices. Buttered them. Layered cheeses until it looked indulgent, then grilled them until golden and crisp, with just the right amount of resistance to the bite.
The kitchen boy didn’t say a word, but he watched her the entire time.
---
Back in Sigrid’s quarters, he stood by the window, arms folded behind his back. The fire had gone low. His face was unreadable.
In a shimmer of air, a figure appeared—just long enough to whisper something in his ear.
Sigrid didn’t move.
Then: a knock.
He didn’t turn. “Enter.”
Ira stepped in, tray in hand. The smell of roasted garlic and melted cheese filled the room.
She glanced up at him, cautiously.
His expression wasn’t angry. Just cold.
He pointed to the food. “Taste it.”
She blinked. “You want me to—”
“Do the tasteing. Then leave.”
She sat at the table, broke the crust of the toast with a quiet crunch, and sipped the soup. It was good. Soul-warming, like a hug she didn’t ask for but needed.
She stood silently afterward.
The guard came in and took her by the arm. Back to the cell.
She didn’t look back.
But she felt his eyes on her the entire time.
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