The kitchen door creaked open under my hand, and the sll hit first. A mix of old smoke, dry spices, and faint grease that clung to the stone walls no matter how much scrubbing anyone did.
The air was cooler. Pots of different sizes hung neatly from hooks, polished but scarred from years of use. Knives lined the rack like a row of soldiers, their edges gleaming under the lamplight.
A long wooden counter stretched across the room, wide enough to prepare a feast, though at the mont it felt more like an execution platform.
Freya stopped just inside, arms crossed tight, her wet hair sticking to her cheeks. She scanned the room slowly, her expression grim.
"This," she said at last, voice sharp, "is your fault."
I stepped past her, dripping water on the floor. "Correction, It is our fault. Shared responsibility, shared punishnt."
She gave a look so flat it could’ve pressed parchnt. "You tripped into a bucket. You splashed water halfway down the corridor. You dragged into your nonsense."
"And yet," I said, motioning vaguely toward the hall behind us, "the floor has never been shinier. You’re welco."
She sighed, long and tired, the kind of sigh that carried the weight of soone already regretting their life choices.
I left her to stew and wandered over to the shelves. They were stocked, though not overflowing: sacks of flour stacked against one side, a jar of rice, bundles of dried herbs tied with string.
A few onions and carrots lay in a basket, and strips of smoked at hung overhead. Enough to work with. Enough to make sothing edible — if you knew what you were doing. Which I didn’t.
"So," I said, turning to her, "what do we cook?"
"Sothing simple," she replied without hesitation. "And sothing you can’t ruin."
"Soup," I offered. "You just boil water, toss things in, stir once in a while. Easy, right?"
Her eyes narrowed. "You’ll still find a way to ruin it."
I placed a hand on my chest, mock-offended. "You wound . Soup is foolproof."
"Not with you."
I ignored that and tapped a sack of flour thoughtfully. "Alright, soup plus bread. Bread makes it look like we actually tried to make sothing delicious."
Freya raised an eyebrow. "Bread, Really? With you?"
"Yes, bread," I said. "It’s flour, water, and a little patience. How hard can it be?"
She leaned against the counter, arms still crossed. "Hard enough that, in your hands, it’ll turn into a brick. We could use it to build walls."
"That’s not bad you know," I said brightly. "We can make dinner and do ho improvent."
That earned another sigh, but at least this one sounded less murderous and more resigned.
She walked to the stove and pulled the biggest pot down from its hook, setting it on the iron surface with a hollow clang that echoed through the room. The sound carried the weight of finality: soup had been decided.
"Soup first," she said firmly. "Bread if there’s ti. And dessert—" she glanced at , expression firm "—is mine. You’re not touching the sugar."
I raised my hands in surrender. "Fine. I’ll keep my hands to the salty things."
Her glare lingered, but faint amusent tugged at the corner of her mouth before she smothered it.
The room was quiet for a mont, broken only by the faint drip of water from our soaked clothes onto the stone floor. My eyes drifted to the firepit beneath the stove, waiting cold and dark.
It would need lighting before we could even think of cooking. I wasn’t sure whether the prospect of making fire indoors thrilled or terrified .
Freya reached for the basket of vegetables, pulling out an onion and a carrot, then laying them on the counter. She began rolling her sleeves back with slow, deliberate movents, like soone preparing for battle.
"If this goes wrong," she said, her tone calm but cutting, "I’m telling everyone it was your idea."
I grabbed a knife from the rack, testing its edge against my thumb. "If this goes wrong," I countered, "they won’t live long enough to complain."
She looked at then, half exasperated, half unwillingly amused. A ghost of a smirk threatened her face, though she turned away quickly and began peeling the onion.
I set the knife against a carrot, already imagining how badly this could go. The kitchen felt too big, too quiet, like the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting to see how we’d ruin things.
I broke the silence. "On the bright side, if we pull this off, we’ll be heroes. Two students who conquered both the mop and the pot."
Freya snorted under her breath, though she didn’t look up. "Heroes. Right."
"Every legend starts sowhere," I said.
"Most don’t start in the kitchen," she muttered.
I grinned, raising the knife. "Then we’ll be the first."
***
The carrot crunched under the blade, but the slices ca out uneven, so thin as paper, others thick enough to build with. Not elegant, but at least I still had all my fingers.
Across from , Freya stared at the onion like it was a poisonous animal. She poked it once with the tip of her knife, then wrinkled her nose. "People actually... touch these things?"
I bit back a laugh. "Yes. Usually with their hands. A daring tradition, I know."
Her glare cut sharper than the knife. Still, she picked it up awkwardly, as if the onion might bite back. When she tried to peel the skin, it shredded ssily, clinging to her damp fingers.
"This is revolting," she muttered, shaking her hands as if she could fling the papery bits off.
"You’re a natural," I said solemnly. "Truly born for the kitchen."
She looked up, eyes flashing. "I have never cooked in my life. Servants exist for a reason."
"Then consider this... character growth," I said, sliding my carrot chunks into the pot. They hit the bottom with a sad plop.
Freya glared harder, then jabbed the onion with more force than necessary. The layers burst apart, scattering across the counter.
The kitchen slled faintly of onions and impending disaster.
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