The doorway closed behind Marron without sound.
Not sealed. Not locked. Just… finished.
The air on this side was cooler than the last chamber, but not cold. It carried the faint scent of starch and smoke, like a kitchen after a long day when the fires had been banked but not fully extinguished.
The room was wide and low-ceilinged, supported by thick stone pillars worn smooth by time. Counters ringed the space, but unlike the first kitchen, these were bare. No jars. No baskets. No ingredients laid out with quiet generosity.
Just stone. Clean. Waiting.
At the center stood a long table, scarred with old knife marks and heat stains. Above it hung a rack of hooks—empty.
Marron took three steps in and stopped.
Something was wrong.
Not danger. Not pressure.
Mismatch.
She shifted the strap of her pack on her shoulder, then stilled when the Food Cart rolled forward of its own accord and… hesitated. Its wheels turned a fraction, then stopped, locked in place without command.
