Vengeance

Chapter 1

The kitchen is alive, thrumming with noise and motion as though it were the beating heart of the castle itself.

The air is thick with the mingling scents of simmering stews, freshly baked bread, and the savory perfume of roasted meats turning on their spits. Copper pots dangle from overhead racks, their polished bellies catching the glow of firelight, clanging together whenever a hurried servant brushes past. Steam coils upward from cauldrons in delicate ribbons, filling the air with a haze that clings to my skin and hair. The rhythmic thock-thock-thock of knives against cutting boards rises and falls like a drumbeat, steady and relentless, underscoring the chorus of shouted instructions and muttered curses as the castle’s cooks rush to complete their tasks.

I sit at a small, battered wooden table tucked in the farthest corner, my legs swinging idly as I watch the chaos unfold. This table is mine by unspoken rule—a place where I’m out of the way but not forgotten. My mother left me here so she could work without worry, but I know her eyes find me every so often, even as her hands remain busy with trays and linens.

I am not a member of the staff—not yet. Until my debut, I am an observer, neither child nor worker, balancing somewhere in between.

At the center of the storm stands Lettie, the head cook, a force of nature in her flour-dusted apron. She moves with practiced precision, directing the kitchen as a conductor leads an orchestra. With a flick of her wrist, she stirs a pot; with a single sharp word, she corrects a trembling undercook. She dips a long-handled spoon into a bubbling stew, her face expressionless as she tastes. After a pause, she tilts her head toward one of the younger girls.

“Erida,” she calls, her tone brisk but not unkind. “More salt, more pepper. Remember—the king despises bland meals. And we do not want him in one of his moods.”

Erida nods frantically, relief flashing across her sweat-streaked face as she sprinkles seasoning into the stew. The rich, meaty aroma deepens almost instantly, filling the air with something bold and hearty.

I lean forward on my elbows, breathing it in. I wonder—as I always do—what it must feel like to prepare food for a man so powerful that the seasoning of his dinner might shift the course of his day. That the taste of a single dish could brighten his temper or darken it enough to spill blood.

My gaze drifts from the cooks to my mother. She hums softly as she polishes a golden goblet until it gleams like sunlight, her movements careful, precise. She folds a napkin with nimble fingers, tucking it neatly beneath the polished silver, before arranging the platter on a cart destined for the king’s chambers. The tune she hums is achingly familiar, weaving through the clatter and bustle like a thread pulled taut across my chest.

I frown, my fingers curling into the hem of my dress. The melody tugs at something deep within me, something buried and fragile. A strange heaviness settles in my chest as if the song is more than just a tune—it is a memory, one that lies just beyond my grasp.

A dull ache pulses at my temples, growing sharper with every note. The kitchen around me blurs as I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my fingers against my brow as if pressure might keep the fog from swallowing me whole. The memory—whatever it is—stays hidden, hovering just out of reach like a dream I cannot quite wake from.

“Another headache, Calista?”

Lettie’s voice breaks through the haze, brisk as always but softer than usual. She appears at my side, holding out a cup of juice cool enough for condensation to bead along the rim.

I nod without speaking, grateful, and wrap my hands around the glass. The tangy sweetness of citrus fills my mouth as I sip, grounding me, anchoring me to the here and now. Still, the feeling lingers—that something is missing, something I should remember.

Lettie studies me with eyes sharper than any blade in her kitchen. She has never been one for tenderness, yet her gaze lingers as though she wishes she could say more. At last, she clicks her tongue and mutters, “You need more fresh air, child. You’re almost eighteen, but you’re slight as a girl of twelve. All that pale skin and those shadows under your eyes. Why don’t you go find Arianna and her father? The horses will keep you busy, and they’ll put color in your cheeks.”

I hesitate, glancing toward my mother. She is still humming, still bent over her work, the folds of linen smoothing beneath her hands. Her lips curve faintly with the tune, but she doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge the weight that presses on me. Whatever Lettie says to her now is lost beneath the cacophony of the kitchen, though I hear the cook’s tongue click in disapproval.

My chest tightens. The song continues to echo in my ears long after the last note fades from my mother’s lips.

I slide down from my chair, the worn wood creaking as I rise. With a small nod to Lettie, I make for the door. The moment I step outside, the world changes.

The air is fresh and cool, the sun warm against my face. The heavy scents of roasted meats and stews are replaced by the sweetness of hay, the sharp tang of horse sweat, and the faint musk of damp earth. A soft breeze stirs my hair, carrying with it the sound of distant birdsong. Compared to the suffocating intensity of the kitchen, it feels like stepping into freedom.

I breathe deeply, savoring the lightness in my lungs. Beyond the castle walls, the fields stretch green and endless, alive with motion. Somewhere near the stables, Arianna’s laughter rings out, clear and bright.

Perhaps Lettie is right. Perhaps the fresh air and the horses will be enough to chase away the shadows. Enough to silence the strange, heavy feeling that clings to me like cobwebs.

Maybe—just for a little while—I can forget.