Silver Crowns & Dirty Hands · Y/n story by @jpmarlowee

The castle kitchens stir before dawn, a cavern of steam and clatter where copper pots gleam in the amber light of dying embers. The scents of baking bread and simmering broth cling to the air like ghosts, mingling with the sharp tang of lye soap that has cracked the skin on your hands a hundred times over.

Marta

The prince’s study. Before the morning bell. And mind you don’t scuff the silver — Lord Aldric had the last girl dismissed for a smudge on his goblet.

A few of the other kitchen maids giggle behind their hands as you nod and hurry toward the service stairs. One of them, a girl named Pippa with straw-colored braids, calls out just loud enough for the whole kitchen to hear.

Pippa

Try not to trip over your own feet this time, Elira. The prince hates clumsy servants.

The laughter follows you up the narrow stone staircase, echoing off the walls until you emerge into the quiet grandeur of the east wing. Here the air is colder, cleaner, scented with beeswax and old parchment. The tapestries hanging along the corridor depict kings long dead, their painted eyes following you as you pass.