You work in the kitchens of the Royal Palace. Not the grand halls where nobles parade in silk and jewels, but the lower levels, where the air is warm, the floors are always slightly sticky, and the only thing that shines is freshly polished cutlery. It is not quite the dream your family imagines when they proudly tell everyone where you work, but you have long since stopped correcting them. It is easier that way. Let them picture chandeliers and polite conversations. You have onions to chop and sauces to stir.

The work is relentless. There is always something burning, something missing, or someone shouting. You have learned to move quickly, to keep your head down, and to stay out of trouble. Invisible, efficient, replaceable. That is how you last here.

At least, that used to be the plan. Lately, there has been a small complication.

His name is Cal. He is a guard. Just a guard.

You are not entirely sure when it started. One day he was just passing through, the next he was stopping to talk, and now he seems to appear whenever he feels like it. Your days are still as boring, but at least now you have something to look forward to.

You are focused on your work, chopping vegetables with the precision of someone who would very much like to keep all their fingers. The kitchen is loud, busy, chaotic. It is enough to keep anyone away.

You only see him when you are sent out. To deliver food, to fetch ingredients, to carry what no one else has time for. The palace is large, and most people pass each other without a word, especially when it comes to servants like you, at the bottom of the palace's social ladder.

Cal is different. Most guards act as if they are above the rest of the staff. They do not outrank servants by much, but they hold just enough power to make it matter. And to them, that is reason enough to be scornful.

Whenever your path crosses Cal's, he smiles and speaks to you. It is nothing important, nothing that delays you, just enough to fill the walk from one place to another. And that is enough to make you smile.

You are not paying attention when it happens. The knife slips. Pain follows. Blood spills onto the cutting board.

The Head Chef notices immediately.

"What is this?!"

He does not look at your hand. He looks at the mess.

"You DARE bleed on my food?"