Aric’s body felt as though it had been fed through a heavy timber mill, reassembled poorly, and then dropped down a flight of stone stairs.
Gorren had not exaggerated his training methods.
That morning, before the kitchen fires were even fully lit, the massive Minotaur had taken Aric down to the basement mats and spent an hour casually teaching him how to fall without breaking his collarbone.
Gorren charged four silver a morning for the privilege and apparently considered bruising part of the service.
The lesson involved Gorren picking Aric up by his lapels and throwing him onto the padded canvas until Aric’s provincial clerk reflexes finally surrendered to sheer survival instinct.
Every time Aric thought he had figured out his center of gravity, the floor rushed up to meet his spine again.
Now, hours later, the evening lantern shift was approaching, and Aric was paying the biological price.
He pushed open the swinging doors of the staff kitchen, wincing as a sharp twinge of pain shot through his right shoulder.
He limped toward the far end of the long oak table, favoring his left leg, and collapsed onto the wooden bench.
He let out a long, ragged exhale, resting his heavy head in his hands.
His knuckles were bruised, and his fingers felt thick and clumsy from desperately gripping the training mats.
Brinna, the stout dwarven cook, walked past and dropped a wooden bowl in front of him with a depressing thud.
Aric lowered his hands and stared down at his guaranteed, nine-silver-a-month meal.
It was the gray root stew again.
Today, the fibrous chunks of mutton looked even grimmer, floating sadly beside a dense, weapon-grade brick of unleavened bread.
The pale grease on the surface was already congealing in the cool draft of the room.
Aric picked up his wooden spoon.
His hand actually shook a little.
His stomach twisted into a painful, hollow knot, cramping with an aggressive emptiness he had never experienced copying ledgers in Harthwell.
He scooped up a piece of pale turnip and forced it into his mouth, trying not to taste the damp earth flavor.
It took concerted effort just to chew the rubbery root.
A few feet down the table, the atmosphere was entirely different.
Kaela, Mera, and Vaelisse sat together, enjoying the spoils of the premium pantry.
The contrast was devastating.
Kaela was tearing into a platter of roasted pheasant glazed in dark cherry reduction.
The skin cracked audibly as she pulled a wing free, the meat steaming and fragrant with expensive harbor spices.
Mera sat beside her, methodically slicing a wheel of sharp, imported artisan cheese and layering it onto thick slices of fresh, warm bread dripping with salted butter.
“The spice merchant from the lower docks tipped three silver for an extended bath,” Kaela noted, ripping the meat from the bone.
She chewed, looking highly satisfied.
“I told him if he tipped five, I’d make sure the water was actually hot next time.” “Make sure you log it,” Mera said, though she didn’t look up from her cheese, pressing a dollop of fig jam over the sharp wedge.
“The civic tax on bathwater heating went up a copper.
Every tip counts.” Vaelisse lounged gracefully at the end of their group.
She was not eating the heavy meats.
Instead, she enjoyed a delicate silver plate of sliced honey-crisp apples, sugared almonds, and a tall crystal cup of chilled, high-tier wine.
The scents of roasted meat, melting butter, and sweet wine drifted down the table.
It wrapped around Aric like a physical taunt, making him slightly dizzy.
Aric chewed his turnip.
He swallowed.
He stared intently at the swirling wood grain of the table, desperately pretending he was not sharing a room with a cherry-glazed game bird.
He tried to calculate the weekly cost of the house linens in his head to distract himself.
It didn’t work.
His stomach, completely devoid of pride, let out a loud, drawn-out, echoing growl.
It sounded like a dying bear trapped beneath the floorboards.
The conversation down the table stopped instantly.
Aric froze, his spoon hovering over his gray broth.
A hot flush crept up his neck, turning his ears a bright, embarrassing red.
He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, silently cursing Gorren, the proving contract, and his own biology.
He took another determined bite of his unleavened bread, chewing as quietly as he could while keeping his eyes locked firmly on his bowl.
He tried to shrink into his heavy wool coat.
Kaela turned her head.
The Lion Kin manager leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, her golden eyes locking onto him.
Her tufted tail flicked once over the edge of the bench, brushing against the table leg.
“Master Vale,” Kaela purred, her voice dripping with amusement.
“Are you going to cry?” “I am fine,” Aric lied through a mouthful of dense, tasteless dough.
He refused to look up.
“You look like a starved hound,” Kaela observed.
She picked up a glazed pheasant leg, holding it deliberately in his line of sight, and took a slow bite.
She made a soft, appreciative sound in the back of her throat as the tender meat pulled away.
Aric’s eyes involuntarily tracked the movement.
He watched the dark juice glisten on her lips.
He swallowed hard, his throat clicking audibly in the quiet kitchen.
Kaela let out a long, theatrical sigh.
“We are going to ruin his market value if we let him waste away,” Kaela muttered to the other women.
She reached across the table, grabbed an empty ceramic plate, and dropped a massive, steaming breast of roasted pheasant onto it.
She pushed it down the polished wood.
It slid to a halt, the ceramic clinking sharply against the edge of Aric’s wooden bowl.
The heat radiating from the meat brushed against Aric’s face.
“Eat that,” Kaela ordered.
“Before your stomach starts demanding a wage of its own.” Aric looked at the beautifully glazed meat.
His mouth watered so violently it physically ached.
His provincial pride flared up for exactly one second.
He was the manager.
He was supposed to be the authority here.
“I did not authorize a deduction for premium meat,” Aric said, his voice tight with the effort of resisting it.
His bruised fingers curled into fists on his lap.
“I am sharing my plate, you idiot,” Kaela said, rolling her eyes, though her smile was fond.
“Eat it.” Aric abandoned his wooden spoon.
His pride evaporated into the steam rising from the cherry glaze.
He reached out, tore a piece of the hot meat off the bone with his bare fingers, and put it in his mouth.
The taste of salt, rich fat, and sweet reduction exploded across his tongue.
He let out an involuntary, muffled groan, his shoulders instantly dropping as his exhausted body practically inhaled the calories.
Mera watched him devour the pheasant, shaking her head.
The house manager’s sharp, logistical mind visibly ran the numbers.
“Gorren had him on the basement mats for an hour this morning,” Mera stated flatly, analyzing Aric like a broken column in a ledger.
“His usual portion was assigned for ledger work, not being thrown across a room by a Minotaur.
Brinna needs to double his servings on training days or he will be too weak to lift a supply crate by the end of the week.” Mera picked up her knife.
She carved a thick, generous wedge of the imported cheese, placed it on a slab of warm, buttered bread, and slid it down the table to join the pheasant.
“Eat the bread, Master Vale,” Mera instructed, completely pragmatic.
“If Gorren cracks one of your ribs tomorrow, I want enough food in you for it to heal.
A dead manager cannot sign the payroll.” “Thank you,” Aric mumbled around a mouthful of meat, completely abandoning all dignity.
He grabbed the bread and cheese, the rich, melting butter coating his fingers.
He had never tasted anything so incredible in his entire life.
He looked exactly like a stray dog that had finally been let inside by the fire, and he no longer possessed the energy to care who saw it.
Vaelisse sat at the end of the group, watching the display with a cool, measuring gaze.
She had not spoken since he walked in, but the memory of their encounter in his office the previous night still hung heavily between them.
Her declaration—I would like to oversee your education—echoed in his head every time he looked at her.
Vaelisse picked up a slice of honey-crisp apple from her silver plate.
She stood up, her crimson silk skirts rustling against the floorboards, and walked slowly down the length of the table until she stood directly beside his bench.
Aric stopped chewing.
He looked up at her, his heart suddenly hammering against his bruised ribs.
He became hyper-aware of the silence falling over the kitchen.
Kaela paused with a piece of meat halfway to her mouth.
Mera lowered her knife.
Both women watched the Frost Elf approach with quiet, intense curiosity.
Vaelisse kept the meal firmly on her side of the table, making no move to share.
Instead, she leaned down.
The faint scent of winterbloom wrapped around him, drowning out the smell of the hearth and the roasted meat.
She held the crisp, honey-drizzled slice of apple directly to his lips.
A single bead of golden honey gathered at the edge of the fruit, threatening to fall.
“Open,” Vaelisse commanded softly.
Aric’s breath hitched.
His face flooded with a fresh wave of crimson heat.
He was the acting manager of the house.
He was sitting in the middle of the communal kitchen with Kaela and Mera watching.
But his stomach was full of their charity, his body was battered into submission, and her cool, gray eyes pinned him effortlessly to the spot, demanding absolute compliance.
Aric parted his lips.
Vaelisse slipped the slice of apple into his mouth.
As he bit down, her cool fingertips lightly, deliberately brushed against his lower lip, catching the stray drop of honey.
The crisp sweetness of the fruit washed over his tongue, offering a perfect, sharp contrast to the heavy meat and cheese.
Vaelisse slowly withdrew her hand.
She rubbed her honey-slicked thumb against her index finger, her eyes dropping briefly to the heavy wool of his trousers before returning to his flushed face.
Her lips curved into that familiar, devastatingly proprietary smile.
“Good boy,” Vaelisse murmured.
She pitched her voice low enough that it was an intimate secret between them, yet the dark, dangerous promise beneath the praise was unmistakable.
She turned and walked smoothly out of the kitchen, the doors swinging shut behind her with a soft thud.
Aric sat perfectly still, his heart pounding and his ears burning, chewing the apple while he stared straight ahead at the empty wall.
Beside him, Kaela leaned back on her bench, crossing her arms over her chest.
She looked at the swinging doors, then looked back at Aric’s bright red face and the dazed expression in his eyes.
The Lion Kin let out a low, highly amused chuckle.
“Well,” Kaela purred, reaching for another piece of pheasant.
“She certainly marked that asset.”