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I had known it would not be clearly labeled on any map. Still, when I looked at the northern mountains of Rheged—mountains said to be so deadly and unscalable, so rough and rocky with their peaks far above the clouds—I felt... a pull. Nothing more. But a pull.

We would start in Rheged, I had decided. And along the way, we would find out why the attacks had begun and find a way to make them stop.

In the meantime, troops from Pendrath and Myntra had been bolstering Tintagel—when they could. Understandably, a foreign monarch who had only so recently seen Pendrath as a threat to his people and dominion did not wish to let in too many of our forces.

Lyonesse had rejected almost all of our help, preferring to stubbornly fight alone.

I thought again of Rheged. Fenyx had been fostered there. He had been a brutal, cruel man. Was his cruelty fostered in Rheged, too?

When Draven had first come to Camelot, Sir Ector had told me a story of how the new Guard Captain had supposedly helped to murder almost an entire royal family. It was a bone-chilling tale. One which Draven had told me the truth of—a long story, and one for another day.

But suffice to say, murdering infants was, thankfully, not a part of his long and adventurous past.

A loud wail broke my concentration. Medra was still crying. Now at an increasing volume.

Beside me, Draven was focused on shushing and bouncing her as we walked quickly through the grandeur of the Rose Court’s long, stone corridors.

Picking up our pace to a jog, we navigated past brightly-colored tapestries and candles flickering in iron-wrought sconces. The air carried the faint scent of beeswax mingled with the perfume of centuries-old wood and dusty stone.

As we reached the entrance to the kitchens, the atmosphere changed.

I felt my own stomach rumbling as the air became thick with the savory scent of roasting meats, the tantalizing fragrance of freshly baked bread, and the underlying notes of herbs and spices.

The sound of clattering pots and the sizzle of something delicious being cooked on an open flame provided a cozy backdrop of noise. Wooden beams crisscrossed overhead, holding the essentials of any good kitchen—rows of hanging herbs and dried ingredients. Long, sturdy tables lined the center, holding pots and pans and other culinary tools.

Kitchen scullions bustled hurriedly through the room with purpose, some tending to the roaring hearths, ensuring the flames beneath the pots were just right. Apprentices stood at stations, slicing fruit or kneading dough for pastries.

It was a wonder to me that so little had changed with Arthur’s death. Life in the castle went on much as before, even without its king.

As Draven and I entered, a hush fell over the room and the banging of pots and chopping of vegetables came to a standstill.

One by one, the kitchen staff turned towards us. I saw a few kitchen maids and apprentices, hands dusted with flour from making the morning bread, exchanging glances of excitement.

Apparently, not everything had remained the same. My role had changed. Much as I would wish to forget that.

Trying not to blush awkwardly, I was relieved when I spotted Hawl. The Ursidaur was towering over one of the cooking stations, stirring something in a huge, copper pot.

A tall, white, cook’s hat was balanced precariously on their brown, furry head.

As we approached, Hawl whipped the hat off and threw it on the floor with a short-tempered growl that sent the scullions nearby scurrying away.

Next to Hawl stood a short man with sun-kissed skin and a balding head who I recognized as the head cook. Now the man looked up from his cutting board with a patient smile.

“A tradition, nothing more, my friend,” the cook said soothingly in the warm accent of Lyonesse.

“A ridiculous accoutrement,” Hawl snapped. “That hat was more likely to fall into a pan and start a fire than serve any real purpose.”

“You need not wear it,” the cook said appeasingly. “Your reputation as a culinary maestro precedes you. It was a silly thought, the hat, nothing more. A gesture of honor. I deeply apologize.”

Hawl grumbled, sounding slightly embarrassed. “It is... nothing. You wished to share a piece of your culture.” The Bearkin cleared their throat. “It was a kind thought.”

The small chef beamed. Then he seemed to finally notice Medra, Draven, and me standing nearby.

His eyes lit up as they fell on Medra.

“Ah, a visit from the little one and her family! We’re whipping up something special this morning, Your Radiance,” the cook promised me. I opened my mouth to tell him there was no need for such formalities, but the man was already rushing on. “Your friend, Hawl, here is a virtuoso of the culinary arts...”

“Danielo helped,” Hawl interjected, deadpan.