Marked by the Four Beast Lords After Transmigration

The small knife was still in Nia’s hand.

Its point rested beneath the pale score she had cut into the stone, while the measuring cord crossed the floor from the wall to the edge of the hearth. Another length marked the space she wanted between the preparation table and the washing basin. In the tight kitchen, the planned route looked wider than the space around it.

Kael stood at the far end of the cord, one foot beside the storage arch. Shen remained near Nia with the remaining loops gathered over his palm.

“So we leave it like this until spring?” Nia asked.

“We preserve the plan.” Kael crouched beside the hearth mark. “The stones for the lower shelves are already in Hearthfang. I have iron supports in storage, and there is seasoned wood reserved below.”

Nia set the knife on the preparation table. “Then why wait?”

“I could assign the work tomorrow.”

Kael’s hand moved from the shelf line toward the section where she wanted the second work surface. He pressed his fingers to the stone.

“The crew would finish it. Then the thaw would bring moisture through the wall while the clay was curing. We would spend spring repairing work that should have lasted for years.” He traced the lower line with one finger. “The basin stone and the larger hearth pieces should also be moved after the lower paths clear and the ground settles. There is no reason to make the work harder merely to begin early.”

Nia looked across the route she had drawn. “You already considered all of that.”

“I asked for the storage counts after you first mentioned changing the kitchen.”

Shen’s mouth curved faintly as he unwound one of the shorter cords. “He also inspected the clay stores.”

Kael looked at him.

“You left clay dust on the side of your boot,” Shen said. “It was not difficult to determine where you had been.”

Nia turned back to Kael. “You could have told me.”

“You were still deciding what you wanted.”

“I was complaining about hitting my hip on the table.”

“You complain while deciding.”

Nia bent to adjust the cord beside the basin mark.

Kael rose and stepped over it without disturbing the line. “The materials will remain set aside. The clay workers can prepare what they need when the air warms. The wood can be shaped after you decide whether these shelf depths are final.”

“They are not final,” Nia admitted. “I still want to see what people store during spring.”

“Then waiting is useful.”

Shen laid the short cord along the preparation line. “The measurements should still be secured before we remove this.”

Nia glanced at him. “You believe I’ll forget them?”

“No. I believe Kael will move the table three times before spring, someone will scrub away one of the smaller marks, and the cord will be needed for something unrelated.”

Kael crossed to the next mark and checked the distance between it and the hearth.

Shen had already prepared narrow pieces of hide and a sharpened sliver of charcoal. He knelt beside the first knot, copied the distance onto a strip, and tied it around the matching loop.

Nia moved to the hearth before the embers weakened. The covered root cakes on the hot stone were ready to turn, and the tougher stems needed to go into the broth before the leaves.

“Start with this one,” she told Shen. “That knot marks the space beside the basin.”

He shifted closer, still holding the tagged cord. “Why is it wider than the space beside the hearth?”

“Because water work spreads.”

She lifted a cake with the flat edge of a wooden paddle and turned it. The browned surface released a warm, earthy smell.

“There will be wet bowls, washed roots, cloths, scraps, and whatever container is holding the clean water. If the basin is too close to the preparation table, I’ll spend half my time moving things out of my own way.”

Shen marked the explanation beside the measurement.

“You do not have to write all of that.”

“I will remember the number. I want the reason.”

Nia pointed the paddle at the pot. “Then remember that the stems go in before the leaves.”

He set the charcoal aside and reached for the bowl of dried greens. The stems had been separated into one side, the crumbled leaves into the other.

“The stems need time to soften,” she said. “The leaves only need enough heat to open their flavor. Put them in together, and the stems will still be hard when the leaves have gone flat.”

Shen added the stems first.

Kael came to the hearth and lifted the cover from the root cakes.

Nia tapped his wrist with the paddle before he could take one. “Those are still hot.”

His hand withdrew, although his attention remained fixed on the cakes.

“They will remain hot for several breaths,” Shen said.

Kael’s gaze shifted to the second batch.

Nia lowered the cover over it. “That one is not finished either.”

A knock sounded beyond the household entrance before Tarek stepped inside with a narrow route tablet tucked beneath his arm. Cold air followed him through the covering.

“The west turn is taking grit faster than expected,” he said. “The morning sleds polished the packed snow.”

Kael accepted the tablet and read the marks while Nia stirred the broth.

“The lower turn is still holding?”

“Yes. Fewer loaded sleds used it yesterday.”

“Move the heaviest loads there until midday. Put another marker above the west turn and send a fresh grit basket before the next hunting group returns.”

“The east store finished its count early,” Tarek said. “I can take two workers from there.”

“Take three. Have the third check the marker posts along the lower path while the others spread the grit.”

Tarek nodded. Kael returned the tablet before Nia had finished stirring the bottom of the pot.

Tarek’s attention shifted to the lines crossing the floor. “You finally measured it.”

“We measured what it should become,” Nia said. “The actual work waits for better building weather.”

Tarek looked at the wall, then at the crowded table behind her. “You will still be cooking in here until then?”

“She has managed worse,” Kael said.

Nia looked at him over her shoulder. “That does not make this kitchen larger.”

“No. It makes the spring work necessary.”

Tarek turned toward the entrance. “Sera wants the route count when you finish with that.”

“She will have it,” Kael said.

“And she said to tell Nia the dried red roots in her household store are ready whenever she wants them.”

Nia brightened. “Tell her I’ll come for them tomorrow.”

Tarek left with the route tablet, and the covering fell closed behind him.

Kael returned to the hearth. Nia handed him a root cake after breaking it open to release the heat. He ate half of it before she finished serving herself and Shen.

They sat close because there was no room to spread out. Shen kept the tagged loops beside his knee, safely beyond the broth pot, while Nia explained which marks belonged to the shelves and which belonged to the walking path. After Nia named the stone vessels meant for one shelf, Kael shifted a proposed support closer beneath where the heaviest vessels would sit.

By the time the bowls were empty, the measurements no longer depended on the cord remaining stretched across the floor. Shen wrapped each length separately, with its tags tied firmly beneath the knots.

The next morning, Nia ate beside the hearth while Shen stood behind her and separated a section of her hair.

He had completed one braid when Kael returned from the first route meeting. A dusting of frost clung to his shoulders.

He placed two tablets near the edge of the table, took a sliced root from the plate, and sat beside Nia while he read the first report. Shen tied off the braid and gathered another section, moving with Nia when she leaned across Kael to reach the salt jar.

Days passed through the scrape of boots at the entrance, the changing stacks of route tablets, and the steady use of the same narrow table.

Kael left before the first meal on some mornings and returned with frost caught in his hair or snow packed along the edges of his boots. Nia waited until the last runner had gone before pulling away his outer cloak and setting a hot bowl near his hand. Shen sat beside him and worked warmth back into his fingers while Kael read through the tablets he had brought home.

On other evenings, Shen took the hearth while Nia prepared the next day’s ingredients. He reproduced the root broth without needing her to repeat the quantities, but when he reached for the sour strips before the rendered fat had spread through the pot, Nia stopped him.

“Later,” she said.

He withdrew his hand. “The sourness will overpower it?”

“Not overpower it. It will stay separate.”

Nia stirred the fat through the softened roots, waited until the surface shone, then added the strips herself.

“Taste it now.”

Shen did. His eyes narrowed slightly as he followed the change.

“The fat carries it through the broth,” he said.

“And softens the sharpest part. If you put it in too early, the roots absorb the sourness before everything else has joined together.”

When he repeated the dish two nights later, he waited.

The daylight reaching the upper vent lasted a little longer each evening. Fewer fresh snow baskets were carried past the household entrance, although the old banks still stood high along the outer paths. Route tablets continued to arrive, meals continued to crowd the table, and the walls of the kitchen stayed exactly where they had always been.

At night, the three of them slept beneath the heavy winter furs. Kael usually settled behind Nia with one arm across her middle, while Shen curved along her front, his cooler skin warming between them.

Shen had stored the wrapped cord on the lower shelf beyond the preparation bowls. It remained there until Nia had to move it twice in one morning to reach the jars behind it.

She set the second jar on the table and looked at the bundle in her hand.

“The upper peg,” Kael said from beside the hearth.

Nia followed his gaze toward the peg near the storage arch. It sat above the working space, beyond splashes from the basin and far enough from the hearth steam to keep Shen’s hide tags from curling.

Shen checked the knots before passing the cord back to her. “Nothing will disturb it there.”

Nia wound the bundle carefully around her hand, crossed the kitchen, and hung it from the upper peg. The cord rested in the dry air above the working space, with the scored spring line still clear across the stone beneath it.

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