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In the heart of the royal palace, the kitchens buzzed with frenetic activity, a symphony of clanging pots, sizzling pans, and hurried footsteps echoing off the cavernous stone walls. Cooks bustled about, their movements swift and purposeful as they tended to bubbling cauldrons and tended to trays laden with delectable fare fit for a king. The air was thick with the savoury aroma of roasting meats, the tang of freshly baked bread, and the fragrant scent of herbs and spices mingling together in a tantalising dance.
Amidst the chaos of the kitchen, Myríel moved with ease, her presence a beacon of calm amidst the whirlwind of activity. The cooks glanced up in surprise as the princess entered, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. The head cook, a stout woman with flour-dusted cheeks and a perpetual scowl, approached Myríel with a wary look in her eye.
"My lady," she said, her voice tinged with concern. "Is everything alright? Have we done something to displease you?"
Myríel smiled reassuringly, her demeanor warm and gracious. "Not at all," she replied, her voice carrying above the din of the kitchen. "I simply wished to lend a hand and be of assistance to you. I thought I might help prepare and deliver the evening meal to our guests in the dungeon."
The head cook's expression softened, a look of relief washing over her features. "Of course, my lady," she said, her tone respectful. "We would be honoured to have your assistance. Shall I assign you a task?"
Myríel nodded graciously, her gaze drifting towards the array of ingredients and utensils that lined the countertops.
"You can start by preparing the vegetables," the cook said, and then correcting her tone with anxiety, "only if it pleases you, Ma'am."
"It does very much!"
As the head cook issued orders to the bustling kitchen staff, Myríel set to work with quiet determination, her hands deft and skilled as she peeled, chopped, and sliced with practiced precision. As she did so, her thoughts wandered to the dwarves in the dungeon below, and to a certain king whose presence lingered in her mind like a persistent whisper. Though she kept her true intentions hidden from the kitchen staff, she couldn't shake the longing that tugged at her heart—a longing to see Thorin once more, if only for a fleeting moment in the darkness of the dungeon.
⭑ ⭑ ⭑
As Myríel navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the palace, the sound of her footsteps echoed softly against the cold stone walls, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap accompanying her steady progress. The flickering torches cast dancing shadows that played along the rugged surface of the walls, lending an ethereal quality to the dimly lit passageways. With each step, Myríel's heart beat in time with the ancient rhythm of the palace, her senses heightened by the fear of how Thorin would react to seeing her once more.
