Chapter 117: Isn’t This The Friend Of The Thief?
The three kings stood in Draeven’s office as evening began to settle over the palace.
Outside the high windows, the light was shifting from gold to amber to the deep purple of approaching night.
Inside, the brothers stood with the weight of impossible choices pressing down on them.
"Send for Simon," Thorne said finally, his dark eyes determined. "Tell him it’s urgent. Tell him we need him here within hours, not days."
Draeven nodded.
"And in the meantime?" Kaelen asked, his pale eyes still burning with barely contained fury.
"In the meantime," Draeven said, "we trust that Morgana is strong. We trust that she will survive these days in the dungeon. And we trust that Simon will uncover the truth before the council can move against her permanently."
He paused.
"And we hope," he added quietly, "that she remains safe until we can reach her."
Kaelen turned away, unable to articulate the fear that was rising in his chest.
Thorne looked at Draeven with understanding and deep concern.
"This better work," Thorne said quietly. "Because if it doesn’t, if we wait too long or calculate wrong, Morgana could..."
"I know," Draeven interrupted. "I know what’s at stake."
He moved to his desk and pulled out parchment and ink.
"Rhen!" he called.
Captain Rhen entered immediately.
"Send a message," Draeven commanded. "To Simon. Tell him to come to the palace immediately."
Rhen bowed and left.
***
*THE KITCHEN*
The palace kitchens were hot, loud, and chaotic.
Massive copper pots hung from hooks above stone counters. Fires roared in multiple hearths. The smell of bread baking and vegetables cooking filled the air so completely it was almost suffocating. Dozens of servants moved through the space in a carefully choreographed dance, each one knowing their task, each one moving with practiced efficiency.
Rowan stood at one of the preparation tables, her auburn curls pulled back in a slightly messy bun, her apron dusted with flour. She was chopping vegetables with quick, precise movements, her freckled face focused on the work.
She had been trying all morning not to think about Morgana.
Trying and failing.
The news had spread through the palace like poison. The servant girl who worked in the stables had been arrested for theft. She was in the dungeons. She was awaiting trial. Whispers suggested that execution was likely.
And everyone seemed to have an opinion. Everyone seemed to know something. Everyone seemed certain of Morgana’s guilt.
Except Rowan.
Rowan knew Morgana. Really knew her. Had known her since they were children in the village. Had watched her grow up careful and quiet and careful. Had seen her deliberately keep herself invisible and unremarkable.
Morgana wasn’t a thief.
It was impossible.
But no one wanted to hear that.
"Look who it is," a voice said, cutting through Rowan’s thoughts.
She looked up to see three kitchen maids approaching....girls she knew by sight but had never particularly liked. They were the type who enjoyed cruelty disguised as humor, who found entertainment in mocking others.
"Isn’t this the friend of the thief?" another one asked, her voice dripping with false sweetness.
The three of them laughed, their voices carrying an edge that was meant to wound.
Rowan set down her knife slowly.
She turned to face them fully, and when she looked at them, her grey-green eyes were absolutely hard. There was no softness in them, no uncertainty. There was only cold, absolute clarity.
"If you have nothing better to do with your mouths," she said, her voice low and dangerous, "I don’t mind sealing them shut with a hot spatula. I’ve got several warming on the fire, and I’m sure one of them would fit perfectly."
The girls’ laughter faltered.
One of them...a dark-haired maid named Catherine, stepped forward, clearly deciding that Rowan could be intimidated.
"What’s with the bravery?" Catherine asked, her voice mocking. "When you can’t even keep your friend in check? Haven’t you heard that she stole from Lady Margot? Haven’t you heard that she’s in the dungeon awaiting execution?"
The other girls laughed again, more confidently now, emboldened by Catherine’s approach.
Rowan’s hands clenched into fists.
"Shut your dirty mouths," she said, her voice sharp as broken glass. "Morgana is not a thief."
Catherine turned fully to face her now, and her expression was one of false concern mixed with cruelty.
"Then what is she?" Catherine asked. "Because if she’s as innocent as you’re saying, then Mistress Calla wouldn’t have had her thrown into a cell. And now the question everyone’s asking is whether the two of you were working together. Who knows what she’s been stealing from? Who knows if she’s been stealing from the kitchen too?"
The girls laughed louder, their voices carrying through the entire kitchen space.
That was when Rowan snapped.
She stepped forward, her hands raised, her entire body vibrating with fury and desperation and the need to hurt something....anything, that would make these girls understand the reality of what they were doing.
But before she could move, before she could do anything at all, a voice cut through the kitchen like a whip.
"SILENCE!"
Mistress Calla stood in the doorway of the kitchen, her expression absolutely thunderous.
All activity stopped.
The servants froze in place.
The kitchen seemed to hold its collective breath.
"Stop your gossiping and carry out your duties," Calla commanded, her voice cold and absolute. "I will not tolerate idle chatter about palace matters. You are here to work, not to spread rumors. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Mistress Calla," everyone said in unison, their voices small and obedient.
Calla’s gaze moved across the kitchen, scanning each servant, ensuring compliance.
When her eyes landed on Rowan, she studied her for a moment, taking in the girl’s flushed face, her clenched fists, her obvious emotional state.
For a long moment, Calla simply looked at her.
Then, without comment, she turned and walked out of the kitchen.
The girls who had been mocking Rowan immediately began to giggle quietly, clearly thinking they had gotten away with something. They began to drift back to their work, their laughter continuing in whispered bursts.
Rowan looked at them with absolute contempt.
Then she dropped the knife she had been holding.
It clattered against the stone counter.
And she ran out of the kitchen.