Ark's kitchen day

The morning began like every other since Ark had entered the Valkart family’s mansion. A long corridor of polished stone stretched before him, its chill clinging to his bare feet as he walked toward the kitchen. The early sunlight poured through the tall windows, yet even the golden rays couldn’t warm the air of the estate.

Ark’s duties had shifted yet again. Today, he had been assigned to the kitchen. When he opened the heavy wooden door, the scent of stale grease and yesterday’s food drifted out, mixing with the faint aroma of smoke from the fireplace. The kitchen was enormous, big enough to cook for an army, but at that moment it felt like a battlefield abandoned after the fighting. Pots and pans were stacked high, dishes covered the counters, and the stone floor was sticky with spilled broth.

Ark didn’t complain. His hands moved silently. First, he fetched a rag and a bucket of water, then crouched low to scrub the floors. Each stroke of the rag echoed in the empty kitchen, a quiet rhythm only he could hear. He cleaned the blackened stains from the stove, polished the knives, and stacked the wooden plates neatly. Grease clung to his fingers, slipping over his skin, but he bore it without a word. His entire body moved with the precision of someone who had long since accepted servitude.

By the time the door creaked open again, the place already looked half renewed.

A large man stepped in — the head chef of the mansion. His frame was sturdy, his hands thick from years of chopping and stirring. His eyes, however, carried a heaviness that no food could lighten. He gave Ark a single glance, neither approving nor condemning, before barking his order.

“Boy. Peel those potatoes.”

Ark bowed slightly. “Yes, sir.”

A mountain of potatoes sat piled on the table. Ark picked up the small peeling knife and got to work. The skins fell away in long spirals, gathering into a messy heap beside him. His movements were efficient, but not mechanical. He handled each potato with patience, as if even this humble task deserved care.

The chef moved around the kitchen, preparing other ingredients. After a moment, he placed another basket in front of Ark.

“Carrots. Onions. Peel them all.”

Ark nodded. “Understood.”

Hours passed. The rhythm of work filled the air — the sound of peeling, chopping, water sloshing in the sink. The kitchen that had once seemed heavy with grime slowly transformed into a place of order. Ark’s arms grew sore, his back stiff, but he didn’t stop.

At last, curiosity escaped his lips. His voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

“Chief… forgive me if this is rude, but… why is the Valkart family so harsh? They don’t even greet you. Not even once.”

For a moment, silence stretched. The only sound was the crackle of the fire beneath the cooking pot. Then, the chef set down his knife with a sigh.

“We do greet them,” he said, his tone low. “But it doesn’t matter. They never reply. To them, we’re shadows. Servants. Tools. Nothing more.”

Ark looked up, meeting the man’s tired eyes.

The chef continued, bitterness lacing his words. “We endure because we must. Every mouth in my family depends on me being here. If I walk away, my wife and children starve. The Valkarts know this. That’s why they treat us like this — because they can. We’re trapped.”

Ark’s hand froze over the half-peeled onion. The truth weighed on him. He had imagined rudeness born from arrogance, but this was worse. The Valkarts ruled not with kindness or cruelty alone, but with the invisible chain of dependence.

“I see,” Ark murmured softly. “It’s not only you, is it?”

The chef shook his head. “Every worker here carries the same burden. A sick mother. Hungry children. Debts too heavy to escape. That’s why we bow, why we bite our tongues. For our families’ sake, we accept humiliation.”

The kitchen seemed colder then, despite the warmth of the fire. Ark felt the heaviness of each servant’s silent suffering pressing against his chest.

But there was no time to dwell. Work demanded attention. Together, Ark and the chef sliced vegetables, stirred pots, and arranged trays. The air filled with the aroma of boiling broth, roasted meat, and freshly baked bread. It was the fragrance of effort, not luxury, a meal born of labor rather than celebration.

The chef gave Ark small instructions — wash the rice, stir the stew, scrub the pans after use. Ark obeyed without complaint, his body moving as though the work itself kept him steady. He noticed the chef watching him at times, a flicker of respect hidden in those weary eyes.

When the last dish was set aside and the final pot scrubbed clean, exhaustion finally caught up with Ark. His arms trembled from the strain, his clothes were damp with sweat, and even his fingers ached.

He left the kitchen quietly, slipping down the dim corridor toward the servant quarters. The bed waiting for him was simple — just a thin mattress, a rough blanket, and a pillow barely stuffed enough to hold shape. But to Ark, it was heaven.

He lay down slowly, staring at the cracked ceiling above. His thoughts drifted back to the chef’s words, to the unspoken chains binding every worker in the Valkart mansion. The weight of their suffering pressed on him, heavier than any chore.

“Trapped… just like me,” Ark whispered, though no one could hear.

His eyes closed, and sleep claimed him quickly. For a moment, in the silence of his small room, the burdens of the day melted away. Tomorrow, he knew, the cycle would begin again. But tonight, for these few hours of rest, he allowed himself peace.