Tyche wiped the sweat from her brow as she leaned the broom against the hallway wall. At last, her day's long list of chores had come to an end—or at least a pause. Her stomach growled low, reminding her she hadn't eaten since dawn.
She made her way to the kitchen, hopeful for something to fill her belly. The warm scent of roasted meat and fresh bread had long faded, leaving behind the lingering odor of ash and stale grease. As she lifted the cloth covering the serving tray left by the hearth, her heart sank.
Only scraps remained.
A crust of hard bread, half a turnip, and a smear of congealed broth clung to the bottom of a cracked bowl. Nothing else. Not even a sliver of cheese or a few berries. Tyche's shoulders drooped.
This was not unusual. Leftovers were all she was ever allowed, and on days when the household had been particularly hungry—or when her aunt was particularly cruel—there was barely even that.
Still, she picked at the crust and tried to chew it slowly, pretending it was something richer. But even that fantasy crumbled when her teeth met mold near the edge.
She spit it into her hand, grimaced, and tossed it back on the tray.
Her stomach twisted in protest.
But hunger was familiar. She knew how to ignore it.
She reached for a jug of water, poured herself a cup, and sat by the cold hearth, curling into herself as the light from the high window dimmed.
---
She was tidying the hearth when the door creaked open and soft footsteps entered. Tyche turned and found Xanthe walking in, her brown curls bouncing gently as she carried a small towel over her arm.
"I thought you'd still be here," Xanthe said with a warm smile.
"I was just cleaning up." Tyche wiped her hands on her apron and straightened.
"Then I'll help."
"You don't have to," Tyche said quickly. "I've almost finished."
But Xanthe was already rolling up her sleeves. "You've done enough today. Let me."
Tyche sighed, half amused and half exasperated. "You're as stubborn as ever."
"Runs in the blood," Xanthe said with a wink.
They worked side by side, scrubbing the pots and clearing the remains from the stone counters. The silence between them was peaceful, companionable—something rare in Tyche's world.
But her stomach didn't care about peace. It growled—loudly.
Tyche froze, cheeks flushing as she glanced at Xanthe, who raised an eyebrow.
"Hungry?" she asked gently.
"I'm fine," Tyche muttered, trying to will her stomach into silence. But it rumbled again, louder.
Xanthe didn't say anything. She simply dried her hands and slipped out of the kitchen. Tyche frowned, watching her go.
Moments later, Xanthe returned with a key in hand—the storeroom key.
Tyche's eyes widened. "Xanthe, you can't—"
"I can," she interrupted firmly. "And I will. You deserve better than crusts and sour broth."
Tyche hesitated. The storeroom was tightly locked, reserved only for Aunt Lysandra or trusted servants. If either of them was caught—
"Just enough to tide you over," Xanthe said, already moving toward the door.
Tyche followed, torn between fear and gratitude.
Sometimes kindness came in small rebellions.
And Tyche was far too hungry to refuse.
---
"Xanthe, what are you doing?" Tyche asked.
"Solving a crisis."
She unlocked the storeroom door and slipped inside. A moment later, she emerged with a handful of dried herbs, a bit of cheese wrapped in cloth, two eggs, and a small bag of flour. "Let's make something worth eating."
Tyche hesitated. "If your mother finds out—"
"She won't. We'll clean everything up after. And you can't work all day and starve. Come on."
Together, they prepared a small batch of savory herb cakes, frying them on the pan Tyche had just cleaned. The scent of warm herbs and melted cheese filled the air. Tyche's mouth watered as she turned the cakes carefully, flipping them to golden perfection.
They sat at the wooden table, steam rising from the plates between them. Tyche took a bite and nearly moaned at the flavor. Warmth filled her belly, and for the first time that day, she felt human again.
"That's more like it," Xanthe said, munching contentedly. "See? Worth it."
Tyche smiled faintly, then glanced down at her hands. "Xanthe… can I tell you something strange?"
Xanthe wiped her fingers and leaned in. "You're not pregnant, are you?"
Tyche laughed, startled. "No! Gods, no."
"Then I'm listening."
Tyche hesitated. "I had a dream last night. But it wasn't like the others. Not like the one I always have… with the accident."
Xanthe's face sobered. "What did you see?"
Tyche's voice dropped to a whisper. "A wedding. Mine. But I didn't recognize the man I was marrying. He had golden eyes, and everyone was watching—my family, the royal family. Some people looked sad, some… angry. I didn't even know his name, but I felt like I was being dragged into something bigger than me."
Xanthe's brows drew together. "That's… oddly specific."
"It felt real. Too real. And I felt something. Something strange right before I woke up."
"What kind of strange?"
"Like a pull. A warning. Like something was coming."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then Xanthe reached across the table and took Tyche's hand. "If anything strange is coming, we'll face it together. Dream or not."
Tyche squeezed her hand, comforted by the gesture. But in the back of her mind, the vision still lingered, like smoke curling through her thoughts.
And deep in her chest, her heart whispered the same warning again:
It's coming.
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