Elara returned to the kitchens with her heart hammering against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that wouldn't slow.
The lingering warmth of Commander Vaelith's chambers had vanished the moment she stepped into the corridor, replaced instantly by the biting chill that seemed to seep from the very stones of the castle.
By the time she reached the scullery, the cold had already settled into her bones, a familiar, miserable weight.
The kitchen was a chaotic hive of activity.
Servants shouted orders, slaves scrubbed dishes in basins of icy water, and the air smelled of burnt grease and despair.
No one paid her any mind.
At least, not until she returned to her station.
She dipped her hands into the basin.
The water was freezing, a shock that made her gasp, but she forced herself to scrub the
