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In the Vale of Mists, during the very small hours of the morning when the summer sun had yet to peak above the hills to the east and the sky was host to a myriad of colors from yellow-gold, to burning orange and pale, powder blue, Ollie made his way quietly downstairs from his luxurious quarters in one of the castle’s five towers.

In the months since he arrived in the Vale of Mists, he’d slowly grown accustomed to the large feather mattress, the soft, silky sheets and the scent of freshly laundered linens that wrapped around him when he lay down every night.

He’d even grown accustomed to the comfortable, well tailored clothing he was provided along with sturdy, well made boots.

Some things, however, were too much for the former kitchen boy to adjust to.

The presence of Justus, who seemed to have been appointed as his personal servant, was easy to accept until the horned servant tried to do the things he saw as his duties.

Ollie refused to receive help dressing himself and he only reluctantly accepted help with bathing and grooming.

Rather than taking Justus as a servant, Ollie tried to treat the other man as a friend and peer, only to be constantly rebuffed for being ’improperly casual.’ Unlike Ashlynn’s Heila, Justus seemed to have a much more rigid sense of propriety and his place in the castle’s pecking order.

Which was why, hours before even his own attendant would be awake, Ollie slipped out of his room wearing the simplest clothing he currently owned and made his way to the castle’s kitchens.

When he arrived, he paused outside the doors, smelling the familiar scent of a freshly lit fire and listening to the soft, rhythmic sounds of knives on cutting blocks as the kitchen began to prepare for the day.

"Sir Ollie," Georg said with a wide smile on his bearish face. Ever since construction began on the village that folks had begun to refer to as ’Reunion’, the castle’s head cook had seen very little of the flame haired youth who Ashlynn brought to the vale and introduced as her friend.

"If you’ve come to steal hand pies for your ride to the village this morning, you’re far too early," the pot bellied chef said. "I haven’t even begun the filling yet, much less the pastry."

"That’s actually why I came," Ollie said, rolling up the sleeves on his powder blue tunic.

It might be one of his simplest shirts, lacking any embroidery or decorative details, but it was still very well made and clearly something that had no place in a busy, working kitchen.

"Put me to work, chef. Whatever you could use a hand with. "

For a moment, Georg blinked in surprise and confusion, his eyes opening wide before narrowing as he examined the young man before him.

The look from the towering cook lasted long enough that Ollie was about to apologize for intruding and excuse himself from the kitchens when Georg finally spoke again.

"You’re very handy with a knife," Georg said with a wide smile. "There’s a large sack of carrots I need broken down for the hand pie filling. Dice them so they’re the same size as the peas the little ones are taking from their pods," he said, pointing to a trio of young boys from the Horned Clan who clustered around a large wooden bowl as they slowly filled it with bright green peas.

Thinking back, it hadn’t been that many years since he’d stood in a similar position in the kitchens of Lothian Manor. Neither of his parents served in the kitchens and when he started, he had no skills to speak of.

The head cook at the time had given him a small mallet and a large sack of walnuts to remove from their shells.

Within an hour, he’d smashed his fingers so many times that he could barely hold nuts in place anymore, but he refused to give up, even though he had been convinced at the time that the cook wanted him to quit and go back to the stables with his father.

By contrast, these young boys who only had to shell peas had a much easier, and in Ollie’s opinion, much more suitable task for people of their age, especially given their smaller figures and petite hands.

"Understood," Ollie said with a grin as he retrieved a knife and prepared to get to work. "Do you want the carrots peeled or scrubbed?" Ollie asked, hesitating for a moment before he began.

"Peeled," Georg said over his shoulder as he turned away to inspect the onions that another cook had prepared for him. "But save the trimmings for the stock pot."

"Understood," Ollie said, ducking his head slightly before he got to work.

For the next hour, Ollie followed Georg’s instructions to the letter. Dicing carrots, rolling and cutting pastry dough, rubbing pans with lard, the list went on as he moved from one task to the next, helping in the kitchen wherever Georg felt he could use an extra pair of hands.

By the time he was done, soot from the cooking hearth had stained his powder blue tunic and sweat soaked the soft linen but Ollie wore a smile of genuine satisfaction on his face as he looked at the long rows of hand pies filling the stone oven, puffing up and turning a rich golden-brown.

"So," Georg said, dusting flour off his clawed hands before he leaned up against the wall next to Ollie, keeping his eyes on the pastries in the oven as they spoke. "I know you haven’t been away from the kitchen so long that you miss cooking. I’ve heard nothing but praise from the men who have been helping you feed the refugees, no, excuse me, the villagers," he said, correcting himself.

"So, Sir Ollie, what is it that brought you down here before the first meals are even ready?" Georg asked, raising a bushy eyebrow at the young man.

"I guess you’re right," Ollie said as he watched the young boys who had been shucking peas while they began hauling firewood to be placed next to the large ovens. They were too young yet to know when the fire had burned down enough that it needed more fuel without making things so hot in the ovens that the pastry would burn, but as long as the tasks were simple, they went about them with a kind of joyous dedication that Ollie couldn’t help but look at nostalgically.

"You don’t have to call me ’Sir Ollie’ you know," he added. "I’m not a real knight until Lady Ashlynn comes back and decides whether or not I’ve earned the title. She might even be upset at me for some of the decisions that I’ve made," he said with a small, self deprecating chuckle.

"I won’t claim to know Lady Ashlynn well," the cook said. "But in the time she worked in my kitchen, she struck me as someone who appreciates hard work done with honest intentions. I think that’s part of why she liked it here when she was learning to master her senses."

"From what I can see, you’ve been working very hard with very honest intentions," Georg praised. They weren’t empty words either.

The cooks he’d sent to help Ollie had all returned with glowing praise not just for the different methods the young man brought to help feed an ever growing group of refugees, but the tireless dedication and personal touch he put into all of his work.

"So what is it exactly," Georg asked. "That makes you think that Lady Ashlynn wouldn’t recognize you as a knight when everyone else around you already does?"