Life in the kitchen was, to say the least, chaotic. Two dozen cooks thronged, pushed, and hustled under the tyrannical rule of Gretha. Every one of them afraid for their livelihood, as mistakes were treated with heated rebuke.

  At the center of everyone's attention stood four stoves, two fireplaces with iron racks for heavy kettles, and a massively bulging stone oven. Each firepit devouring firewood by the armful. Feeding the hungering beasts was what I, along with the newer kitchen-hands, were tasked to do, alongside sweeping, swabbing, and scrubbing layers of grease from the man-sized kettles. It was heavy and dirty, and on top of all that, the heat in the kitchen was that of the hottest summer day, yet the spirit was high. Cooks threw verbal abuse at each other like greetings, and it took some getting used to.

  "Some fat-livered, cow-courting, shitsweeper of a bastard has taken my knife!" The man in charge of plucking and dismembering poultry shouted, as someone else yelped from grabbing hold of a glowing hot handle, left over heat for too long.

  "I had cloves on my board, who the fuck took 'em!" Someone cried out.

  "Shut yer trap Jalbo, they're up yer arse like always!" Someone laughed while others cursed, or seared, or boiled, or chopped.

  "How in the five flaming hells are there paw-prints in the cream pastry?"

  It was mayhem, but somehow I enjoyed it.

  On my third day in this broiling madness it got to be my turn of waking up, well before dawn, to kindle the fire pits. The other new cooks and kitchen-hands were all terrified of fumbling what was considered starting the heart of the keep, and many outright refused to lay down to rest the night before in fear of oversleeping. If the heart wasn't beating by the time Gretha arrived, one could be sure to lose both ears in the lashing to come.

  I was nervous, that was for sure, as I sat propped up against the stonewall in the sleeping quarters, where the other cooks had long since closed their eyes for the night. I pinched my cheeks and fought back against the yawns threatening to drag me down into slumber, while Cat purred by my side, half submerged inside shadow. She was careful to not be caught out by the others, and had successfully navigated the dark corners of the kitchen without anyone noticing. Yet, the mellow vibrations coming from the fluffy bundle didn't help, and I had to fight hard to keep my eyes open.

  "You're really something, aren't you," I whispered, after a moment of thought, long and hard about her new abilities. Where did they come from? Was it something Cat had been capable of already, or something gifted by the lady of the void? The only thing made clear was that the name 'Cat' had started to feel insufficient, too little for someone of her peculiar kind.

  "What about 'Blacky'?" I asked, but if a cat could look disgusted, that's all I could make out of her unimpressed glare.

  "Not that then...what about 'Dusk'?" - Unapproved.

  "Ash, Soot, Char?" - she straight up hissed at me for those suggestions.

  "Midnight?" Cat blinked, looked as if she considered the name, then continued purring and rested her head against my thigh.

  "Glad you like it, Midnight" I said, testing her new name as I indulged in petting her silky black fur. I agreed, it was a fitting name.

  The white rabbit stomped on my foot as it ran, jumped and dove straight into the cauldron in which I was preparing dinner. Green fumes began spewing from the bubbling stew, covering the whole room with peppermint flavored mist. Blissfully I breathed in the sweetness, while Midnight danced on a nearby table with a large, aged cheese in her mouth. Slowly the walls began to corrode and crumble, revealing the giant face of a boy with burnt scars across his face.

  "Why'd you do it?" he boomed, as more of the wall broke off and fell. Black flames flared from within the stoves, squeals and screeches of a hundredth dying rats reverberating throughout. Midnight dropped her cheese, shrunk and curled up into a withered ball.

  "Why'd you do it?" The face screamed. Then another voice joined in, pulled me out of my head.

  "What are you doing?"

  Sweating and disoriented, I looked around. I found myself in the quarters with a sliver of sun peeking through wooden shutters and illuminating the room with a dim light. Four horrified faces stared down onto me as I realized I had failed to stave off sleep. Already, the sun had begun to rise, and the fire pits remained unlit. In the distance a roar of sheer fury exploded, shook the beams and the roof above with it. Gretha was in the kitchen, and I was not.

  I pushed the other kitchen-hands aside, flew through the hallway, cold sweat pouring from my neck as thoughts rumbled in my head. She's going to murder me, I'll be tossed in the dungeon again! Some cooks were already in the kitchen when I arrived, all equally frowned and tense. The two bakers stood with crossed arms in front of the oven. They had been in early, yet this wasn't their job and as if trying to teach me a lesson, they had stubbornly ignored to fire up the beast. Starting the stoves and fireplaces would be quick work compared to getting the massive thing hot enough for the daily baking.

  Gretha, crimson red in the face, with her hair standing at end, and a massive wooden ladle dangerously raised, was coming for me, and the other cooks moved nervously aside and paved her way. For a moment I forgot myself, and was sent back to those childhood days where lighting a fire was hard work. Then I pulled myself together. Those were days gone past. I had skills now that none of the other cooks possessed and it was high time I put them to use.

  With a steeled expression I ignored the furious lady stomping towards me and pushed past the head baker and his apprentice. They chuckled, barely audibly, taking apparent pleasure in seeing a newcomer fumble. Then, as I flung open the copper hatch and hastily fed fresh wood into the beast, I whispered. I could feel Gretha closing in with the ladle primed for striking, but then, as flames began dancing around me, she stopped.

  The other cooks backed away gasping and murmuring, while the hefty woman remained silent, and a non-ending stream of flames began pouring from my palms as I felt heat drain from within. Wood crackled and blackened, and with a last batch of firewood thrown inside, the oven soon radiated the necessary heat. I didn't stop. Instead I turned my attention towards the stoves and fireplaces, lit them with violent little explosions of flame. Once everything that should, stood ablaze, and the heart of the keep healthily pulsed, I slumped onto the stone floor, dripping with sweat from head to toe.

  The cooks stood in silent awe, some looking mighty impressed, others disappointed by the turn of events. Gretha looked disoriented, her red face indecisive between a frown and a smirk, but then her expression hardened and she began barking the usual orders. Soon, the kitchen was back to its usual buzz. If I had hoped for a moment of rest, that hope got quickly squashed, as dirty dishes began piling up and a command for cleaning was thrown my way. But when I arose to return to work, and passed the baker's table, the burly man handed me a sweetbread and patted me on the shoulder with a floured palm.

  "Good work there, Firefly!" He laughed. I savored the pastry tiredly but with delight, while scrubbing away at charred iron. Others passed me in their work, cheering and congratulating me.

  "Never would'a guessed you had it in ya', Firefly!" The moniker had spread among the cooks faster than the flames I had brought forth, and it had evidently stuck.

  "Haven't seen a rat in weeks." Morno, the cook in charge of the large stewpot, called one morning, as he and another cook debated while chopping away at various greens. Midnight had been doing nightly work, that was for sure. Perhaps it was her silent 'thank you' for the occasional treat of cream or butter she indulged in. Not that the cooks had any say in the matter.

  A guard came hasting into the kitchen, while me and Jalbo, one of the junior cooks, were busy hauling flour through an open window. The delivery had been late, and the bakers were outside tossing the sacks our way with ease, while we struggled to keep up. By now I'd had a few weeks of proper eating and hard labor, and I could finally feel some strength having returned from before my enfeebling stay in the dungeon - still it was heavy work.

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  "Keep it up, Firefly!" Jalbo chuckled, "Move those scraggy legs!"

  While placing down a heavy sack of grain, I noted how the guard walked over to Gretha and the two spoke for a moment, discussed out of earshot, until the large lady exhaled and shouted. "Firefly, get your ass over here! ...and Jalbo, pick up the pace!" Still covered in white dust, I walked on over, steps quick and mind intrigued. What is it now? I wondered. But I needn't wait long for my question to be answered, as I was told to follow along. The Sire wished to see me.

  Sire Barno Dath sat behind his desk, reading just like last time. He looked bored and somewhat irritated. In front of him, on the desk, was a bundle covered by an embroidered cloth.

  "The cooks appear to be feeding you well. You look healthy, less skeletal than last time I saw you..." He said, putting the book aside and placing his hand on top of the bundle, "...I've heard of rumors floating inside the keep about a certain…Firefly. A most intriguing way of using the arts I must say."

  There was silence, as if he was expecting my reply.

  "That's the first I hear of it," I hastily blurted, before I added, "...why is it that you have called for me, Sire?"

  The stern man scoffed and put the book to the side. "You've been here close to a moon Euran, or should I say ‘Firefly’, and the cooks are speaking well of you. It's time for you to be of better use."

  I raised a curious eyebrow as he continued.

  "I'll have you accompany the guards to a residence in the harbor. The family living there are under the suspicion of refining liquor without the proper licenses," His eyes dug into me as his face darkened, "...if that stands true, I want it all gone in flames, every...last...drop."

  I shuddered at his chilling expression and nodded, knowing I could not deny the request. Instead I asked, "When do I leave?"

  "Midday..." he removed the cloth from the bundle and unveiled clothes, sturdy and familiar, along with glinting steel. It was my shacksa, "...I had your things sent after, though it was some time ago. Now get washed, and properly dressed." He looked at me, again his expression hard, "You've made yourself accepted this far, don't make me regret letting you have this."

  "Yes, Sire," I bowed, and with that his face softened.

  "Good, now go get ready, the guards will see you at your quarters."

  There was a sting of nostalgia and sadness as I passed the kitchen and into the quarters to wash and dress myself. For several weeks I had carved out a good place of living, but something told me I should have expected it to be temporary. I was done doing Gretha's bidding for now, as the Sire had other things in mind, other uses for me beyond menial kitchen-work. I wiped the flour off of my face and arms, put on a clean, partly patched tunic, and smiled. The tavern maid sure did a good job, I thought, for a moment wishing I was back with my friends. Yarelic's dry remarks as I tried to absorb his wisdom, Urax's reassuring presence and blunt, violent stories. Somehow, I even missed Harra's uncomfortable advances. Then a hard knock on the door interrupted my wandering thoughts and a guard stepped into the room.

  "Lad, it is time" was all he said, but I was nearly ready. I nodded in response and strapped the shacksa to my side before following him out.

  The late summer sun stood high on the sky as we pushed through the masses. More than anything, it felt strange and unnatural after all that time spent within the stony walls of the keep. The sky above was so vastly blue, so infinite, and while I pondered, I could feel my gaze wander; bounce between people we passed, searching for a familiar face, yet there was none. The harbor was unfortunately located to the south, and any chance at seeing my friends, if they hadn't already since long left Karham and forgotten all about me, was close to nonexistent. I knew it, still, I couldn't stop myself from studying those scurrying by.

  The house was like any others; a blend of stone and wood, and two floors high. I couldn't see the water from where I stood, behind the guards, but I could smell filth and rotten fish in the air. Why would anyone live here willingly? I wondered in silence, as one of the guards slammed the wood, hard, with his fist. When a young girl opened, a mere child, the men pushed their way inside, swords drawn. She let out a scared yelp before running into the kitchen area where she hid underneath the table.

  A stout, ordinarily looking man of parental age appeared from a wooden staircase that disappeared into the floor.

  "Don't harm me' daughter!" He shouted, "By Aloor and all tha' is good, what’s the matter?"

  The head guard walked up to him, sword still drawn and eyes dark. "You are under suspicion of bootlegging liquor, Drallor!" He said, voice raised.

  The man looked stunted, tense and nervous. "Good S...Ser, me n' me' family are but humble workers, we don't dabble with ungodly matters of such." He returned, nervous, while carefully shuffling away from the guard, until he could pick up the girl who had fallen quiet with fright.

  "Where is your wife?" The guard questioned.

  Drallor was sweating. Even in the dim light his forehead was glistening wet as he fumbled for an answer. "She...she is out, she is off to buy fish for supper, g...good ser."

  The head guard scoffed, motioned for the other guards to go down into the cellar.

  "G...good ser, tis' but a larder, nothing of much interest I assure. Let's all sit down and have us some hawthorn tea, eh? The wife prepared it just the other day."

  The man stumbled around in the kitchen, opened cabinets and rummaged around with his free hand in desperation as the girl clung to his neck, but the guards ignored his words. The head guard stayed, and kept a watchful eye on Drallor, as the other two disappeared down the stairs.

  Screams echoed up from the larder, and with a sudden jerk, the nervous father made an abrupt attempt to get away. With his daughter clenched close he tried for the door, but the head guard was faster. Without care for the young girl he struck Drallor hard in the face with his hilt, so that the man fell onto the floor. The girl tumbled and rolled and screamed. With a panicked sniffling she scuttled back to her hiding spot under the table. Drallor groaned on the floor. A bloodied bruise on his sweaty forehead left a trickle of blood along the ridge of his nose as droplets fell onto the floor. Meanwhile, the screams from the cellar got louder, until the guards appeared from the stairs once more with a woman gripped tight, wriggling and shouting to get loose.

  "She was hiding behind a cabinet, ser. With a knife." One of the guards said, a thin tear visible on his arm, but no blood.

  "And there's a whole heap of proper equipment for brewin' down there, capn'." The other guard added.

  "That's why you're here, lad," the head guard said as he nodded for me to go have a look.

  Hesitant, I passed the two guards and the snarling lady, down the stairs, and into the dimly lit larder. Upstairs I could still hear the sniffles of the girl, and muffled screams as the guards had been wise enough to gag the woman.

  I pushed past cobwebs and a few sacks of grain, and there, partly hidden behind a cabinet, was a short tunnel that led through the foundation, between thick, wooden bearing pillars, and into another room. The large, dugout space was lined by shelves and rows of massive clay pots, and in the air was a sharp smell, a musky sweetness of bubbling fermentation. At the back of the room were a structure of pipes of a reddish metal, and a small, well closed off stove for heating the liquor. Sure to say, I had no idea how one would go about turning one liquor into something else, something stronger, the tools needed, or why it warranted punishment in the first place. But Sire had told me to eradicate all of it. Begrudgingly, that's what I was going to do.

  I walked back to the tunnel while whispering, unsure whether the strong brew would catch fire and burn. I conjured my trusty orbs and hurled one after the other into the room, towards the furthest shelves and what I guessed was the brewing-equipment. At first not much happened. A few of the pots burst and poured their content onto the dirt floor, and small tongues of flame licked the wooden frames; then larger flames shot out of a few pots as the heat spread. Some cracked, leisurely leaking, others popped in small explosions, sending shards of clay flying. Those that exploded poured out a liquor that quickly caught on fire, and the air was beginning to thicken with black smoke followed by a sweet aroma of charred plums and cherry. With the room properly set ablaze, It was time to get out of there.

  When I returned up the stairs, followed by a dark, billowing plume, the guards had bound both Drallor and his wife. The girl remained under the table, still crying. The two parents squirmed and tried to scream through the thick cloths stuffed inside and bound across their mouths, but little sound escaped through the fabric.

  "The fire is contained to the cellar I presume?" the head guard asked, and I nodded.

  "It's just the smoke ser. I doubt the fire could eat through the tunnel," He nodded in approval.

  "Good, and the liquor?"

  "Gone, ser" I returned.

  He gave me a somber pat on the shoulder and motioned for the other guards. They soon took the couple out into the alley, and me and the captain followed.

  "What about the girl?" I asked, but the man didn't answer.

  "The girl..." I persisted, "...what about her?"

  He turned to look at me, face blank. "Someone will come for her." His voice gave little reason for me to believe in the words, cold and uncaring as they were. It left a conflicting aftertaste in my mouth. Success or cruelty? I pondered, as the two guards pushed Drallor onwards. The man fell forward onto his knees, still bleeding profusely from the forehead, until he tiredly collapsed head first onto the cobblestone, unmoving. The guards simply shrugged and left him there, while dragging the wife along with her muffled screams of panic and sorrow. I looked back at the lifeless man, and then up at the smoke spewing from every opening of the house, as the last hints of sweet success faded, until the only sensation left on my tongue was bitterness.