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Chapter Text

Chapter One

The hearth exhales a breath of heat that ripples through the kitchen, catching my coily hair and curling it against my forehead. The scent of bread—thick, sweet, alive—rolls through the air, mingling with smoke and sweat and the sharp tang of metal. I brace my cloth-wrapped hands around the long paddle and ease the loaf from the oven’s mouth, setting it to rest on a silver platter that gleams faintly in the firelight.

“Hurry it up! I want that bread sliced and sent out—now!”

The head cook’s voice cuts through the clang of pots and the growl of flames.

I flex my fingers, still throbbing from the paddle’s heat, and set it aside. The loaf crackles as its crust cools, singing its small, golden song. I heft it in my hands, step aside for a harried elf woman—Elnora, I think, new and terribly shy—and catch the knife from the block in one smooth motion.

“I’ve got it!” I call over the din, and begin to slice.

The blade bites through the crust, revealing soft, steaming bread that sighs as it opens. Normally, I’d let it rest before cutting, but the lords are already awake, and there are guests from the Free Marches to impress.

Steam curls up into my face, damp and fragrant. My palm burns where it steadies the loaf.

The head cook looks ready to bark at me to move faster—she can rot for all I care—but her fury turns instead toward Elnora.

“Hey, knife-ear! Move your ass or get out of my kitchen! That bacon better be done right!”

Her words cut sharper than the knife in my hand.

I bite down on the urge to speak. No time to defend the girl, no time to lose my place. I finish the bread, signal Meera for the butter—she passes it without looking—and place the dish beside the platter, arranging small jars of jam beside it like jewels.

Elnora is still floundering between a skillet and a mixing bowl, trying to do two tasks at once. I push the bread toward her, nudging her gently out of the way.

“Take it out,” I murmured. “Our noble lords are starving.”

She blinks at me, startled, and then smiles—soft, uncertain. Her freckles catch the light like flecks of gold dust. “Thank you,” she whispers, before darting through the kitchen door.

“I saw that, you little shit.”

The head cook’s voice drips behind me.

I ignore her. Flip the bacon. Move the pan off the flame. The fat hisses and spits, a defiant applause. I take up the whisk Elnora abandoned, nestle the bowl into a pot of simmering water, and begin to fold in the leftover rice from last night’s meal.

“Saw what, Beverly?” I ask, keeping my tone even.

“You. With your knife-ear sympathies. Always coddling them like you’re better than the rest.” She’s dusting salt over a tray of salmon. Her hands are quick, practiced, cruel.

“Piss off,” I mutter, dropping raisins into the pudding. The mixture thickens, fragrant with milk and sugar, bubbling softly.

Beverly hisses. “You won’t be the favourite forever, you little cunt.”

I don’t answer. She knows as well as I do that I’m not the favorite. I’m simply good. Better than she is. Better than most here. And that stings.

No one knows where I came from—only that I didn’t learn to cook in Ferelden, or Orlais, or Tevinter. I just know things—flavors, techniques, textures they’ve never seen. And though I’ve adapted my recipes to fit their tastes, I’m still light years ahead.

Back home, I had a café. Small, sunlit. Coffee and tea, lunches that filled the air with warmth. It was mine. No one shouting orders. No men with wandering hands. No rigid hierarchy where birth meant worth.

Now I serve lords who will never remember my name.

I lift the pudding bowl carefully, wrap it in my apron to keep from burning my palms. A drizzle of Par Vollen honey. A spoonful of Hinterlands cinnamon. Sweetness and spice to please the children—the only ones in the manor who eat without cruelty.

Elnora slips back in, flushed and breathless, and I nod toward the bacon. She hurries to plate it. I follow with the pudding in my hands. Beverly intercepts me, pressing a small pouch into my apron pocket.

“Your pay,” she says, her tone clipped.

I don’t thank her.

Lord Garuth doesn’t look up when we enter the dining hall. Lady Liana, though—oh, she’s different. Sharp-eyed, clever, dangerous in her quiet way. She greets us all with that honeyed voice of hers, and I see how the room bends subtly toward her will.

We work for her, not her husband. We make her wine, cook her meals, and watch her husband’s moods. We are her little birds, and she rewards us for what we hear.

I catch sight of Elnora passing her a folded note. Liana’s lashes lower as she accepts it, her lips curling faintly before she slips the elf a silver coin. My brows rise despite myself.
Lady Liana meets my gaze and winks.

I set down the pudding, bow, and retreat to the kitchens. There’s still work to do before nightfall. There’s always work.

I spend most of my days within those stone walls, from dawn until the first pale spill of dusk. Sometimes I sleep there, when guests are expected. Tonight, though, Lady Liana dismisses most of us early. The guests must be discreet ones; the kind that prefer quiet.

Before leaving, I pocket a few scraps—bread, a wedge of cheese, cold ram. Beverly’s scowl follows me out the door.

By the time I reach home, two cups of tea are already steaming on the table. Fina looks up from the fire where her son plays and smiles.

“Aneth ara,” she says softly. The firelight glances off the red lines of her vallaslin, warming her face.

“Evening.” I set my basket down and fold myself to the floor. Fenarel crawls toward me, babbling softly. I open my arms, and he tumbles into my lap, tiny fingers wrapping around mine.

“You’ll spoil him,” Fina chides, though she’s smiling. She tears a piece of chestnut bread and smears a little from a jar—bacon grease, likely.

“I’m his auntie. It’s my job,” I say, tickling his ear until he squeals.

She laughs, and passes me a wedge of cheese rolled in a slice of meat, then a cup of tea that smells faintly of earth and roots.

I grimace. “You and your herbal concoctions.”

“They’re good for you,” she replies primly.

I drink anyway.

“We’ve got guests from the Free Marches,” I told her.

Her eyes brighten. “From where?”

“Starkhaven, I think. Something about a prince turned priest—or maybe the other way around.”

“Prince Sebastian.” Her voice softens. “His family was murdered.”

I nod, though my mind drifts. Death here is as common as salt. They speak of it easily, as if it’s part of the weather. You play the game, or you die.

I’ve stopped thinking of home. Stopped counting the days since I fell through that impossible light beneath the lake. Stopped trying to imagine a way back.
Fina makes it bearable. She was there that day, saw me stumble out of the water—half-drowned, terrified, raving. She didn’t question what she saw. She fed me. Sheltered me. Helped me pass for ordinary.

When she became pregnant, caring for her gave me purpose again. Back home, my sister had done the same—left her husband, moved in with me, filled my café with laughter and cravings and exhaustion.

Fina had the same effect. Her pregnancy anchored me. Her son, even more so.

Now we share this tiny cottage. We share what we earn, what we find. It’s not home—but it’s close enough to pretend.

“I hear Kirkwall isn’t doing well,” I say quietly.

Fina’s smile fades. “My clan is still there. I don’t know why they haven’t left.”

“You could visit,” I offer. “They’d want to see Fenarel.”

She shakes her head. “Too dangerous. Too far. Too many children get sick on the road.”

I don’t press her. “If you ever go, I’ll watch him for you.”

She smiles faintly. “Ma serannas. You’re stealing him from me, you know.”

I grin. “It’s what aunties do.”

She laughs softly and rests her head on my lap. “Maybe I’ll think about it. It would be good to see the Keeper again.”

Fenarel stirs against me, caught between dream and waking. I brush a curl from his brow—soft, black, and wavy like his mother’s—and trace the small arch of his cheek with my thumb. His skin is darker than Fina’s, rich as roasted chestnut, the same shade as mine. In certain light, we could almost pass for kin.

He has her eyes, though—bright green, clear as a forest spring. When they catch the firelight, they gleam with a mischief that’s all his own. Sometimes I think the gods—or whatever forces govern this world—blended us on purpose, stitching pieces of both our faces into one small, perfect creature.

Fina says it’s why he clings to me so. I think it’s because he knows I need him.

The fire pops, and Fenarel’s fingers close around mine.

I sip the last of my tea and let the silence hold us—the three of us, suspended between the world I came from and the one I can no longer leave.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two

I wake before dawn, when the world still holds its breath and the air feels heavy with sleep. It takes nearly an hour to reach the kitchens by foot, so I rose early.

Fenarel lies sprawled across my chest, small and warm, his cheek pressed to my collarbone. I ease him from my arms and transfer him to Fina, who is already awake and waiting. The bed beneath us is narrow and flat, shared between the three of us—its single goose-feather pillow passed from head to head through the night. It took me weeks to wash the smell of bird from it, scrubbing with rosemary and elfroot until it carried a clean, herbed scent that clings to our sheets still.

Fina hushes Fenarel’s soft stirring and presses a tin cup of morning tea into my hands.

I drink without thought, my eyes half-closed, tasting the sharpness of mint and something bitter beneath it. “Do we have anything to eat?” I murmur.

“No,” she answers quietly. “I’m sorry. I finished the bread last night.”

“It’s fine,” I rasp, my voice rough from sleep. “You’re still nursing.”

In truth, she has been trying to wean him for months, but Fenarel resists change with all the stubbornness of his mother. We’ve taken to trading herbs with our neighbor for goat’s milk, a small arrangement that keeps the peace between Fina’s pride and Fenarel’s hunger.

“You should get ready,” she says. “I warmed some water for your bath.”

Fenarel yawns then, a soft, squeaky sound, smacking his lips as if in protest of the chill morning. Fina draws her top aside and settles him to feed.

I move carefully around them, my feet meeting the cold floor with a hiss. The air bites this morning—autumn gnawing at the edges of night. Another winter is coming. Two years now I’ve been here. Two years of no indoor plumbing, no electricity, no computers. Two years since I saw my sister’s face or heard my niece’s laugh. The ache of that truth used to make me sick. Now it sits in me quietly, like an old wound that refuses to close but no longer bleeds.

I stretch my arms and roll my shoulders until my joints crack, the sound loud in the silence. “Can you light a candle? I can’t see a damn thing.”

“We’ve no wicks left,” she says simply.

“Then why not a fire?”

“We haven’t enough wood to last the week, and I’ve not been beyond the city walls to fetch more.” Her tone carries that careful patience she uses when I’m being difficult. Fenarel gurgles between us, as though taking her side.

I sigh and shuffle forward, hands outstretched until I feel the faint heat of the bathwater. “Thanks,” I mutter.

She hums softly in response, cooing down at Fenarel, who has decided the world isn’t such a terrible place after all.

I strip and slip into the wide tub, squatting low in the shallow warmth. The air is icy against my skin. I grope for the washcloth. “Where’s the soap?”

Fina rises, and Fenarel fusses at the sudden motion. A moment later, her cool fingers find my wrist and press a bar into my palm. “Here. I forgot.” The soap smells of embrium—sharp, green, almost floral.

I lather and scrub briskly, the water growing cloudy around me. “Did the town crier come by yet?”

“Not yet,” she says, scrubbing at my back the way an older sister might, firm and unceremonious. She rinses me with handfuls of warm water, then gives my shoulder a brisk pat. “Done. I’ll fetch your dress. I did the laundry yesterday.”

“I thought we were out of vinegar.”

“I traded some of our soap with a washerwoman by the forge.”

I rise from the bath, shivering as air clings to my wet skin. I dress quickly, binding my small breasts with thick cloth before pulling my faded dress over my head. “Can you take Fenarel to Maeve in the alienage? I need to get to the blacksmith early—we’ve a large order coming in today.”

Fina moves with quiet efficiency, gathering the sling and looping it around my shoulders before placing the baby into the hammock at my back. He blows wet bubbles against my neck in sleepy protest.

I frown and adjust the strap so it doesn’t sit directly on my chest. “Do we have anything to trade with Maeve?”

“Fixed her son’s dagger for her the other night,” Fina says.

“Thought you weren’t supposed to use the forge for favors.”

She hums evasively, the sound of a woman who doesn’t intend to argue. I let it go.

I wrap my shawl around both our heads, tucking Fenarel beneath it until only his soft breath fogs against my neck. The air outside bites sharper than I expect.

Fina presses a kiss to his nose. He rewards her with a raspberry, and we part ways—she to the blacksmith, I to the alienage, and then to the kitchens.
The day begins as all others do. Safe. Predictable. I should have known better than to trust that.

When the bread failed to rise that morning, I should have taken it as an omen. I was left to deal with Beverly’s smug prattle while I shaped heavy oatcakes from scraps of currant and dried fig.
The guests from Starkhaven were still lingering, their polished shoes clicking over the kitchen tiles, their voices low and conspiratorial.

“We need him on the throne. The Vaels have always ruled Starkhaven…”
“Be patient. We’ll guide him. He only needs to be reminded where his loyalties lie.”
“What say you, Lady Liana?”
“Oh, I couldn’t say. If he takes the throne, he knows his cousins will support him. We played together as children, you know. Such lovely parents…”

Their talk rolled past me like smoke. Politics and princes meant little when there was pastry to fold, rabbits to bone, cheese pies to bake.

Lunch bled into dinner, and dinner into the late hours. Meera was discovered missing midway through service—Elnora later found her in a broom closet, tangled up with one of the visiting nobles.

By the time the dishes were done, I wanted nothing more than to escape. I packed a basket of leftovers—bread ends, roasted carrots, half a wheel of cheese—and slipped out before the night fully claimed the sky.

Elnora followed me. “Why’re you going to the alienage?” she asked, too brightly.

“I’ve business there.”

Few outside our small circle knew Fina lived with a human she called sister. They knew of the Dalish woman with a child who stayed beyond the alienage walls, but not much else. Better that way.

“You’ve an accent,” Elnora went on, stepping closer. “Can’t place it. Beverly said you’re Antivan. Meera said you’re Rivaini. You a bard?”

“No,” I said flatly. “Just a cook.”

She smiled, sharp as a blade. “Funny. You sound like someone who’s hiding something.”

“I was found half-drowned after a bandit raid,” I told her. “I don’t remember much. Only that I lived near the sea.”

She looked unconvinced. “A miracle you remember your cooking, then. And your name.”

“The Maker’s miracle,” I said dryly.

At the alienage gate, I threw my shawl over my head and left her behind. Maeve opened her door with a grunt and handed over Fenarel, already asleep in his sling. I gave her a jar of cooking grease as thanks and left to find Pick.

He leaned from his window when I called. “What is it, shem?”

“Firewood. Four coppers’ worth.”

He grumbled but fetched it—a heavy sack he dropped at his door. When he noticed Fenarel’s sleeping face, his expression softened. “Didn’t see the little one. Such small ears. Wait here.”

He disappeared and returned with a small sled harnessed to a burly mabari. “Pan’ll pull the load and bring the sled back,” he said.

I looked at the dog, who snorted as if unimpressed. “Thanks, Pick.”

He eyed me. “Where’s the father?”

I sidestepped the question. “You’ve any wicks?”

He scowled but fetched me a length of wick for two extra coppers.

By the time I reached home, the room was cold and empty. I struck flint until the fire caught, then shared the last of a rabbit bone with Pan before he trotted off into the dark.
Fenarel stirred, hungry again. I warmed goat’s milk by the fire and mashed a sweet potato into it with leftover broth. He devoured it greedily, his little fists opening and closing in triumph.
I was just wiping his face clean when the door burst open. Fina stumbled in, her face pale and drawn.

“Lethallan,” she gasped, clutching a crumpled letter. “It’s horrible.”

She fell to the bed, trembling. “Keeper Marethari wrote. She’s calling me home. They’re holding a gathering for the dead—so many hunters gone, and no one told me. It doesn’t make sense.” Her voice cracked. “Varterrals don’t attack the Dalish.”

I stilled, Fenarel heavy on my shoulder. “What’s a Varterral?”

Her eyes were wide, fever-bright. “An ancient guardian. Our ancestors made them to protect sacred grounds. They don’t die. They can’t die.”

I rocked Fenarel absently, trying to picture it—something immortal, something born of old magic. “Why would it kill your people, then?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice broke. “The Keeper said Merrill’s repaired the Eluvian—the cursed mirror that took Theron and Tamlen from us. She used the Arulin’holm to do it.”

I frowned. “Who’s Merrill?”

“A blood mage,” Fina spat. “She brought corruption into our clan. The Keeper should have cast her out, but she loved her too much. Everyone whispered it.”

“She raised her,” I said quietly. “That kind of love… it complicates things.”

“A Keeper must protect the clan from the wolf,” she said bitterly. “Not take it into her arms.” Her gaze met mine, fierce and wet. “You were right.”

I nodded, bouncing Fenarel gently. “I’ll take care of him.”

She knelt beside me and wrapped her arms around us both, pressing her lips to Fenarel’s brow. “Asali,you’re my sister. Shemlen or no. You’re his second mamae.”
Her tears fell into my hair, hot and silent. Fenarel, that sweet oblivious creature, drifted back to sleep.

When we gathered our coins, it was barely enough to pay her passage and keep us both fed. Still, we managed. We always did.

I saw her off at the city gates the next morning, claiming illness to stay away from the kitchens. Fina held Fenarel so tightly I thought she might never let go.

“Mamae’s sorry, da’len,” she whispered through tears. “But I have to do this.”

I took him gently from her arms. “You’ll write,” I said.

“I will. As soon as I reach them. I just need to understand what’s happening. Something’s wrong.” Her eyes flicked to the baby. “I can’t help feeling like I’m betraying him.”

“Family’s always complicated,” I told her softly. “If you don’t go, you’ll wish you had.”

She nodded, lips trembling. “If anything happens to me,” she whispered, “raise him as your son. Promise me.”

I rested my forehead against hers. “I promise.”

The driver called, and she tore herself away, looking back again and again until she was nothing but a small figure swallowed by the road.

I looked down at Fenarel, his face scrunched in determination. “Well,” I murmured, “it’s just us now, sweets.”

He frowned, and I could already tell he was filling his diaper. I sighed. “And so it begins.”

Chapter Text

Four weeks pass, and still no letter from Fina. Each day, I half expect to see the post rider’s silhouette cresting the hill, but none ever comes. I tell myself the ship might have been slowed by still waters, or the winds might have failed. Perhaps she’s preoccupied—buried under clan duties, or waiting for calmer days before she sends word. She hadn’t given me a timeline when she left, only that it wouldn’t be long. I told myself that meant months, not years. But the weeks stretch on, and the silence grows heavier.

Sometimes I wonder if her reasons for returning to Ferelden are tangled up in the same question I’ve never asked outright—who Fenarel’s father was. I’ve imagined her once before with another pregnancy, one she was forced to end at her lover’s insistence. Maybe this time, she refused to give up her child. Maybe that’s why she left Kirkwall behind.

Fenarel takes the absence hardest. For the first two weeks, he searches for her scent in every shadow, wails until his throat goes raw, and falls asleep only when I let him curl against my chest. He rests his ear over my heart, small and trembling, until the sound steadies him. His breathing slows; his body softens. It’s the only time he truly sleeps.

He’s nearly weaned now. I feed him goat’s milk when I can afford it, though lately even that has grown scarce. The coin stretches thin, the way time does—pulled taut and humming with quiet dread.
Between my worry for Fina and the toll her absence has taken on Fenarel, I lose track of the kitchen gossip. I barely register the murmurs about Lady Liana’s new guests until one afternoon the manor doors are thrown open, and the guards’ boots thunder down the halls.

They corral us all into the great dining room—every servant, every cook, lined up like cattle before Lord Garuth, Lady Liana, and a tall man in the silver-and-blue of Starkhaven.

Lady Liana’s expression is carved from ice. “Prince Vael and the Champion of Kirkwall were attacked,” she says, her voice cutting through the murmuring. “Assassins sent by enemies of the true prince. They were armed with information known only to those within these walls.”

A chill crawls up my spine. Around me, the servants shift uneasily.

Liana paces the line, her gaze like a blade. “Who among you is missing today?”

Her eyes fall on Beverly. The old woman clears her throat. “The knife-ear. Elnora,” she mutters.

“When did you hire her?”

Beverly hesitates. “Little over two months ago, my lady. She seemed an empty-headed girl, begging your pardon. Could barely cook bacon without this one—” she jerks her head at me “—stepping in.”

I drop my gaze.

Liana’s tone sharpens. “She could barely cook, and you brought her on?”

“She didn’t need much coin,” Beverly sputters. “I thought she could be taught.”

“And if she were a bard sent here to spy, because she somehow heard we would be hosting the prince’s allies—would you still think her cheap wage a virtue?”

The silence is blistering. Beverly offers no excuse.

“Send a runner to the alienage,” Liana orders a guard. “Find her. Beverly, we’ll discuss the terms of your employment later.” She turns to her guests with a smooth bow. “Forgive the indiscretion of my staff, my lords. It will be dealt with.”

The Starkhaven noble inclines his head. “Much obliged, my lady.”

Lord Garuth claps once, the sound cracking through the hall. “Enough. The meal won’t cook itself. Anyone qualified to take over the kitchens from the old woman?”

The words escape my mouth before I can stop them. “Ashleigh, my lord.”

Ashleigh startles beside me, but I go on. “She’s been in the kitchens the longest, and she’s the best cook we have.”

The others murmur in agreement.

Garuth nods. “Then Ashleigh is in charge. We’ll find replacements soon enough. Until then, you all stay overnight. No one leaves until we’re sure no one else is compromised.”

The air thickens. No one argues, but dread settles in my stomach.

“My lord,” I manage. “My—my son.”

I feared that if I didn’t claim him as such, I wouldn’t be able to bring him.

Garuth raises a blond brow. “Your son?”

“Yes, my lord. He’s with a caretaker. I pay her, but she can’t keep him at night. I’ve no family.” The lie trembles in my throat, but I force it steady.

He studies me a moment, then waves a hand. “Bring the boy at night. Not during the day. I’ve no desire for my children to mix with the help.”

I bow low, biting down the word that burns in my mouth. Bastard.

When we’re dismissed, Ashleigh catches my sleeve. “I didn’t know you had a boy.”

“I gave birth before I found work here,” I say quietly.

She hums, sympathetic. “It’s costly, raising a child alone. Bring him in the mornings, too, if you must. The kitchen won’t mind. The lord and lady never set foot there.”

I nod, wordless gratitude catching in my throat. But beneath the relief, another fear stirs—what they’ll say when they see his ears.

The next morning, their reaction is as I expected: a stunned silence. Fenarel blinks at the line of women watching him, his small ears unmistakably elven. When he waves, the tension breaks slightly, a few of them cooing despite themselves.

“He’s half, isn’t he?” Meera asks, peering closely.

“Yes,” I say, curt.

“Big eyes on him,” Tamra murmurs. “I thought he’d have curlier hair.”

“Half a knife-ear’s still a knife-ear,” Meera mutters. “Father didn’t stick around?”

“He died.”

She sniffs, disinterested. “So long as he doesn’t make the kitchen stink like shit.”

I say nothing.

Ashleigh, ever calm, extends a finger. Fenarel grabs it and grins. “He’ll be teething soon,” she says. “You’ve got something for that?”

I shake my head helplessly.

“First time, eh?” She smiles gently. “Don’t fret. I’ll give you a poultice recipe. He’ll thank you for it.”

Her kindness disarms me. The others drift back to their work, and I tuck Fenarel into a small corner penned off with old sacks and sheepskin. He seems content there, wooden spoon in hand, watching the bustle around him with wide eyes.

The scent of onions and garlic fills the air as I start the sauce for the mutton. Maddy brings me the drippings, her freckled face flushed from the heat. “He’s beautiful,” she says softly.

“Thank you.”

“I’ve never seen a babe take after his elven side so strongly.” She hesitates. “Do people give you trouble for it?”

“Not really. I keep him covered when I can. It’s easier.”

“Shame,” she murmurs. “He’s got his father’s eyes, hasn’t he?”

“He was a good man.” The words come easily; the lie has a well-worn path.

Maddy stirs the pudding beside me. “What happened to him?”

“He died.”

The conversation ends there, but Maddy’s curiosity lingers. She watches Fenarel with something like wonder, lets him tug at her hair, and insists on changing and bathing him between tasks. Her tenderness worries me—too much affection for a child not her own, but I can’t bring myself to stop her.

That evening, when Fenarel grows restless, I cradle him against me and hum softly. He presses his ear to my throat, comforted by the vibration more than the tune. I sing the Dalish lullaby Fina used to sing, my rough elvish softening on my tongue. It isn’t perfect, but he doesn’t care. The firelight flickers against the stone, and for a brief, fragile moment, the kitchen feels like home.

Night passes quietly until Maddy shakes me awake before dawn, her face ghost-pale. “Asali, get up,” she whispers.

I blink the sleep away. “What is it?”

“Kirkwall,” she breathes. “An apostate blew up the Chantry. Killed the Revered Mother—mages and templars are fighting in the streets. The Champion fought for the mages. They say all the Circles might rebel.”

Her words blur together. My heart stumbles in my chest. “How did word travel so fast?”

“Messengers. Traders. Everyone’s talking.” She wrings her hands. “Lady Liana says Prince Vael left three days ago. No word from Kirkwall since.”

The world tilts. No word from Kirkwall. My thoughts crash toward Fina, toward her clan. I push them down before panic takes root. “Are free mages really so bad?”

“Mages on the loose,” Maddy hisses. “It could mean riots. It’ll be like the Blight again.”

I dress quickly, Fenarel stirring at my chest. Ashleigh’s voice is already echoing down the corridor, calling us to the kitchens. “Bread, bacon, eggs, broth—we feed the guards first!”

I boil water for Fenarel’s breakfast, breaking dried beef into tiny cubes and softening them in his cereal. Ashleigh looks the other way when I steal cheese for him. He eats greedily, and I take a few spoonfuls myself, more to keep moving than from hunger.

The door slams open. A stable hand stumbles in, his shirt stained brown with dried blood. “The Templars,” he gasps. “They came to the town, thought the alienage was hiding mages. They’re killing everyone.”

The kitchen goes silent. The only sound is the crackle of the hearth.

Ashleigh steps forward, her face ashen. “Are they evacuating?”

The boy shakes his head, trembling. “They barred the alienage gates. Set them on fire. Mages came out of the woods to fight the templars—now everyone’s dying. There’s fire everywhere.”

Tamra screams. “My husband—my children—!” She bolts for the door, and Ashleigh grabs her by the arm.

Outside, the courtyard fills with shouts. “What do you mean we can’t leave?” “My family’s out there!” “The alienage is burning, Maker save them!”

I step into the doorway just long enough to hear the guard captain’s reply. “Lord Garuth’s orders. No one leaves the manor. The fighting’s too close.”

Chaos ripples through the servants. I retreat before it swallows me, heart hammering. Fenarel squirms, sensing my fear, and begins to cry.

Maddy stands by the hearth, eyes vacant, frying eggs in silence. “It’s just like the Blight,” she says hollowly. “You’ll see. The world’s gone mad again.”

I turn back to the dough and begin to braid it, one over, one under, one over, one under. The motion steadies me. Outside, the world burns, but here in the kitchen, there is still bread to bake, mouths to feed, a child to keep alive.

And sometimes, survival is the only prayer left.