The kitchen door creaked open under my hand, and the smell hit me 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 moment 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 punishment."
