I capped the black ink pen and blew softly on the heavy parchment to dry the ink. The numbers written across the grid were perfectly aligned, sharp, and absolute. Salted pork. Winter squash. Sacks of barley. I had spent the last four hours systematically documenting the second subterranean level, moving from barrel to bin, letting the mechanical rhythm of the inventory ground me.
The deep pantry was a massive, subterranean storage network located beneath the lowest levels of the Pack house. It was freezing. It was silent. Down here, isolated from the roaring fires and clanking iron of the main kitchens, the air felt thick and still. I pulled my rough linen sweater tighter around my shoulders, warding off the damp chill that constantly sweated from the stone walls.
It was time to submit t
