Ayla
The kitchens were already alive by the time I slipped in metal clanging, fire snapping, voices low and clipped beneath the scent of flour and meat stock.
No one looked up and I didn’t expect them to.
I lingered in the doorway for a moment, adjusting my sleeves, unsure if I was intruding or trespassing. The stone floor was slick with melted snow and kitchen ash, worn smooth from generations of foot traffic. The room was cavernous vaulted ceilings, hanging iron pans, smoke staining the stone near the fire vents. It was the heartbeat of the keep, and it thudded without needing me.
A broad-shouldered cook walked past me with a stack of bread trays and didn’t spare me a glance. Another woman glanced over her shoulder and turned sharply away.
I kept my chin high and stepped inside.
Th
