CHAPTER 172
While the South was drowning in the stench of defeat and gravel, the Sovereign's kitchen in the North was filled with the domestic clatter of a spoon against a ceramic pot.
Clara stood at the stove, her silhouette framed by the pale light filtering through the windows. The chaos of the previous night had been scrubbed away—literally.
She had spent the early hours of the morning scouring the burnt remains of the pan from the morning before, her hands moving with precision that kept her mind from wandering back to the boy in the guest wing.
She was currently preparing a thick, savory porridge. A recipe she usually reserved for the coldest mornings, enriched with wild herbs and cream.
It was meant to be a simple breakfast for Isabella, something to ground the Lycan girl after a day of heavy workouts.
But as Clara reached for the ladle, she paused. Her white eyes fixed on the contents of the pot. She had made a massive batch.
