The air inside the kitchen was heavy with the smell of scorched metal and the pungent, stinging scent of spilled industrial cleaners. Zeven stood firm, his massive frame positioned squarely in front of the shattered wall breach, effectively cutting off the kitchen from the main corridor of the palace. He was a mountain of iron, shadow, and sheer, unrelenting will. Behind him, the small, frail forms of the koki budak—the slave cooks of the clan—clung to each other in the darkness of the pantry corners. Their whimpers were thin, pathetic sounds that cut through the thunderous ringing in Zeven's ears.
"Stay down," Zeven growled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that caused the remaining ceramic bowls on the counters to chatter against the stone. "Do not move, no matter what happens."
He
