The doors of the kitchen banged open. Heavy boots clattered against the stone floor, echoing like distant thunder. Nux entered, flanked by his loyal guards, pale skin slick with lingering sickness, eyes sharper than ever. Marrow followed, silent, a shadow at the edge of the room.
Funnelhead's stomach dropped. Every hand froze mid-motion. Steam rose from pots and roasting pans, curling through the air like smoke from a funeral pyre.
Nux's gaze swept over them without a word. No fury. No questioning. Only the quiet certainty of someone who already knew.
"Use them," he said finally, voice low, commanding. "Every pot. Every spoon. Every knife you used to try and harm me. Cook. Now."
The room went still, as if the air itself had hardened. The guards shifted, weapons resting casually at their sides but never leaving their hands. Their presence was a cage. Every exit blocked, every motion observed.
Funnelhead's jaw clenched. "We… we cannae…" he began, voice trembling.
One of the guards stepped forward, blade glinting. "You will obey, or this room will become your grave."
A sharp intake of breath went through the servants. Some began trembling uncontrollably, others held knives like shields. Funnelhead's flour-covered hands shook as he reached for a battered pot.
He glanced at Marrow. That faint smirk tugged at the corners of his face. Marrow's eyes glimmered with the satisfaction he'd been denied before.
The servants began to move, hands shaking, shoving ingredients into the old, corroded cookware. Rust flakes clattered into soups and stews, metal scraped against metal. Nux watched, face impassive. He didn't smile. Didn't flinch. Just watched.
Marrow, behind him, seemed to drink in every clumsy motion, every fear-stricken glance, every tear-streaked cheek. He shifted his weight, casually leaning against the doorframe, as if the servants were a performance meant solely for him.
When the last tray was set down, the guards stood rigidly, weapons raised.
"Eat," Nux said.
The words fell like stones. Some servants flinched as if the air itself had struck them.
A low murmur rose from the group. "We… we cannae—"
"We only meant—"
"We're sorry—"
Tears streaked faces. A young girl buried her face in her hands. A man near the ovens pressed a shaking hand to his mouth, eyes darting toward the door.
The guards' blades rattled against their belts, forcing silence. Nux's voice was calm, almost casual.
"Eat. Or you will find that metal is not the only thing I wield with precision."
Some of the servants obeyed immediately, shoving spoons and knives into the dishes before them. Funnelhead stayed rooted, watching. His hands hung useless at his sides. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. All he could do was watch the scene unfold.
Marrow's eyes roamed the room, settling on each trembling face. The faintest curl of a smile played at his lips as he observed the fear, the submission, the hopelessness. Unlike Nux, he savored it, leaning slightly, letting the room's panic coil around him like smoke.
Funnelhead's gaze met Marrow's, and in that moment he saw the satisfaction he had craved all along—Marrow's pleasure in watching the servants bend to his will, even if Nux himself showed none.
Around him, sobs and hurried, trembling bites filled the kitchen. Rust flakes scraped against teeth. Some of the servants muttered apologies between mouthfuls. Others cried quietly, cheeks wet, lips pressed against rust-stained spoons.
Nux simply stood, eyes cold, watching. The air seemed to contract around him. He noted each faltering glance, each whispered apology, every beat of hesitation. Not with delight, but with the clinical assessment of a predator, weighing fear, loyalty, and survival in equal measure.
Funnelhead wanted to look away, to run, to yell—but there was nowhere to go. Marrow's presence anchored him in place. The lesson was brutal, immediate, and terrifyingly clear: every action in this castle had a cost, and every misstep would be remembered.
And then Velanora moved.
In a single, fluid motion, she stepped between the nearest servants and Nux, hand gripping her sword. The steel was cold, precise. Before anyone could react, the blade's tip pressed against the pale skin of Nux's neck, just below his jaw.
The guards froze. The servants froze. Marrow's smirk faltered for the briefest heartbeat. Nux's eyes widened slightly—but he didn't flinch.
Velanora's gaze was unwavering, lethal in its focus. Every inch of her body spoke of command, of calculated danger.
Her voice cut the tension like a knife.
"I've had enough of you, Nux."