Kammon stirred the tomato bisque, then sprinkled a spoonful of cumin powder into the pot. The moment the spice hit the broth, its rich aroma bloomed and filled the kitchen.
He ladled a spoonful of soup and sipped it gently. No, it needs a bit more simmering. He poured the remaining soup back into the copper pot and clamped on the lid.
As Steward of the Frostwall, Kammon's nightly ritual for the past two years had been preparing midnight sustenance for Commander Orek. He had served the Wall for forty years, attending nine successive commanders—all of whom had praised his cooking, especially his soups.
Over those four decades, he had risen from a lowly orderly to the Steward of Frostwall, the third-highest rank in the Frostwall Legion. As a commoner, he felt profoundly content with his station. Most of all, he owed this position to Orek, the current commander, who had promoted him to the role. So even though he oversaw a staff of more than ten cooks now, he never entrusted anyone else with preparing the commander's midnight meal. No one knows Orek's taste better than I do—he prefers his broths thick and hearty.
Gurgle, gurgle.
Kammon rested for a while on a padded lounge chair, until he heard the soft bubbling from the copper pot again. This should be it! He climbed to his feet, stepped forward, and lifted the lid. A wave of savory steam washed over him, mouthwatering and warm. He took another small sip with his wooden spoon: the sweet tang of tomatoes perfectly balanced the fiery kick of pepper. Done!
Eyes shining with satisfaction, he gripped the pot's handles carefully and poured the bisque into a brass soup bowl set nearby. The bowl only held half the broth—Kammon had made enough for two, just in case the commander asked for seconds. He placed a round wooden lid over the bowl, arranged the bowl, a silver spoon, and a linen napkin on a tray, then picked it up and walked out of the kitchen.
Tonight, the commander was staying in the Deephold. Kammon descended slowly along the spiral stone steps, which were slippery in places, crusted with frost. He moved with extreme caution; he had learned his lesson about slipping here before.
He missed the old days, when delivering meals had been easier. Once, the commander's quarters and the steward's chambers had both been on the fifth floor of the Shield Citadel's Oracle Tower, so he hadn't had to travel far. But a hundred days ago, Orek had converted a long-empty room in the Deephold into his new bedroom, adding a great deal of trouble to Kammon's nightly errand. Still, he didn't complain much. He knew it was a necessary precaution for the commander's safety.
In the past six months, two assassination attempts had taken place on the Frostwall. Two mages who had won great glory in the Wolf-War had been killed. Kammon was certain Orek had moved to the heavily guarded Deephold to protect himself from the same fate.
Wolves are treacherous. You must be careful at night.
Kammon turned a corner and stepped onto the next flight of stairs. Though the culprits behind the two murders remained at large, he had no doubt they were wolves. They only dare strike in the shadows, using underhanded, despicable tricks.
Compared to many new recruits and seasoned veterans of the Wall, Kammon felt less afraid of wolves. After forty years of service, he had lived through countless wolf incidents. His experience had given him both courage and wisdom.
The wolves' goal is to slay the gods! Though he was now the Steward of Frostwall, he was still at heart a commoner—no magic, no combat skills. The wolves had no reason to waste their blades on him. Besides, even if he couldn't fight, he was sure he could scream loud enough to draw his comrades the moment a wolf appeared. So compared to the arrogant mages and knights who loved to fight alone, he was actually safer. Come at me, wolf! Show me who you really are!
Kammon reached the entrance to the Deephold. He saw two knights in golden armor standing on either side of the iron gate. Where's Feto? He was surprised. Tonight's guard should include men from the Frostwall, not just the Golden Knights. They're only here to assist—this is too important a place to leave in their sole charge!
“Why are only you two here?” Kammon frowned.
“Old Kam, it's Orek's order, eh?” the knight on the left said.
Kid, we're not that familiar! Kammon hated these southern mercenary knights calling the commander by his first name, and he hated even more being called “Old Kam.” They're not knights—they're bandits: loud-mouthed, with thick rural southern accents.
“Delivering midnight soup? Let me take it in for you?” the knight on the right reached for the tray.
“I'll deliver it myself!” Kammon shielded the tray with his body, swatting the man's hand away. He longed to teach these annoying southerners a lesson. If only I could wield a sword—I'd challenge you both to a duel right now! The gap in strength was a good check on his anger; he took a deep breath, forcing down the rising fury.
“Orek's busy, probably doesn't have time for soup, eh?” the left knight chuckled.
“I'm delivering this soup. Move aside!” Kammon gritted his teeth, repeating himself. After all, he was the Steward of Frostwall. He didn't believe they dared to stop him.
“Fine, go on in then, eh?” The right knight stepped aside.
Kammon let out a quiet sigh. I can't linger—if I spill the tomato bisque, it'll be a disaster! He knew continuing to argue would only end badly for him. He said nothing more, slipping between the two towering knights, his small frame neatly avoiding any physical contact.
Inside the Deephold, the light was dim. Only a row of faint wall candles cast a yellow glow over the uneven stone corridor. He heard laughter behind him. Those southerners are mocking me! They must be saying the Frostwall's steward is nothing but a commoner! They're not just laughing at me—they're laughing at the entire Frostwall Legion! So many gifted Divine Kindred—seers, sorceresses, guards, hunters—treat me with respect. Why do these men act so arrogant? Have they even killed a wolf?
In that moment, Kammon regretted a past decision. Legion rules allowed the Frostwall's steward to have a dedicated guard, but when he took the post, he had refused. He had thought the Wall was short on manpower, and skilled guards belonged at more critical posts, not watching over an old man. Now he realized a guard's role wasn't just to protect his life—it was to protect his dignity. If I had a guard, those southerners wouldn't dare act so bold!
Just as he was wondering if he should ask the commander for a guard after all, he stopped short. Oh no—I took the wrong turn! He felt foolish. The Deephold's corridors weren't that complicated, and he knew the path to the commander's room like the back of his hand. I must have been so angry at those southerners that I lost my way…
He turned to head back. Suddenly, a sharp sense of unease washed over him. He felt someone approaching in the dark. The corridor was silent, but the feeling grew stronger by the second. There's someone there!
Kammon spun around. By the faint candlelight, he finally saw who it was.
“You…”
He only managed to say one word before a cold touch brushed his neck, followed by searing pain that spread through his entire body. He tried to scream, but a hand clamped over his mouth and nose.
Come at me, wolf! Show me who you really are! Now he had his answer. The face was one he knew better than his own—but he would never get to speak it aloud.
The spilled tomato bisque and the blood gushing from his body pooled together, staining the stone floor red. In his final moments, he smelled the mingled scent of tomatoes and iron.