Thump. Thump. Thump.
Soran stepped over the young master's threshold with footsteps lighter than before,even though her heart beat fast and heavy, as if she were carrying something she dared not speak of.
She pressed a hand to her chest, right where her heart throbbed so violently that it could no longer hide the turmoil inside her.
Her cheeks burned hot.Her breath caught in her throat.
"What is wrong with me…?"She whispered to the passing breeze, rubbing both palms over her face as if she could scrub the redness from her cheeks.
But that face....his face.....kept rising again and again in her thoughts:those calm, unreadable eyes,skin pale like carved jade, and features so soft and finely drawn they seemed more like a portrait upon a scroll than something that should exist on a real human being.
"So beautiful…"She murmured before quickly shaking her head to chase the thought away.
(Enough! I came here to work, not to become the heroine of some tragic romance.)
Steeling herself, Soran straightened her dull-colored jeogori, brushed the dust from her sleeves with as much dignity as she could muster, and stepped forward with determined strides as if firm footsteps could quiet the frantic beating of her heart.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The moment she reached the kitchen, a burst of scents assaulted her senses.
Pots and pans clattered in a chaotic symphony.Firewood snapped and crackled beneath the stove.A knife chopped vegetables with relentless speed.
Garlic, sesame oil, and simmering broth swirled together in a fragrant storm.
Soran hesitated at the doorway.This was not merely a kitchen; this was a battlefield.and everyone wore aprons as their armor.
She rose onto her toes, scanning for someone who looked least likely to throw a ladle at her head.
Eventually, her gaze landed on a middle-aged woman kneading dough with unwavering focus, as if even thunder could not shake her concentration.
Soran cleared her throat softly, straightening her posture and attempting'poorly, to imitate a professional maid.(Which… she absolutely was not.)
"Excuse me, madam… is there anything I can help with?"
The dough-kneading woman looked up, startled for a moment, then tilted her head and examined Soran swiftly.
Her eyes widened slightly before a warm smile spread across her face.
"Oh… you must be the new girl," she said brightly."What a lovely face you have."
Soran flushed scarlet at once, raising both hands to scratch nervously at her hair.
"I-I… I'm just a servant, madam," she replied softly, eyes fixed on her own shoes.
The woman chuckled lightly."A servant? With a face like yours? Look at you! You look more like some nobleman's daughter, only wearing old clothes. Truly adorable."
Soran's smile faded gradually.That kind of remark, again.It struck a tender place inside her.
Hesitating, she finally spoke in a small, honest voice that surprised even herself:
"My lady said… she wouldn't make me a concubine.Please don't look at me in that way."
But instead of judging or scolding her, the woman simply smiled and placed a gentle hand on Soran's shoulder.
"I'm not worried… about you," she said calmly."You'll understand soon enough. And don't call me 'madam.' I'm just the cook here."
Soran blinked rapidly, confused.
"I still don't know whether it's a blessing or a curse…"The cook murmured, her eyes softening with something like pity.
"A girl who is too beautiful tends to draw storms toward herself.And you, child… you're walking straight into a big one."
Soran tilted her head."A storm?"
"The young master… he'll act cold toward you for sure," the cook whispered conspiratorially, leaning in as though reciting an ancient prophecy."The youngest son of this household."
There was mischief glinting in her voice.
"Yes, he's a good man," she continued."But for years, he hasn't spared a glance at any woman.He doesn't drink, doesn't gamble, doesn't chase girls.He just stays in that quiet room of his, reading so much I swear the characters will spill out of his ears one day."
Soran raised an eyebrow."He sounds like a monk."
The cook burst into cheerful laughter.
"Worse than a monk!He's a handsome young monk with a heart full of knots he refuses to untie."
The remark drew a soft laugh from Soran as well, though it quickly faded, leaving a gentle silence behind.Her heart had calmed, yet a faint reverberation lingered like distant thunder: not loud, but impossible to ignore.
After bowing politely to the cook, Soran excused herself.She picked up a wooden pail to fetch water from the well behind the kitchen, near the small flower garden.
As she stepped out through the low wooden doorway, the scent of flour and warm firewood still clung to her sleeves.
The kitchen stood beside the herb garden behind the main estate.Young ginseng sprouts, wild roses, and fresh green lemongrass lined the shaded path.The ground was paved with smooth stones polished by countless rains, with fallen leaves scattered beneath the bamboo-roofed awning.
A wind chime hanging from the eaves tinkled softly.Its sound mingled with the clatter of workers stacking firewood and the flutter of laundry swaying on a bamboo clothesline.
Soran walked quietly across the stone courtyard.
She wasn't sure whether she was escaping the conversation or replaying every word in her mind more carefully.
"Storms, hmm…?" she murmured as she stepped from shade into sunlight."Well… I've survived worse."
Yet deep inside, she could not tell whether what awaited her was something frightening or something she was meant to discover.
Soran settled beneath the broad shade of a great tree.The afternoon sunlight filtered through emerald leaves, scattering soft patterns across her brightly colored jeogori, like gentle brushstrokes painted by nature itself.