The Royal Kitchens of Sanctum were usually a place of controlled chaos, filled with the shouting of chefs, the clatter of copper pans, and the smell of roasting meat. But at three in the morning, the ovens were cold, and the only sound was the rhythmic, wet scritch-scratch of a dull knife against a potato skin.
Master Gilder sat on an overturned crate, surrounded by three mountains of potato peelings. His expensive silk sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, stained with starch and brown dirt. His fingers, usually accustomed to counting gold coins and signing trade agreements, were raw, blistered, and cramping.
He dropped a peeled potato into a bucket of cold water. Plop.
"One thousand, four hundred, and twelve," Gilder whispered to himself, a single tear tracking through the grime on his cheek. "I hate potatoes. I hate them so much. I never want to see a root vegetable again."
