Marked by the Four Beast Lords After Transmigration

By the time Nia reached the lower kitchens, the folded winter leaves had already taken over half the long table.

They lay stacked between damp cloths in soft green layers, darkened by steam and flattened under smooth stones so the ribs would loosen without turning limp. Every time someone lifted a cloth, heat escaped with the smell of greens, grain, sharp bulb, and bird broth. The scent clung to Nia’s scarf before she had even finished unwinding it from her neck.

Sera caught the end of the scarf before it slipped toward the floor. “Leave this on a little longer.”

“I’m inside now.”

“You walked through three cold corridors to get here.”

The scarf stayed in Sera’s hands while steam crowded the low kitchen ceiling. The room was warm enough to make her ears relax, but her fingers still held the chill from the passage down. Sera did not wait for her to decide. She tucked the scarf more securely around Nia’s throat, smoothed the edge beneath her braid, and turned her gently toward the table.

Mari stood near the widest bowl with her sleeves tied hard above her elbows, hands deep in shredded burrow-hen, coarse grain, chopped long hollow stalk, sharp bulb, salt, and melted fat. A worker beside her poured broth in a thin stream while Mari folded the mixture through her fingers and stopped the pour with a click of her tongue.

“Enough.”

The worker pulled the cup back at once.

Mari lifted a handful and squeezed until broth shone between her fingers. The filling held for one breath before it slumped apart.

“Too loose for the big leaves,” she said.

A younger worker near the steam baskets looked up. “More grain?”

“Some. And stop chopping the stalk so wet. Press it first.”

The worker’s ears flattened with concentration as she reached for a cloth.

Nia stepped closer, the heat from the table meeting the cold in her hands. The filling smelled good already, savory and mild, with enough rendered fat to keep the bird from drying out and enough sharp bulb to cut through the softness. If she let herself lean into it, the texture tugged at a memory of dressing folded into greens, something made in big pans with many hands and not enough counter space. She kept the comparison behind her teeth and watched how Mari pressed the filling flat against the side of the bowl.

“These leaves are thinner than yesterday’s,” Nia said.

Mari glanced over without stopping. “Different stack.”

Sera moved behind Nia and set a cup beside her elbow. “Drink before you start touching everything.”

Steam rose from the cup, broth darkened with a little bitter green and bird fat.

“I had breakfast.”

“You had half of what Shen wrapped for you because Rovan knocked before you finished.”

Nia paused with her hand halfway toward the leaves.

Sera’s mouth curved as she reached around Nia to tug the cup closer. “I was in the room.”

The broth was hot enough that Nia had to sip carefully, and the salt settled into her mouth before the richness. Sera adjusted the fur at Nia’s shoulder while Nia drank, then went to help one of the workers lift another cloth from the softened leaves.

Across the table, Mari tipped more coarse grain into the filling and worked it in. “We are making twenty that hold before anyone says the word festival again.”

“No one said it,” one of the older workers muttered.

“Your hands started rushing.”

The woman huffed and reached for a leaf.

The first round began with confidence that lasted through three bundles. Hands moved along the table in uneven rhythm: one worker spreading a softened leaf, another pinching out the thick stem, another spooning filling into the center. The older woman folded the sides inward and rolled the leaf toward herself with quick, practiced hands. Her first bundle looked neat. The second leaked broth down the side before it reached the tray, and the third split where the rib had been thinned too much.

Mari and the older woman both stared at the tear until Nia set her broth down and reached for the split leaf. “May I?”

Mari nodded.

The leaf was still warm and a little slick under Nia’s fingertips. She turned it so the torn part lay flat against the table. The rib had softened, but the edge beside it had gone weak where someone had stripped too much away, and when Nia pressed gently, the tear widened.

“It is not the filling only,” she said. “This side is carrying all the pull.”

Mari leaned closer as Nia laid the leaf out again and placed a smaller spoonful of filling nearer the stem end. “If the thicker end folds first, it can hold the filling before the softer sides come over. The thin end can wrap last.”

The older woman frowned down at the leaf. “Stem side first makes the bottom thicker.”

“For steaming, that might help. It can sit on the thicker fold instead of the soft seam.”

Mari wiped her hands on a cloth, took another leaf, and turned it the way Nia had shown. She pressed the filling into a shorter mound, folded the stem end up, tucked both sides in, and rolled once. The bundle came out smaller than the earlier ones, less impressive at first glance, but it sat on the tray without sagging when Mari turned it over and pressed the seam with one finger.

“Smaller,” she said.

A worker sighed through her nose.

Mari lifted one brow. “You want big ones that open in the basket?”

The worker reached for a fresh leaf. “Smaller.”

The room adjusted around the word. Spoons changed. Filling mounds shortened. The workers who had been stripping stems began leaving more thickness near the base. Someone moved the cracked leaves into a separate pile for patching or chopping into broth later, and Sera slid into the empty space beside Nia with a folded cloth over one arm.

“Hands,” Sera said.

Nia flexed her fingers. “They are clean.”

“They are getting cold again.”

Before Nia could answer, Sera took one of her hands and rubbed warmth back into her fingers with the dry cloth. Her touch was brisk, familiar, and unconcerned with the kitchen moving around them. Nia let her, looking down so the warmth in her face could settle without becoming something anyone needed to comment on.

Mari made six more bundles. Two held, one sagged without tearing, and three split when moved.

“That filling is still wet,” Nia said.

Mari’s jaw worked once. “The bird is giving back broth.”

“Maybe let the grain sit in it before folding. It will drink some in.”

“We do not have time to let every bowl sit.”

“Then make the next bowl drier and let this one wait while we fold the first tray.”

Mari considered the hearths, where steam baskets waited over shallow pots. “Two bowls. One resting, one folding.”

The older woman nodded to the worker beside her. “Bring another bowl.”

Sera handed Nia back her cup, and Nia drank before the next round began slower and better. The kitchen did not quiet, but the sound changed as leaves slapped softly against the table, spoons scraped bowls, and someone cursed under her breath when a leaf tore before filling touched it. Mari moved along the line, correcting without softening her words and without wasting them.

“Less.”

“Too close to the edge.”

“Do not pull. Tuck.”

“Stem first.”

“Leave that rib. You are not skinning it.”

Nia folded three bundles herself before Mari took the fourth from her hand and weighed it in her palm.

“This one.”

“This size.” Mari held it up. “Everyone look.”

The workers glanced over one by one.

The bundle was small enough to fit in one palm, with the leaf wrapped snugly but not strained. A faint line of filling showed through the green where the leaf was thinnest, but no broth leaked from the seam. Nia had tucked the stem end underneath so the bundle sat slightly raised.

“Use that spoon,” Mari said, pointing to the spoon beside Nia. “Not the deep one. It gives too much.”

The older worker made a low sound of agreement, and Nia smiled as she reached for another leaf.

Rovan appeared at the doorway with a basket hooked over one arm and cold air following him in a pale drift. He stopped just inside, stamped his boots once on the grit mat, and looked toward Sera first.

“Tarek says the east lower path stays open, but no carts higher than the second turn until Kael sees the ledge himself.”

Mari did not look up. “Did he say that for me or for the root counters?”

“For everyone who keeps trying to send carts where carts do not belong.”

One of the workers near the hearth lowered her eyes to the steam basket with great attention.

Sera took the bark-paper strip from Rovan’s hand and held it out to Mari, who leaned close enough to read without taking her hands from the filling.

“No higher carts,” Mari said. “Put that on the path cloth before someone forgets because the sun touched one stone.”

Rovan nodded and shifted the basket on his arm. “Also, Shen sent clean cloth.”

Nia’s attention shifted before she could stop it.

Rovan caught the shift in her attention and brought the basket to the table near Sera. Inside lay folded cloths, a small packet of warming bark, and two narrow jars sealed with wax.

“He said the bark is for the workers closest to the doorway,” Rovan added. “The jars are for rubbed knuckles. He marked them so no one mistakes them.”

Mari’s hand paused above the bowl. “Good. Keep them away from the broth side.”

Rovan nodded, though his mouth twitched before he looked down.

Nia reached into the basket and touched the top cloth. It was still faintly warm, as if Shen had carried it close to his body before sending it down. The fold was exact, the warming bark tied separately so it would not scent the clean cloth too strongly.

Sera nudged the cup against Nia’s wrist. “Broth.”

Nia took another sip, though her attention stayed on the folded cloth. Sera let her have the silence.

The first full tray went into the steam basket before midday. Everyone watched too closely and pretended not to while Mari arranged the bundles seam-side down, leaving narrow spaces between them so steam could move. Nia stood beside her, hands damp from leaves and filling, and tried not to lean forward every time the basket shifted.

“Too tight?” Mari asked.

“A little space is better. They swell.”

Mari adjusted two with the tip of a wooden spatula. “Like that?”

“Yes.”

Once the lid went on, steam climbed around the edges almost at once.

Work continued because there were too many leaves and not enough hours for everyone to stare at one basket. The second bowl of filling had rested long enough for the grain to thicken. When Nia pressed a spoonful between her fingers, it held together without dripping. The long hollow stalk had softened into the bird, and the sharp bulb had lost its raw bite.

“This one is better,” she said.

Mari took a pinch, tasted it, and nodded. “Less broth in the next. More fat if it dries.”

The older worker beside them tasted from her own finger and gave a small approving grunt. “Needs salt.”

Mari pointed to the salt bowl. “A pinch. Enough for the whole bowl, not just your fingertip.”

The woman added salt, then added half a pinch more while Mari watched.

Nia turned another leaf stem-side toward her and folded. The movement began to settle into her body. Spread, fill, stem, sides, roll, seam down. The leaves still varied. Some were thick and obedient. Some thinned near the edge and threatened to tear if she breathed wrong. The fragile ones made her slow down.

She found herself sorting them by touch before she sorted them by sight. Thick leaves for full bundles. Thin leaves for smaller portions. Torn leaves for patches. The smallest pieces could line the bottom of the steaming basket or be chopped into the broth pot. Waste bothered her less when every pile had somewhere to go.

“These would be easier if they had been softened earlier,” Nia said, mostly to herself.

Mari heard anyway. “Earlier in the morning?”

“Earlier in the season.” Nia smoothed a leaf flat with careful fingertips. “Before deep cold made them stiff. Maybe pressed with salt, if there were enough. They would sour a little, but that could be good with the bird.”

Mari’s hands stopped only long enough for the thought to land.

Sera, seated with the torn leaves now, looked up from her bowl. “Sour leaves?”

“Maybe.” Nia tucked filling into the leaf and folded the stem end first. “Salt would draw out water. If they were pressed under weight, they might keep longer and soften before winter. The flavor would change.”

Mari reached for a cloth and wiped her thumb clean. “Would they hold?”

“I do not know. They might tear less if they were softened before freezing. Or they might become too soft.”

Mari signaled to the worker with the bark-paper strips. “Mark it on next-year food thoughts. Salt-pressed winter leaves. Small test. Do not write it on the festival cloth.”

The worker dipped the marking stick and wrote.

Mari took another leaf. “A thought is not a menu.”

“No.”

“But good thoughts feed people later if no one loses them.”

The bundle in Nia’s hands folded cleanly, the seam closed beneath her fingers.

Sera’s knee touched hers under the table. “That one is nice.”

Nia set it on the tray. “The thicker end helped.”

By the time Shen arrived, the first basket had finished steaming.

He came through the side entrance with his sleeves bound close and his pale hair tied back from his face, carrying another stack of cloths against one hip. The doorway workers shifted before he asked. He came through without lifting his voice or widening his path, and one worker tucked her cracked knuckles under her sleeve as he passed while another pulled a child’s cough-cloth farther from the steam.

He noticed Nia’s scarf, sleeves, broth cup, and damp wrists without stopping her hands, then set the cloths beside Sera and reached for the nearest hot bowl before one of the younger workers tried to lift it bare-handed.

“Cloth first,” he said.

The worker froze, then took the cloth he offered.

Nia lowered her gaze to the leaf she was folding before Sera could remind her that Shen had sent the cloth for everyone.

Mari lifted the lid from the first steam basket, and heat rushed out, carrying the rich smell of bird, greens, fat, and softened grain. The bundles had darkened, their surfaces tender but not collapsed, though a few had swelled enough to press against each other. One had split along the side and leaked filling into the basket. Another had opened at the seam.

Mari stared at the opened one long enough for the younger worker at the hearth to lower her eyes.

Nia leaned closer. “That one was rolled with the seam up.”

The younger worker at the hearth winced. “That was mine.”

Mari took a breath through her nose. “Then you eat that one and remember.”

Shen studied the basket, and Mari stepped aside when he asked, “May I?”

He took two cloths, lifted one bundle with careful fingers, and turned it. Steam slicked the leaf surface. The bottom seam had softened into the stem fold without breaking, and he pressed lightly near the side.

“This one held because the filling is shorter,” he said. “The longer ones pull when lifted.”

Nia nodded. “That is what it felt like.”

Shen’s hand hovered above the uncooked bundles without touching until Nia shifted the tray closer. He chose one, adjusted the side tuck by less than a finger’s width, and set it back seam-down.

Mari watched him. “You staying?”

“I have salve heating below.” Shen wiped moisture from his fingertips with a cloth. “Long enough to help move the hot trays.”

“Good.”

Shen took the finished basket with a worker, carried it to the cooling cloth, and helped turn the bundles so steam would leave without making the bottoms soggy. His tail passed behind Nia’s ankle once, a brief brush that did not interrupt his work or hers.

Sera reached across the table and turned Nia’s broth cup so the handle faced her hand.

They tasted the first batch while the second basket steamed. Mari cut one bundle into pieces with the side of a spoon, the leaf yielding softly around filling that held together better than Nia had expected. Steam lifted from the cut center. The grain had drunk in the broth, the burrow-hen stayed tender, and the long hollow stalk gave the middle a gentle sweetness beneath the sharp bulb.

Nia tasted her piece carefully.

The leaf was a little too thick near the bottom, but the bite was comforting. Warm, savory, easy to hold. Festival food that could be passed from hand to hand without needing bowls for every person. The leaf was thicker, the grain coarser, the sharp bulb warmer after steaming. Still, she took another bite before the first had fully left her mouth.

Mari chewed, swallowed, and pointed toward the salt bowl. “Better. Still wet in the center.”

The worker reached for the bowl again.

Nia licked a little broth from her thumb and looked at the cut bundle. “Steam first, then final warming near the hearth. It may set more if the outside dries a little after steaming.”

Mari turned toward the hearthstone. “How close?”

“Close enough to warm and dry. Not close enough to crisp hard unless we want them to crack.”

Shen, who had been tying a cloth around the handle of a hot pot, glanced over. “Turn them once after they stop steaming heavily.”

Nia nodded. “Yes. That.”

Mari pointed at him with the spoon. “You. Say that to the hearth side.”

Shen did, calm and precise, while Nia folded another leaf.

The second basket held better than the first, and by then no one asked which end went first before turning the leaves stem-side toward their hands. The deep spoon disappeared from the table and reappeared near the broth pot, where it could do less damage. Torn leaves were used to patch thin spots by laying a small piece across the weak section before filling went in, though Mari did not approve until one patched bundle survived lifting.

When it did, she grunted and allowed the pile to remain.

The cold came in before Kael did.

Nia felt it sweep low across the floor and lift the fine hairs at her neck. Several workers looked toward the main passage as Tarek entered first, shoulders dusted with frost and jaw tight from being outside too long. Kael followed a step behind him, taller than the doorway made comfortable, dark curls damp near his temples where snow had melted and refrozen in the short walk from an outer turn.

He found Nia before he finished listening to Tarek.

Tarek was still speaking. “If the sun holds, the second turn can take foot traffic. No carts. The upper ledge is hollow under the ice.”

Kael nodded once. “Close it.”

“Until morning?”

“Until I check it.”

Mari lifted a tray away from the hearth and set it down harder than necessary. “Then no one is sending gold gourd down from upper storage today.”

Kael answered without softening it. “No.”

Mari accepted that with a sharp nod and turned to the worker with the bark-paper. “Mark gold gourd delayed. Do not build tomorrow’s mash count on what we do not have.”

Nia wiped her hands quickly, but Kael was already beside her.

He did not pull her away from the table. He touched the back of his fingers to the edge of her scarf, then to her cheek, checking the warmth there with the same quiet certainty he used for doors, fires, and blades. His hand smelled of cold stone and leather.

“You ate?”

Sera answered before Nia could. “Broth, half a meat cake, and three bites of filling she pretended were tasting.”

Nia held up her damp hands before Kael could ask. “My hands were busy.”

He reached past her, took the cup Sera had kept warm near the hearth, and placed it beside her fingers. “Drink.”

Tarek, behind Kael, accepted a piece of cut bundle from Mari and ate while reading the path cloth over someone’s shoulder. “This is the folded bird?”

“Leaf bird bundle,” Mari said.

Tarek took another bite. “It holds.”

“It holds now.”

Nia picked up one of the better bundles with a cloth before Kael reached for the tray. “Careful. It is hot.”

He leaned down instead of taking it from her, and she held it while he bit through one end. Around them, spoons kept scraping, cloths kept moving, and another steam basket lifted from the hearth while Nia kept her eyes on Kael’s face. The leaf gave beneath his teeth without tearing apart, and a little steam touched his mouth before he swallowed.

“Good,” he said.

Mari exhaled once through her nose. “Festival good or hungry-chief good?”

Kael’s answer came after another glance at the tray. “Festival.”

Mari’s hands stilled for the first time that afternoon. Then she reached for the bark-paper strip and made a dark mark beside folded leaf bird bundles.

Kael’s hand settled at the back of her neck for a moment, warm now from the kitchen air. His thumb brushed the base of one braid, close enough to the skin that her next breath came softer.

He bent and kissed the side of her head, right above the scarf Sera had insisted she keep on.

“Do not stand too long,” he said.

“I am not the one walking under hollow ice.”

His mouth moved near her hair. “Sit anyway.”

Kael straightened, his hand leaving Nia’s neck only after another slow press. Then he took the remaining half of the bundle from her fingers, ate it in two bites, and returned to Tarek.

Shen came from the hearth with a hot tray wrapped in cloth. Kael paused beside him, and they exchanged a few low words Nia could not hear over the kitchen noise. Shen checked Kael’s frost-wet shoulder, then the side passage that led down to the salve room. Kael nodded, and Shen returned to the tray.

Tarek and Kael left with a marked strip for the path crews and two wrapped bundles Mari shoved into Tarek’s hands “for whoever thinks ledge-checking means skipping food.”

Cold trailed after them and disappeared under the kitchen heat while Sera placed a stool behind Nia’s knees and handed her the cup.

Nia sat, drank, and kept folding from the stool while the work moved around her.

Through the afternoon, each batch changed the next. The third batch improved. The fourth tried to fall apart because someone added broth by habit, and Mari caught it only after half the bowl had loosened. They corrected it with more grain and chopped bird, then marked that bowl for small bundles only. The fifth batch used leaves from the bottom of the stack, thicker and less flexible, and Shen’s suggestion to steam them a little longer before folding saved most of them from cracking.

He left twice and returned twice, each time carrying something different: more cloth, warmed stones for the doorway workers’ hands, a small jar for rubbed knuckles, a note from the lower salve room about two hunters with frost-nipped fingers. He never stayed long enough to become the center of the kitchen. He stayed long enough to lift what was hot, adjust timing, notice Nia’s cup, and brush his tail against her ankle beneath the table when he passed close.

The third time he came back, Nia had filling on her wrist and a torn leaf stuck to her thumb.

Shen stopped beside her, took the damp cloth from the edge of the bowl, and cleaned the spot on her wrist with a care that made the noisy kitchen blur for one breath around the edges.

“You have grain in your braid,” he said.

Nia touched the braid over her shoulder. “Where?”

He touched a small pale crumb caught against the dark woven strands and lifted it free.

Sera, from the other side of the table, said, “She has been leaning too close to the bowl.”

Nia said nothing while Shen set the crumb aside, checked the tie at the end of her braid with his fingertips, and went to help turn the final warming tray.

The bundle he had adjusted earlier came out with the neatest seam. Mari’s eyes went to it, and Nia kept folding.

Mari said nothing until the tray had been moved, tasted, cooled, and counted. Then she pointed to the final line on the bark-paper. “Stem first. Small spoon. Filling rested. Steam, then hearth-warm. Thick leaves get longer steam before folding. Torn leaves patch or broth.”

The worker repeated the notes aloud as she wrote.

Nia rubbed her thumb against her palm, trying to get the sharp bulb smell out of her skin. It did not leave. It had settled beneath the warmth of rendered fat and greens, tucked into the lines of her fingers.

Mari counted the trays: one cooling tray, one hearth-warming tray, one basket steaming, one row waiting to go in, a smaller pile of torn leaves destined for broth, a bowl of filling covered to rest, and enough mistakes in the scrap bowl to feed the kitchen workers before evening.

She stood with her hands on her hips while steam moved through the room.

The bundles sat in uneven rows, smaller than the first proud attempts, more practical, and far more likely to survive hungry hands during festival noise. They were not perfect. A few leaned. One patch showed at the side. The earlier split ones had been eaten quickly enough by workers that no one mourned them.

Mari took the marking stick and drew a heavier line beside the count.

“Workable,” she said.

Nia pressed her thumb into the edge of the cloth.

Sera touched Nia’s shoulder from behind, thumb pressing briefly through the fabric of her winter wrap. At the hearth, Shen’s hand paused on the tray cloth before he turned the next bundle.

Tomorrow the counts would change again. Paths would open or close. A storage room might stay out of reach, and another bowl might need to be stretched with grain.

The marked bark-paper, torn-leaf pile, cooling trays, and workers folding without asking which end went first filled the table in front of her. She reached for the last softened leaf.

The stem end was thick beneath her fingers. The edge was thin but whole. She spooned a small mound of filling near the base, folded the sturdy end first, tucked the sides, and rolled until the seam rested underneath.

When she set it on the tray, it held.

Mari saw and slid the tray closer to the others.

Nia sat with her scarf still tucked around her throat, her hands smelling of grain, greens, sharp bulb, and warm bird fat, while the lower kitchen kept working around her and another basket of folded leaf bundles began to steam.

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