CHAPTER SIX
The dough was soft under my palms, warm from my touch and speckled with flour that clung to my fingers. I moved on instinct—kneading, shaping, pressing. The sun had barely risen, and I’d already been working for hours. There wasn’t time to stop.
I didn’t sleep that night. Barely had time to change clothes before heading to the bakery.
I braided my hair on the way there, tight and close to the scalp, the way my mother used to do it, to keep it out of my face.
I knew Mrs. Holt wouldn’t have minded if I showed up looking a little worse for wear, but still…
I wanted her to approve of me. I always did.
I wore the same thing every morning, so it made getting ready easier: a simple white blouse, a long skirt, and a fitted bodice laced over top.
I’d made all of it myself—sewn the patterns, dyed the fabric, stitched every seam.
I’d heard of women with closets full of dresses, beautiful ones and more than they could ever wear.
I wondered how they chose what to wear in the morning with so many options.
What a beautiful problem to have, not knowing what to wear.
I imagined that was the life of a princess.
Well.
Until they got murdered.
My mother taught me how to save coin on fabrics by dyeing them ourselves.
We used whatever we could find in the forest or our garden—nettles for green, lingonberries for pink, dandelions for yellow, and blueberries for that bluish-purple that stained your fingertips for days.
My favorite skirt was one I dyed with elderberries a few summers ago.
Back then, it had been a bright pink, but it softened into a muted, dusky pink with time.
The fabric was worn smooth from washing, and I think that’s why I loved wearing it.
I hated when clothes itched my skin, so I probably washed everything more than I should’ve.
At least summer clothes wore down with time.
Winter ones were a different story. The scratchy wool and thick, hand-knit sweaters always left my skin red and raw.
But it was either that or freeze to death, so I learned to live with it. Wool was the lesser evil.
The bakery smelled like a dream. Like fresh sourdough and burnt sugar and all the things we didn’t have time to make anymore. No apple cakes. No berry tarts. Just loaves. Loaves and loaves and loaves. And even those were getting harder to keep up with.
I slid two golden ones from the oven just as another batch went in.
Perfectly risen, just the way Mrs. Holt had taught me.
I used to think she was preparing me to take over the bakery someday.
She never said it out loud, but I could feel it in the way she taught me, like she was handing something down, not just a skill, but a legacy.
And my mind couldn’t help but plan what I would do if I ever got the chance.
I’d paint the shutters pink first. Maybe the sign too.
Then I’d fill the windows with pastries and cakes, bright, beautiful things that would make people smile.
No. More. Loaves.
No more aching arms and cracked knuckles. I’d take bread off the menu entirely; it had stolen all the joy from baking. But there would be a whole shelf of my family’s recipes: my grandmother’s strawberry cake, my mother’s blueberry pie, and her amazing honey cookies.
But that was a dream for another life. This life was just flour and sweat and endless kneading, a job I used to love turned into something that hurt. So I still clung to the dream. Because it was mine.
Outside, light spilled over the rooftops and trickled down into the quiet streets. For a moment, through the smudged windows, the world almost looked peaceful. And then the door slammed open, and soldiers barged in.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” I said. My voice clipped but polite. Always polite. Always careful.
“Rough night, sweetheart?” one of them asked.
I must’ve looked how I felt. A taller man stepped forward, his gray eyes hard and fractured like cracked stone.
“I knew I recognized you,” he said, grinning as if it were some kind of reunion. He was striking, in a way that made it hard to hold his gaze for too long. I hated that I noticed. Hated the flutter it sparked deep in my chest.
“I’ll take a loaf,” he said.
I passed it to him, and our fingers brushed, just barely.
But it was enough to make my pulse spike.
It felt deliberate, like he knew exactly what he was doing, and I didn’t pull away.
My heart pounded behind my ribs, but my face didn’t show it.
I’d trained myself too well to let it slip.
On the outside, I was calm, but inside, I was glass. Thin. Brittle. Splintering.
“You’re too beautiful to be stuck in a place like this,” he said, his eyes dragging over me.
I gave him a tight smile, then the second soldier stepped in and caught my wrist. Not hard, just firm enough to remind me I wasn’t going anywhere.
“You wish she was in your bed instead, Arche?” he jeered. “Tell me, sweet girl—what’s your rate for a night with a soldier, mm? You look soft. Bet you’re sweet too.”
I kept my eyes on the floor. Didn’t rip my hand away, didn’t spit or scream or slap him like I wanted to. I just held my breath.
“Enough.” Arche’s voice was thunder, and it shook the room.
In less than a second, he was on the other soldier, shoving him so hard into the shelves that a jar of honey crashed to the floor and shattered.
He grabbed the man by the hair and slammed him against the counter, shouting something I barely heard through the ringing in my ears.
“Apologize,” Arche roared.
The soldier tensed. “I’m sorry.”
“Not to me. To her.”
Arche grabbed his face and turned it toward me just as Mrs. Holt came out from the back, her apron dusted with flour, her eyes wide with shock.
“I beg your pardon, miss,” the soldier said, low and unconvincing.
Then shouting erupted outside, voices rising, boots hammering the street. Arche dropped his hold on the man, who stumbled back and caught himself on the shelf. Arche reached into his coat and tossed something heavy onto the counter. Coin. More than the bread was worth.
“Duty calls,” he muttered. “Keep the change.”
He turned and walked out, followed by the others. The door slammed shut behind them, leaving muddy prints from their boots on the floor.
“Who do they think they are?” I spat. I couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“The king’s men,” Mrs. Holt said.
I turned back to the window. Outside, a man was on the ground, and one of the soldiers had his boot on the back of his neck, pressing down hard. Arche and the rest rushed over. The man wasn’t fighting. He was barely moving.
“Not my king,” I seethed through clenched teeth.
Mrs. Holt snapped her head toward me.
“Kera,” she hissed. “Don’t say that. Not here. Not ever.”
I swallowed the rest of the words burning on my tongue.
It was sometime around noon when more familiar voices drifted into the bakery.
I was scraping the last of the dried dough from the counter, little curls of crust collecting beneath my nails.
The next batch wouldn’t bake until dawn, but it needed time to rise.
I braced for the smell of steel and sweat—for another crude joke, another lingering stare. But it wasn’t soldiers.
It was Will.
A real smile tugged at the corner of my mouth before I could stop it. There was just something about seeing them—and Will had that look on his face, like he couldn’t wait to pull me into whatever plan he’d cooked up.
He looked… hopeful.
Aran came in behind him, dragging his feet. His face and neck were a mess of bruises, his lip split open, and every step looked like it hurt. Aran looked like shit, but the fresh hickeys on his neck made it hard to pity him.
“Can you step out for a bit?” Will asked, already halfway to the counter. “Everyone’s meeting. At the Blood House.”
“Everyone?” I asked.
Aran leaned against the counter, voice low and theatrical. “Everyone,” he echoed.
I wiped my hands on my apron, brushing off the flour that clung to my palms. Aran leaned over the counter, eyeing what was left from the morning batch.
“Good, I’m starving,” he said, reaching for one of the loaves.
Before he could touch it, Mrs. Holt smacked his hand with a wooden spoon. He yelped and pulled back, clutching his fingers like a scolded child.
I didn’t even try to hide my smile.
“Is it okay if I leave for lunch?” I asked her.
She gave a curt nod.
I untied my apron, folded it neatly, and set it on the counter. I didn’t want to go, but it felt urgent. Whatever was happening at the Blood House, I couldn’t miss it.
Will was already at the door, holding it open for me.
We didn’t take the main road. Instead, we turned down a side path, steering clear of the soldiers.
We walked through the nicer part of the village, where beautiful houses lined the road, each one with a perfectly kept garden.
The walls were pale stone, the roofs a uniform red.
In the middle of it all, one house stood out like a thorn among roses.
Its garden was wild and overgrown, the grass looking more like reeds, everything broken or fading.
The gate creaked as we pushed it open. Will walked ahead, stepping onto the porch, which groaned beneath his weight.
I didn’t follow. My eyes had found the mailbox.
It was still there. Someone had kicked it in, and the paint had peeled in brittle layers, exposing the metal beneath. But the name was still faintly visible.
Warlin.
I felt the world narrow around me.
“You coming, Kera?” Will asked.
I didn’t answer.
Aran looked over his shoulder. “Not this again,” he muttered. “It’s just a house.”
“It’s her house,” I retorted.
Aran scoffed. “She’s been gone for ten years. You’ve got to get over it.”
His words were harsh, as always. I knew I should’ve accepted it by then. But I couldn’t move, because in that moment, I was there again.