As Evelyn continued to walk down the hallways, her fingers ached beneath the sharp wooden grips. The pressure bit into her skin with every step, and she knew by now that her palms would be marked with angry red grooves. But she bore it without complaint—just as she bore everything else.
The baskets tilted as she tried to reposition her hold, the apples on top rolling dangerously close to the edge. She glanced down, trying to adjust her grip before they spilled. Her arms trembled slightly under the weight, and she didn't see the dark figure approaching from the opposite end of the corridor—until a firm, low voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Do you normally walk clumsily or is bumping onto people a usual hobby for you?"
Evelyne stopped abruptly, the basket wobbling in her hands as she looked up.
A young man stood in front of her, tall and broad-shouldered, the silver of his armor dulled by dust and faint traces of dried blood. His black hair was tousled, and his sharp eyes—dark and unreadable—locked with hers and mistaking him for a knight, she bowed and offered an apology.
"I am sorry, I will be more careful."
He said nothing for a moment, just gave her a long look before moving past without a word. Evelyne exhaled, adjusted her grip on the basket, and kept walking, unaware that he turned briefly to glance at her retreating figure before continuing on his way
~~~~
Evelyn finally reached the kitchen, the heavy baskets of fruit nearly bruising her palms.
In the kitchen, the chaos of morning prep was already in full swing. The scent of fresh bread, roasted nuts, and simmering spices clung to the warm air. Flames crackled in the hearth, ovens clanked open and shut, and the shouts of irritated cooks echoed against the stone walls.
"Watch it, Mira! You nearly dropped the whole tray of dates!"
"Don't blame me! You left them at the very edge!"
"Where's the cream? Don't tell me someone left it in the west pantry again—"
Just as she placed the baskets qown, the Steward's sharp voice cut through the air.
"Evelyn," he called, eyes scanning a parchment in his hand. "Go and assist Gabriel in grinding the cocoa. It should be done within the next hour."
She barely had time to nod before the next name was called.
Turning toward the back of the kitchen, she made her way to the grinding table. There, elbows deep in crushed cocoa beans, stood Gabriel—a lean, dark-haired young man with sleeves rolled up and a teasing glint in his eye even when sweat clung to his brow. He looked up as she approached, grinning as if he had been waiting for this all morning.
"Well, well. Reinforcements. The cocoa gods have heard my cries."
Evelyn picked up the wooden handle opposite his and began to push the stone. "You cry to gods for help with beans?"
"They've been my only company this past hour. I even named the grinder," he gestured solemnly. "This is Beatrix. She's temperamental and cruel but loyal. Like a cat."
Evelyn almost smiled. "Beatrix doesn't seem to like you very much."
"She likes no one. But she tolerates me, and that's enough for love."
They worked in tandem, arms pushing in a rhythm. Occasionally, Gabriel would dramatically sigh, or roll his eyes as if carrying the weight of the entire palace on his shoulders.
"Sheesh, they really know how to pick the worst jobs for the prettiest hands," he said, glancing at her palms. "Your fingers look like they belong on a harp, not a grinder."
"I don't know," Evelyn murmured. "They seem to be adapting just fine."
He leaned in as if whispering a scandalous secret. "Next they'll assign us to peel onions till we forget what joy feels like. That's when you know you've made it."
"You mean that's the promotion?"
"Exactly. 'Congratulations, servant number fifty-three. You're now chief weeper of the west kitchen.'"
A nearby cook coughed sharply in warning, casting a narrow-eyed glance in their direction. Gabriel straightened immediately and mouthed, oops behind the cook's back.
Once the coast was clear, he resumed, quieter this time but still grinning. "You know, you're lucky to be working with me. Most new girls get assigned to the dungeon ovens. That place smells like old potatoes and regret."
"I think that I should start counting my stars." Evelyne responded.
~~~
The kitchen chatter reduced when the air shifted — the soft click of heeled boots brushing against polished stone made heads turn and voices die out. Even the simmering pots seemed to soften their bubbling in deference.
The queen had entered the kitchen.
Queen amber moved in with grace and like most vampires of high rank, her features were finely sculpted_ timeless, ageless, eerily perfect_ but what set her apart was the tranquil dignity she carried. Her presence didn't scream authority. It whispered it.
Behind her walked her personal maid, careful to remain one pace behind.
As if responding to an invisible cue, every servant in the kitchen lowered their heads and bowed. Even Gabriel, who could turn anything into a joke, stood rigid, his usual smirk long gone.
The queen offered no words, only a small, graceful nod in response — enough to acknowledge their reverence without inviting familiarity. Her deep red eyes scanned the room briefly before she approached the head cook. Her voice was low, too quiet for any of the servants to catch, but the cook nodded promptly, his hands still dusted with flour.
She stayed no longer than necessary. Once her message was delivered, she turned and exited the room with the same silence she had arrived in. Her maid followed, never once looking to either side.
The door closed behind her, and just like that, everyone in the kitchen exhaled.