Evening settled over Castle Valdren like a shroud of lead and misery.
Rain lashed against the narrow windows, a relentless, violent drumming that echoed the thunder rolling across the mountains beyond the fortress walls.
The storm outside was nothing compared to the storm brewing inside the castle, but in the kitchens, life continued its grim, unending rhythm.
The evening rush was nearing its end, a chaotic ballet of exhaustion and fear. Servants hurried between tables, their faces pale and sweaty, carrying platters of roasted meat, fresh bread, and steaming bowls of soup.
The smell of herbs, smoke, and desperation filled the air.
Elara stood beside one of the preparation tables, her hands numb as she arranged plates that had just been washed.
Her arms ached with a deep, bone-grind
