Aylin stood in the storage cellar, breath clouding in front of her, hands on her hips as she surveyed the shelves. The stone chamber was cold, but not unbearable, and a soft fur-lined shawl hugged her shoulders.
Stacks of folded winter cloaks, waxed boots, thick gloves. Enough for the men, for now.
She clicked her tongue and made a mental note to order more children's sizes. The new families in the northern housing wing would need supplies once the snows deepened.
This—stock counts, food inventories, clothing for the frost season—was now part of her day.
Ever since Sasha introduced her at the war table, there had been no going back to simply existing in the fortress. She was asked to oversee supply allocations, review border town reports, and mediate requests from local clan leaders. Her days had filled quickly. Her nights, when Sasha wasn't home, passed in a blur of letters, fireside meetings, and the faint ache of a body not yet used to command.
