By the time Tyche made it to the kitchen, her skin was dry but her clothes still clung damply to her body. The air was already thick with smoke and the sharp scent of onions. She tightened the threadbare shawl around her shoulders, swallowing the lump in her throat as she stepped across the threshold.
Her aunt stood by the hearth, slicing vegetables with swift, angry motions. The fire crackled in protest as grease popped from the iron pan suspended above it.
"You're late," Lysandra barked without turning around. "And judging by the smell, still wet. I should send you out to dry in the wind."
Tyche lowered her gaze. "Sorry, Aunt."
"Sorry doesn't scrub floors. Take those potatoes and start peeling. Now."
Tyche obeyed without question, moving to the low table by the wall. Her fingers ached from the cold as she picked up the knife and set to work. The skin of the potatoes was thick and stubborn, but she focused on the repetitive motion, trying to block out the sting of her aunt's scolding presence.
A flurry of footsteps echoed in the hallway.
"Mother! The dressmaker sent word that the hem won't be ready until tomorrow!" Ourania's voice rang out, melodious and sharp as glass.
Tyche paused in mid-peel.
"What? Tomorrow? That's unacceptable," Lysandra snapped, turning from the fire. "We're expecting the royal courier by then. The last thing we need is to look unprepared."
Ourania swept into the room like she owned it, her dress swishing at her ankles, her copper hair wrapped in silk ribbons. Her face was flushed—not from work, but from excitement.
Xanthe trailed behind her, softer in presence, but no less carefully dressed. She offered Tyche a fleeting glance—a flicker of sympathy—but said nothing.
Tyche turned her attention back to the peeling.
"We'll have to stitch it ourselves," Lysandra muttered. "And I want you both polished to perfection. Royal eyes will be watching soon."
Ourania's smile faltered. "Do you think he'll notice me?"
Lysandra paused. Her lips tightened. "If the gods are kind, he will. The prophecy must mean something."
Tyche's ears perked.
Prophecy?
"You'll be chosen," Lysandra said firmly, pressing a kiss to Ourania's brow. "You are everything they could want—a noble girl, beautiful and poised. The others are just... ornaments."
Xanthe's brows twitched slightly at that, but she remained silent.
Chosen for what?
Tyche didn't dare ask. She knew her place in this house—beneath the silks and perfumes, beneath the polished boots and whispered plans. Still, the dream clung to her like cobwebs. Levi. The wedding. The chill before waking. And now talk of royals and prophecies?
She focused harder on the knife in her hand. One wrong word, one misstep, and she'd be out in the cold again—or worse.
Lysandra's voice interrupted her thoughts.
"Tyche! You're slicing them too thick. Gods, must you ruin everything? Do it again—properly this time."
Tyche bit her tongue and nodded.
"Useless girl," Lysandra hissed. "You'll never be anything more than a burden."
But in the back of her mind, Tyche saw golden eyes and felt the weight of silk across her shoulders. And she wondered—
—how much of fate had already been written.
Tyche stirred the contents of the bubbling pot one final time, tasting the broth with a wooden spoon. It was rich, seasoned just right with thyme and wild onions she'd gathered from the edges of the forest the day before. She adjusted the loaves in the oven, swept the scattered flour from the stone counters, and wiped her damp hands on her apron.
Satisfied everything was in order, she glanced at the heavy wooden clock ticking on the far wall. The sun was already climbing in the sky. She pulled the apron over her head, folded it neatly, and stepped away from the hearth.
Her real work was just beginning.
Tyche exited the kitchen and moved silently through the long corridor of the house. The air outside the kitchen was cooler, the hall lit only by narrow slits of light from high windows. Her bare feet made soft taps on the worn wooden floor as she made her way to the main room.
First was the sitting room. She took a damp cloth from the laundry basin and began wiping the carved wooden furniture, careful not to miss a single corner where dust liked to gather. The scent of lemon balm lingered in the air from her earlier scrubbing. She rearranged the cushions, fluffed the ones that sagged, and picked up a pair of slippers someone had left strewn under the table.
From there, she moved on to the guest rooms. They were rarely used, but Aunt Lysandra insisted they be spotless regardless. Tyche changed the sheets, beat the rugs, and scrubbed the stone windowsills until her fingers were raw.
The sun climbed higher.
She fetched buckets of water from the well, her arms straining with the weight. The path to the well was muddy from the previous night's rain, and by the time she returned, her skirts were caked with dirt. Still, she kept going.
Next was the laundry. A mountain of linens waited to be soaked, scrubbed, and hung out to dry. Tyche hauled the tub into the courtyard, rolled up her sleeves, and began scrubbing. Her hands turned red in the cold water, and her back ached from bending over, but she gritted her teeth and worked faster.
By the time the sun reached its peak, she had barely paused to breathe. She fetched firewood, swept the back porch, mended two torn cloaks, and emptied the chamber pots without complaint.
No one thanked her. No one noticed.
As she knelt in the hallway to polish the brass sconces, she caught her reflection again in one of the shiny surfaces. The girl who stared back had smudges on her cheeks, tangled damp hair, and tired eyes that were far too old for her age.
Still, those emerald eyes glowed.
Tyche looked away and picked up her rag again.
This was her life—an endless rhythm of chores, silence, and solitude.
And yet, beneath it all, something stirred.
She hadn't forgotten the dream.
She hadn't forgotten the man with the golden eyes.
Even as she swept the steps and gathered herbs for supper, her mind wandered.
She had seen a future she couldn't understand.
And no matter how much she tried to bury it under scrubbing and sweat, it was waiting.
It was coming.
And she could feel it getting closer with every heartbeat.
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