“I thought shamans didn’t fight?” asked Yu. “Not even … witches and orks?” His voice lowered instinctively as the remaining four members of the escorting party filtered in, taking seats at the long tables. “I mean, because you were — are a guard?”
“That is true. And for eight months, I have remained neutral, unbethought of the conflicts that rose.”
Before Yu could think of a reply, Bubs interrupted. “Yu, finish up here. It is time for dinner.” Then, turning. “Shaman, will you be eating with us?”
“I will. Thank you.” With a nod, she left them for the guild entrance. She stepped outside. Cold rushed in. The door closed behind her.
Yu still heard her.
“Good evening Tirran. Estingar.”
“Good evening, Shaman”, said Tirran.
“Hullo Terbert,” said Estingar.
Yu died three times over.
Dinner was served at six o’clock, sharp. Hunger had made everyone flock in long before that, and so had the rich, steaming scent of wapa. The contrast between the cold air upstairs and the thick, clinging warmth within the common room was enough to make one lightheaded.
Yu was starving. And yet, the only reason he had been called into the kitchen was to carry out food — for everyone but himself. It was the first time Bubs had permitted him inside his domain.
Yu stepped through the threshold, his gaze darting across the space, taking in the room that opened up to him. The kitchen was a place of contradictions: practical, rugged, yet layered with unsettling details. It was carved deep into the stone foundations of the guildhall, its smooth grey walls polished to a sheen. Their surfaces were punctuated with iron hooks that bore hanging utensils, cast-iron skillets, and bundles of dried herbs that Yu could not distinguish. Their sharp, earthy scents mingled with the tang of smoke and the thick, metallic stench of blood. Over all of it, the bubbling aroma of stew filled the air, something dark and rich simmering in two massive iron pots over the open hearth.
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