Several large stock pots lay atop a coal burning stove, boiling rations for the garrison to eat later that night.
Abigail had been cooking for the royal family for the past decade after her master passed his fortune down to her. Ten years prior laid the day Prince Frederick was brought into this world.
The mischievous little boy would frequently escape his quarters to explore the outer halls of the castle. A few close calls with the guard later and the prince would learn he could utilize the kitchen as a hiding place as the chef would only encourage his further misdeeds. Then he learned to make the habit of requesting snacks when he found the woman couldn't refuse him either.
An hour fore his majesty's typical arrival, the young prince barreled through the kitchen door during a stormy, miserable afternoon.
"Run into the guard again?" the accented Abigail asked of him, half in humor.
After a few moments she came to realize the terror upon his face.
"What's wrong? Has something happened?"
Before Prince Frederick could collect any sense about him, a storm of insurgents blast through the wooden door, frame and all. Recognizing the murderous intent in the men, the typically timid woman leapt into the defense.
In his horror and flight, he focused solely on his escape, breaking for a near ajar window hoping for a landing.
The cook in her bravery took up a knife in her stalwart defense, managing for a few brief moments in the face of overwhelming odds taking their favor upon her. Slicing into the poor chef with crude blades, the young heroine met her misfortunate end.
At the sight of his servant's body drop to the floor behind the weight of several blades and men, and the rocky coastal cliffside below, the prince would himself with little luck, and little choice.
"No" the soft, muffled word came from the half dead woman as she witnessed the prince's plunge in her final moments.
The crashing of waves and thunder deceived any indication of the prince's fate. Not that it would matter in this storm...