*The vast, echoing kitchen is a world away from the tense silence of my room. The air is thick with the smell of woodsmoke, roasting meat, and the sharp tang of vegetables. The staff, a bustling mix of humans and other beings, pause and stare as I stride past them, my movements purposeful. Their expressions are a mixture of shock, confusion, and fear. No one dares to speak, their silence a heavy blanket over the room.*
*I pay them no mind. My focus is singular. I move to the cold storage, my hands steady as I pull out cuts of meat, root vegetables, and fragrant herbs, stacking them on a large wooden block without a word. I fill a massive iron cauldron with water from the pump, the effort of heaving it onto the stove making my muscles burn. I take up a heavy cleaver and begin to chop, the rhythmic*thunk, thunk, thunk*of the blade against the wood block a steady, grounding sound that cuts through the room's tension.*
*The rhythmic*thunk, thunk, thunk*of the cleaver is the only sound for a long moment, a stark counterpoint to the nervous shuffling of the staff. Then, a small, soft hand covers mine, stopping the blade. I look up to see the oldest of the kitchen workers, a woman with a face like a wise, prickly hedgehog and kind, tired eyes. She doesn't say a word, just offers me a gentle, motherly smile that seems to soften the hard lines of her face. She picks up another knife and begins to chop the vegetables I'd set aside, her movements sure and practiced.*
*Her quiet act is a spark. A few others, emboldened by her courage, slowly drift over to the long wooden table. They take up knives, peel potatoes, and stir pots, their initial hesitation melting into a quiet, focused rhythm. They work alongside me, *A memory surfaces, unbidden and sharp, of a smaller, sunnier kitchen, the scent of incense mingling with the smell of simmering broth. My father, his nine tails curled loosely around his waist, is showing me how to debone a fish with a pair of slender chopsticks.* "Patience, little one," *he'd murmured, his voice a low rumble.* "The knife is an extension of your will. Let it flow, not fight." *The memory is a bittersweet ache in my chest. I had been so proud then, so eager to please him. And now... I had thrown his teachings back in his face, told him I didn't need him, that I could survive on my own. The guilt is a cold stone in my gut, and my breath hitches. I lower the knife, my vision blurring.*
*I freeze, the cleaver hovering over the root vegetable. The memory of my father—his calm grey eyes, the way his tails would brush against my legs when he was near—is a sudden, painful punch to the gut. The guilt I've been shoving down for days surges to the surface, hot and suffocating. I told him I didn't need him. I ran away. I should have come back. A choked sound escapes my throat, and I bite down on my lip to stop it from trembling, but a single tear escapes, tracing a hot path down my cheek.*
*The old hedgehog-woman sees it. She doesn't ask what's wrong. She simply stops her own work, leans in close, and her voice is a low, warm murmur that only I can hear.* "Be strong, child," *she whispers, her breath soft against my ear. Her hand, calloused and warm, gives mine a tight, reassuring squeeze.*
*Her words, simple as they are, land in the hollow space inside me where the guilt had been echoing. They don't erase the memory of my father's face or the sting of my own cruel words, but they create a small, steady flame of resolve in their place. I take a deep, shuddering breath, the scent of herbs and steam filling my lungs, and give her hand a small, grateful squeeze back. I nod, a single, determined movement, and turn back to my work. The rhythmic chopping resumes, the sound now less frantic, more purposeful. It's a small act, but it's mine. It's a way to channel this turmoil into something tangible, something that might, in some small way, make things better.*
*The kitchen staff and I ladle the steaming food into rough-hewn wooden bowls, filling them until they overflow. The aroma of the hearty stew—rich with meat, root vegetables, and herbs—fills the air, a stark contrast to the usual smell of damp stone and fear that clings to the cells. We carry the heavy tray down the cold, torch-lit corridor, the clatter of our footsteps the only sound. As we approach the bars, the children within shrink back, pressing themselves into the shadows of their stone cages. Their eyes are wide with terror, expecting another beating, another moment of cruelty.*
*I stop, setting my bowl down. I offer them a gentle, reassuring smile, trying to show them with my expression that I mean no harm.* "There's enough for everyone," *I say, my voice calm and clear.* "No one needs to fight."
*I begin to pass the bowls through the bars, making sure each child receives one.*
*I watch them, a familiar ache settling in my chest. The way their small, dirty hands clutch the bowls, the way they devour the food as if it's the first thing they've had in days—it's a mirror to my own past with Glizz. We were scavengers then, always hungry, always fighting over scraps. The memory is a bitter pill, a reminder of how easily life can unravel.*
*The sight of them, huddled together in their shared misery, stirs something protective inside me. This is a small thing, a bowl of stew, but it's a piece of kindness in a world that seems determined to offer none. I give them a small, sad smile, hoping they can feel the sincerity of the gesture, even if they don't understand its source.*
*A little boy, no older than five, with soft, droopy features that remind me of a puppy's, hesitates at the edge of the group. He watches me with wide, trusting eyes. After a moment, he takes a hesitant step forward, then another, until he's standing right in front of me. He looks up at me, then slowly, carefully, curls his small, thin body into my lap, resting his head against my stomach. It's an act of pure, instinctual trust. I freeze for a second, surprised by his boldness, then gently begin to stroke his hair, my hand moving in slow, soothing circles.*
*Seeing the boy's courage, the youngest of the other children slowly emerge from the shadows of their cages. One by one, they shuffle closer, drawn by the safety they sense radiating from me. They curl up around my legs, leaning against me like sunflowers seeking the light. The older children, more wary but equally grateful, give me short, sharp nods of thanks.*
*As the children finish their meals, a quiet contentment settles over the group, a stark contrast to the tension that filled the space just moments before. I begin to collect the empty bowls, my movements careful so as not to disturb the little ones still curled around me. The puppy-boy stirs, his eyes fluttering open, and gives a soft sigh before settling back into sleep.*
*Before I leave, pull out a sack, cloth-wrapped bundle. It contains dense loaves of bread, dried fruits, and hardy root vegetables I managed to save from our cooking. I crouch down and whisper to the oldest child, a girl with sharp, watchful eyes.*
"Hide this," *I instruct, pressing the bundle into her hands.* "Only when you all are truly hungry and have been given nothing. Share it equally. And do not let the guards see it." *She nods slowly, her expression serious and grateful.*
*She takes the bundle, her small hands clutching it like a lifeline. I watch as she leads the older children to a loose stone near the back of their cell. With surprising strength, they pry it from the wall, revealing a dark cavity. They carefully tuck the package inside, replacing the stone so it looks as though it was never moved. The gesture is one of quiet, desperate planning, a small act of rebellion against their captivity. I give them a final, reassuring look before turning to leave, the weight of their hopeful eyes on my back as I walk away.*
*On my way back to the kitchen, I pause, seeing the few staff members who had refused to help earlier. They watch me with wary, downcast eyes. I walk over wordlessly and offer them bowls of the leftover stew. They hesitate for a moment, surprised by the gesture, before accepting them with quiet murmurs of thanks. I do the same for the guards on patrol, their expressions softening from suspicion to something resembling grudging respect.*
*Hearing a guard mention that Ash is in his study, my thoughts turn to the man from the day before. The memory of his anger and my own shame is still fresh. With a sigh, I ladle another portion of the stew into a clean bowl. It's a simple, olive-wood bowl, unadorned. I carry it down the familiar corridor, the steam rising from its surface and warming my hands. I reach the heavy oak door of his study and take a steadying breath before knocking.*
*I push the heavy oak door open and step inside, the tray balanced carefully in my hands. The study is dimly lit, the only light coming from a single window and the crackling fire in the hearth. Ash is seated behind his large mahogany desk, a stack of scrolls before him. He doesn't look up as I enter, but I can feel his gaze on me, a palpable weight of disdain. I walk slowly across the thick rug, the silence stretching between us until it's almost suffocating. I stop before his desk, placing the bowl of steaming stew on the polished wood surface.*
"Uhm, this is for you," *I say, my voice quiet but steady.*
*He finally looks up, his eyes raking over me with undisguised contempt. A cruel smirk touches his lips.* "Did you poison it?" *he scoffs, the words sharp and dismissive.*
*My jaw tightens, but I shake my head.* "No."
*He pushes his chair back and stands, looming over me.*
*His stomach rumbles again, a low, undeniable sound that betrays his haughty posture. He scowls, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face before he sighs, a sound of pure, reluctant resignation. He reaches out to take the bowl, his hand moving to dismiss me. As his fingers brush against mine, a strange, static-like energy zips between us, a sudden jolt that makes us both freeze. It's an unexpected spark in the cold air of the study.*
*I stare at him, truly seeing him for the first time. His eyes, one a deep, starry blue and the other a warm, honey-gold, are captivating. They're like nothing I've ever seen. The words slip out before I can stop them.* "Your eyes are beautiful."
*The moment the words are spoken, the air shifts. Ash's entire body goes rigid. He snatches his hand back as if burned, his eyes widening in shock.*
*Just as the words leave my lips, the heavy oak door to the study is thrown open. A young guard stands in the doorway, his posture rigid, his eyes fixed on Ash, clearly waiting to give a report. The intrusion shatters the fragile moment between us. Ash's face hardens instantly, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes vanishing, replaced by a cold, furious mask. He lunges forward, not at the guard, but at the tray of stew. With a sharp, violent movement, he sweeps it off the desk. The bowl shatters against the stone floor, sending a spray of hot liquid and chunks of vegetable across the rug and up my legs.*
"How dare you!"
*Ash roars, his voice booming with a manufactured rage that is clearly for the guard's benefit.* "Coming in here, disrupting my work, and now this! Get out of my sight! You think you're better than everyone, don't you? That your little acts of kindness mean anything here?"
*His words are a lash, cutting deeper than any physical blow could. I stand there, the hot stew soaking through my trousers, my skin stinging. I squeeze my hands into fists at my sides, my nails digging into my palms. The tears I fought back earlier now burn in my eyes. I look from his cold, furious face to the guard, who stares straight ahead, pretending he's invisible. A bitter, hysterical laugh escapes my lips, devoid of any humor.*
"I just wanted to be a good person to a bad person," *I snap, my voice trembling but sharp with a raw, wounded pain.* "I see now that was a mistake."
*I turn on my heel and flee, the sound of Ash's shouting fading behind me as I run down the corridor, the tears finally breaking free and streaming down my face. I don't stop until I'm in the quiet, warmth of my room, where I collapse against the cold stone wall, the shame of his rejection a heavy weight on my shoulders.*
Ash's Pov:
*Onyx enters my office, a plate of food held carefully in her hands, that infuriatingly gentle smile plastered on her face. I want to tell her to get out, to turn around and leave me to my brooding, but I can't seem to form the words*.
*My gaze is locked on her, and a memory surfaces, unbidden and unwelcome. I see her again, trembling in that room, her eyes wide with fear. It's a sight that lit something dark and possessive inside me.*
*My thoughts twist, turning inward. I recall Liam's words, his fierce defense of her honor. "She's my future bride", he had boasted, his tone making my blood boil. I remember the ride back , how he had held her head gently when she'd fallen asleep, shielding her eyes from the lights *.
*A strange, bitter taste fills my mouth. Jealousy? No, that's absurd. I despise her. I have to convince myself of that.*
*So why does a part of me ache with the thought that it should have been my fist connecting with that goat's jaw? Why does my chest tighten with a possessive fury at the memory of Liam's hand on her head? Why did I lie awake for most of the night, my mind a battlefield of conflicting desires, one side screaming at me to storm down that hall and break down her door, just to see if she was alright, to 'protect'her? I had to physically restrain myself, my fists clenched so tight my knuckles were white, forcing myself to stay put, to maintain this cold, hateful distance.*
*I rake a hand through my hair, trying to tear these treacherous thoughts from my mind. It's weakness. It's distraction. I look up at her, her smile a beacon of everything I'm not, and a low growl forms in my throat. I want to scream at her.*
"Wipe that look off your face." *But the words that come out are different, colder. A test.*
*The words leave my mouth like a whipcrack, sharp and cruel.* "Did you poison it?" *I scoff, the question a shield. I need to push her away, to make her small and fearful again, to restore the order of this world where she is the nuisance and I am the power. I need to see that flicker of hurt in her eyes to confirm that she is not in control.*
*She denies it, her voice steady. A flicker of something... respect? Irritation? It's hard to tell. I push my chair back, the scrape of wood on stone loud in the tense silence. I need to get closer, to intimidate her, to break her down. I step around the desk, looming over her, my shadow falling across her.* "What are you up to?" *I demand, my eyes narrowing, searching her face for any sign of a trick.*
*My stomach chooses that moment to rumble, a low, embarrassing sound that betrays my bravado. I curse it internally, my pride stinging.*
"A sigh escapes my lips, one of pure, reluctant resignation. The fight, the anger—it all feels suddenly pointless. My stomach is a traitor, a constant, growling reminder that I am, at my core, still a man who needs to eat.*
*Defeated by my own body, I reach out to take the bowl from her. It's a simple transaction, a way to end this farce and get back to my work. My fingers brush against hers.*
*A jolt. Not painful, but sharp. A spark of static, or something else entirely, that makes my hand freeze. For a fraction of a second, the world narrows to the point of contact. I stare at her, my mind blanking, and then I see them properly. *
*Her eyes. I've seen them a hundred times, but I've never "looked". They're deep, dark pools, and in the firelight, they seem to hold a universe of unspoken pain and resilience.*
*The words hang in the air between us, a fragile, unexpected thing.* "Your eyes are beautiful." *she says*
*My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, panicked rhythm. Beautiful. The word is a foreign object in this cold, harsh space of my study. I feel exposed, vulnerable. This is not how this is supposed to go. This is not how I am supposed to feel.*
*The door chooses that precise moment to swing open, crashing against the wall. The young guard stands silhouetted in the doorway,probably herre to give a report. The spell is broken. The vulnerability is a liability.*
*In a flash of pure, instinctual self-preservation, I shove the bowl away. It clatters to the floor, its contents splashing across the stone and up her legs. The sharp sound shatters the silence, and I use the noise as my weapon. I turn my rage on her, the performance easy now that the guard is here to witness it.*
"How dare you?!"
*The words tear from my throat, rough and loud, my performance fueled by the guard's wide-eyed presence.*
"How dare you? Coming in here, disrupting my work, and now this mess! Get out of my sight! You think you're better than everyone, don't you? That your little acts of kindness mean anything here?"
*My voice booms, echoing off the stone walls. I watch her face, the hurt in her eyes a familiar sting I now welcome, a comfort in its familiarity. She flinches, her shoulders hunching in. Good. Let her hurt. Let her run. It's simpler that way.*
*But then, she snaps. Her voice, trembling but sharp, cuts through my tirade.* "I just wanted to be a good person to a bad person!"
*The words hit me like a physical blow. They are so honest, so simple, they unravel the carefully constructed narrative of my anger. A bad person. She sees right through me. And the worst part?..., She's not wrong. The admission hangs in the air, a truth I've been running from for far too long. *
*My anger, which had been so potent a moment ago, feels hollow now, a mask cracking to reveal something raw and exposed beneath. The sight of her tears, the genuine pain etched on her face, is a far more effective weapon than any shout I could muster.*
*She turns and flees, the sound of her sobs echoing down the corridor long after the door has clicked shut. The guard, wisely, remains statue-still, his eyes fixed on the floor, pretending he doesn't exist. I don't acknowledge him*.
*I don't move. I just stand there, amidst the broken bowl and the spilled stew, staring at the empty doorway she just ran through. The silence in the study is deafening now, filled only by the frantic, unsteady rhythm of my own heartbeat. The victory I thought I craved feels like ash in my mouth.*