"My Lord, please, the blade, it's far too keen for fingers as delicate as yours!"
The head cook, a man whose forearms were roughly the size of Cherion's thighs, looked like he was about to have a genuine nervous breakdown. Beside him, a cluster of kitchen maids hovered like nervous pigeons, their hands fluttering toward Cherion as if to snatch away the heavy iron knife he was currently wielding. It was a bit much, honestly.
Cherion didn't even look up.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The sound of steel hitting wood was the only answer he gave for a good ten seconds. He was dicing wild onions with a terrifying precision, the kind of speed that was birthed not from noble training, but from the desperate, sweat-slicked trenches of a Friday night rush at Taco Hell. God, he missed the smell of artificial seasoning sometimes. It was a weird thing to be nostalgic about, especially when you're currently stuck in a drafty fortress surrounded by people who think chili powder is an exotic spice.
