Morning in the castle kitchen was usually a calm, predictable rhythm—the gentle clatter of pots, the soft hiss of pans, and the comforting aroma of fresh bread filling the air, a kind of homely symphony Nevara had quickly come to treasure. She had wandered down expecting that same quiet efficiency, maybe even the chance to sneak a roll before breakfast, already picturing herself leaning on the counter with a warm bun and a mug of tea, letting the steam curl against her face. The muted hum of early conversation and the rhythmic chop of knives lulled her into thinking all was well. A maid passed by with a tray of honey jars, steam curled up from a pot of jam, and for a heartbeat it seemed like the perfect, orderly morning she'd imagined. Then a crash, a yowl, and the clatter of rolling apples erupted from deeper inside. That illusion shattered—replaced in an instant by chaos incarnate.
Flour drifted through the air like snow in a blizzard, coating the flagstones, the counters, and a pair of leopard cubs—one sleek black with golden eyes, the other snow-spotted with icy blue—zigzagging in a blur of fur and paws, leaving a trail of overturned bowls, squealing maids, and startled servants in their wake. Somewhere near the ovens, a precarious stack of pie tins teetered on the edge, rattling each time a cub zipped past, while above them a ladle hung by a single hook, swinging ominously.
Thoren launched himself onto a prep table with all the grace of a cat in a panic, scattering carrots like confetti. "Victory for the hunter!" he declared proudly, tail twitching as he scanned the room for his next target. A bowl of eggs sat innocently nearby, moments from disaster. Aurelia darted underfoot, tail lashing furiously as she pursued a rogue apple, her voice high with excitement and determination.
"It's getting away!" she cried, sending a maid leaping out of the way with a shriek—nearly toppling a tower of bread loaves that wobbled threateningly before settling again.
Cook bellowed orders over the din, his red face glistening with sweat, while kitchen maids yelped and clutched bowls like shields. "Out! Out of my kitchen!" one wailed as Aurelia zipped between her legs.
A pot of soup wobbled dangerously until Thoren's tail whisked past it—miraculously sparing disaster. Between chaotic shifts into human form, they left half-buttoned tunics abandoned on stools, bare feet slapping the floor, and wet paw prints stamped across the counter. One unfortunate footman tried to carry in a basket of apples and was immediately set upon by Aurelia, who shouted, "Reinforcements!" as she stole two for her bread project, narrowly missing a swinging cupboard door.
Nevara froze in the doorway, wide-eyed, the mingled scent of warm bread and drifting flour dust wrapping around her while the oven's heat washed over her face. What in the world…? she thought, torn between amusement and alarm. They're going to get in trouble… or Cook's going to have a heart attack. A bubbling laugh almost escaped her, but she bit her lip, trying to appear at least somewhat in control.
Before she could call out, the cubs vaulted over a sack of flour that promptly erupted in a white explosion, coating their fur until they looked like ghost cubs. Aurelia blinked up at her with bright eyes through the dust and grinned, clearly delighted by the mess.
"You're impossible," Nevara laughed, unable to help herself, the sound earning two eager sets of ears swivelling toward her.
When they finally spotted her, both cubs shifted back to human mid-pounce, squealing, "Mama Neva, come play!"
"We're making bread warriors!" Thoren announced with absolute seriousness, holding up a lump of dough shaped vaguely like a sword. "Join our army!"
"Army?" Nevara arched a brow. "Do I get a uniform?"
"Flour," Aurelia declared, grabbing a handful and dusting Nevara's shoulder with exaggerated ceremony. A little cloud puffed up into her face, making her sneeze in an undignified burst that sent the cubs into howls of laughter. A fine dust of white settled in her hair, catching the light.
Reserved by habit, she took a half-step back, eyeing her own hands. Careful… if I get too warm, I might cool them by accident. "I don't think—"
"Please?" Aurelia's grin and Thoren's sparkling eyes worked their magic, their tails flicking in excitement as they shifted between forms just to wriggle closer.
Nevara sighed dramatically, drawing herself up like a commander about to address her troops. "Alright, but only if I'm the general."
As they kneaded dough, Aurelia 'accidentally' flung a clump onto Nevara's hair. "You're sparkling now," she giggled, pointing at the silver-blue strands dusted with flour.
"That's my battle crown," Nevara replied with mock dignity, though her heart swelled at their joy. She caught herself smiling so much her cheeks ached. She couldn't remember the last time she'd let herself be this silly in front of others, and the warmth of it scared her almost as much as it delighted her.
Thoren leaned over and whispered loudly, "She's scary when she's general."
Earlier that morning, Orren sat in his office surrounded by neatly stacked reports and the faint scratch of a quill as his secretary read out trade updates. His attention kept drifting toward the muffled clamor filtering up from the kitchens below—thumps, laughter, and the occasional yowl that sounded suspiciously feline. He paused mid-signature when a particularly loud crash echoed, exchanging a brief glance with his secretary. "I'll… look into that," he murmured, setting the pen aside.
By the time Orren appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, the room looked as if a winter storm had swept through—paw prints in flour, little dough balls scattered like snowballs, and a rogue pot lid spinning slowly on the floor from some earlier mishap. He leaned casually against the frame, arms crossed, dark eyes taking in every detail. Internally, he found himself noting how at ease Nevara seemed—laughing, flushed from play, flour streaked across her cheek, a streak of sunlight catching in her silver-blue hair. She's… different, he admitted, an odd warmth tugging at him.
"Should I be concerned?" he asked, voice cool but tinged with curiosity.
"Only if you hate bread," Nevara quipped without missing a beat, her eyes dancing.
The cubs rushed to him with their misshapen rolls. "Taste it, Papa! Best in the kingdom!"
Orren took a bite, eyes flicking to Nevara. A faint softening touched his mouth. "Not bad."
"You hear that?" Aurelia beamed. "We're master bakers!"
Nevara's chest warmed, though a thread of worry lingered—her powers, her touch, the possibility of hurting them if she wasn't careful. They trust me so easily… I can't ever fail them. The smell of bread, the heat from the ovens, and the cubs' delighted giggles wrapped around her like a blanket. She found herself thinking she could get used to mornings like this. For now, in this flour-covered chaos, with Orren watching and the cubs beaming, it felt like a family.