Meanwhile,
The air in the castle kitchen was thick with heat. The giant hearth crackled and hissed, flames licking the pots that bubbled with stews and meats, filling the space with the smell of roasted herbs and sizzling fat.
The air was dense, weighed down by the heavy scent of bread baking and the sweat of hard work.
The kitchen staff scurried around, their movements quick and purposeful as they worked to prepare the evening meal.
Clattering of knives, the scrape of wooden spoons against pots, and the sharp snap of the oven doors punctuated the otherwise bustling atmosphere.
Outside, the sky had darkened ominously, a rolling thunder echoing across the land.
The air had taken on a damp chill, and a distant rumble reverberated through the stone walls of the castle, stirring unease in everyone who felt it.
As the storm grew nearer, the temperature inside the kitchen seemed to rise even further, thickening the atmosphere as if the castle itself was holding its breath in anticipation of the coming battle.
In the midst of the heat and noise, the chatter of the kitchen staff blended with the rumble of the storm.
Some of the women worked in quiet concentration, while others found time to gossip between tasks, their voices low and quick, full of the tension that seemed to hang in the air.
"Well, did you hear? Prince Spencer is leading the charge," one of the cooks, Martha, said, flicking a knife through the onions with quick, efficient cuts.
"No, he's not!" A loud, Thalia shot making everyone glance at her.
"What? How do you know that?" Martha taunted because she knew the maid was the lover of a knight but she insists on keeping it a secret.
Thalia shrugged, "The third Prince is leading it and not Prince Spencer get your information right,"
She shot a glance at the women around her, her voice dropping to a whisper as if the very mention of the prince's name might bring bad luck. "Half-blind, and still they send him out there. It's madness, I tell you." Martha continued without replying.
"Aye," replied Clara, who was kneading the dough at the counter, her hands moving with the practiced ease of someone who had done this all her life.
"Foolery, that's what it is. And his poor wife, she's been crying non-stop. I've seen her, weeping in the hallways like a broken woman." Another maid said and the pun or irony that the kingdom they were up against was called Fooleria passed unnoticed.
"She's always been dramatic," said Thalia, the youngest of the kitchen maids, though she was a bit too loud for such a whisper. She shrugged as she stirred a pot of bubbling broth.
"But who can blame her? Her husband is out there, and we don't even know if he'll return. Men and their pride, always rushing to the front. It's always the same, isn't it?" she shook her head.
"The strong men go off to fight, leaving us here to cook and clean while they—" She paused, her words trailing off, but the implication hung in the air like a storm cloud itself.
Before anyone could comment further, the unmistakable sound of heels clicking against the stone floor echoed from the entrance to the kitchen.
The staff straightened instinctively, and a hushed silence fell over them, their conversations stopping as though they had all been caught stealing from the larder.
Standing at the doorway, arms crossed and brow furrowed, was the headmaid, Lady Mathilde, a woman with a face that was perpetually pinched, as though she had been born with a scowl and never removed it.
Her sharp eyes flicked over the room, taking in the disarray, the scattered flour, the noise that still echoed faintly in the air.
"You're all idling, gossiping while you should be working," Lady Mathilde's voice was stern, sharp as the edge of a blade.
"Can you not feel the weight of this day? The storm is coming, and so is the battle. And you—"
Her eyes landed on Thalia, whose mouth was still parted as if she had just been caught in a scandalous conversation. "—you'll leave that gossip to the nobles, where it belongs. In here, we work, we focus, or we'll all have nothing to eat when the men return. Do I make myself clear?"
The kitchen was tense, everyone holding their breath as Lady Mathilde's gaze swept the room like a hawk scanning its prey.
"Yes, Lady Mathilde," they muttered in unison, returning to their tasks, though their hands moved more swiftly now, with less chatter.
The heavy weight of her disapproval seemed to press down on them, the air in the kitchen thickening as if even the storm outside had given way to her authority.
But despite the scolding, there was an undercurrent of defiance that lingered, especially as the storm outside seemed to grow louder, the wind howling against the castle's ancient stone walls.
The thunder was a warning, a low, growling reminder of the chaos that awaited beyond the gates.
And yet, as the women worked, the tension in the room was more than the storm.
It was the knowledge that the men, those they served, were out there, fighting battles that could turn the tide of everything.
The air was heavy with something darker than the storm, something unspoken, something that no amount of stew or bread could soothe.
"We'll be ready for them," Martha muttered under her breath, wiping the sweat from her brow.
Her hands moved quickly, rolling out dough as she shot a look toward the door. "Just pray the prince returns safe. Otherwise, the storm will feel like the least of our worries."
The rain started to fall then, the heavy drops drumming against the roof of the castle. Inside, the kitchen seemed to grow even hotter, as if the storm outside was merely an echo of the tension inside.
And as the wind picked up and the thunder cracked louder, the women worked in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts, the hum of the kitchen an attempt to block out the noise of the world beyond.