The kitchens were filled with the comforting clatter of pots and pans, the rhythmic chop of knives, and the hum of low conversation between the fae servants. The air was thick with the smell of fresh bread and simmering herbs, the warmth from the ovens chasing away the eternal twilight chill that clung to the rest of the castle. Liora found a strange comfort in the simplicity of the work. It was repetitive, almost soothing, a brief respite from the political games and looming dangers of the fae court.
But today, even the warmth of the kitchens couldn’t keep the tension at bay.
Whispers had been circling the castle all morning, slipping from one pair of lips to the next, carried on the air like the faintest breeze. Liora had heard fragments as she worked—words like rogue and border, spoke
