The steam rising from the massive iron cauldron smelled of boiled root vegetables, wild thyme, and bitter mountain marrow.I stood at the long wooden prep table in the bustling kitchen, a small knife gripped tightly in my raw, bruised hand, peeling winter potatoes into a wooden bucket. All around me, cooks clattered copper pots, young servants rushed past with trays of roasted venison, and guards yelled order numbers across the humid, noisy room.No one spoke to me.Every time a kitchen maid walked past my station, she pulled her skirts tight to her sides, keeping a wide, fearful distance, as if the mark beneath my collar was contagious."Mind the skin on those potatoes, child," a harsh, croak-like voice called out.Old Greta, the head cook—a stout woman with broad shoulders and gray hair tied in a tight bun—stepped up beside me, dumping a fresh sack of roots onto the table. She looked at my peeling technique with a heavy, judgmental frown."I'm keeping it thin," I muttered qui
Last Updated : 2026-08-30
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