A few weeks later.

  Fort Marrow is a mess, as far as Carrie was concerned when it came to the logistics and other matters. With half the forst missing thanks to damage done by pervious fights, on and off conflicts, and a series of attacks and raids to boot the lesser skeleton could not help but think its a wonder it still stands. Yet stand it does, with soldiers marching to and fro, training and patrolling where they could. Carrie herself was mostly kept inside, in one of the kitchens that had not been destoryed and woking her bones off trying to make sure eveyone is feed.

  A task that was not easy at all when only she and a few of the other cooks that was part of the reinforment was the only ones here. 5 cooks to feed almost 300 men and woman was not a easy task by any means, and the fact that she was still standing was a mystery to even her. At least mentally speaking. While being unable to rest was its perks that allows her to be avaible 24/7 and thuse always in the kitchen doing various cleaning tasks, did not mean she did not get tired mentally anymore. She needs breaks every now and then too, but that have been spares with the sheer works that needs to be done.

  At least Irene, her crow familier was able to help her with various small tasks. Such as picking up small ingrediens and fetching things she could not reach. Not to mention being company when she was alone in the kitchen. Which was most of the time when she was working. The others cooks was sleeping right now, while she worked alone cleaning all the pots, pans and other utensils they had used up during the day. While she was not sure why she bothered, given how much dirtier they would be in a few hours when the next meal was to be prepared. But she did it anyway, if for no other reason than to keep her hands busy and her mind occupied. And to make sure there was no build up of gunk that would be harder to remove later on.

  It also gave her time to think, and think she needed for damn was there much to keep track of. Even with her skill Meal Planner to help keep supplies in order, a skill the other cooks wanted to have for it was a very versatile skill in this situation, she still found herself low on supplies for tomorrow's meal. She sighed, and moved over to the pantry to inspect it. Again. As if staring at it would somehow make the ingredients magically appear. She has the skill Ingredient Summon, but it has it limits due to how much mana she has to spare and what she knew. Sure she can summons some loaf of bread, various vegetables, meat, maybe some cheese and even a few eggs. Put it had a price to pay and her mana regeneration was still not that great. Granted, ever since she hit level 5, it had gone up to 7 whole point of mana gained each hour.

  Today, she had managed to summon out more veggies, mostly carrots, potatoes, beets and other hardy ones that can stand the cold. Some mushrooms, herbs and a few apples. Some eggs and since she had the chance for it with her last bit of mana a small flask of oil. Tonight though her mana was almost full and it was time to summon more. Normally one shouldn't rely on a skill this much to have food, but desperate times called for desperate measures. The Fort was suppose to get more supplies, but the last caravan was ambushed and looted. Only two guards made it back to tell the tale.

  The pantry was still not empty, but damn was it getting close to it. The next caravan was suppose to be here in three days. Three days, and she had to stretch what little she had left to feed everyone. "We are going to have to cut the portions again." Carrie sighed, her hollow eye sockets staring at the near empty shelves and mentally began to plan out what the other cooks told her to get tonight.

  This time they had wanted her to summon mostly flour, milk and eggs, and if she could maybe a small bag of sugar. Carrie flexed her bony fingers, feeling the faint warmth of her fire affinity flicker through the marrow. She'd need every scrap of mana she could muster tonight—the kind of summoning they needed wasn't just about tossing ingredients into the void and hoping for the best. It required precision. Intent.. Along with a summoning circle craved on the floor so her skill worked more efficiently, especially since she needed at least 4 bag of flour this time, not just one. Which meant she had to be careful. One slip in her concentration and she'd summon half-rotten wheat or sour milk, and she couldn't afford waste. Not now.

  Irene fluttered down from the rafters, her talons clicking against the stone floor as she hopped closer. The crow tilted her head, one beady eye fixed on Carrie. The skeleton knelt by the summoning circle—a hasty thing scratched into the flagstones with charcoal and a stolen kitchen knife—and exhaled away nerves she don't have anymore. "Alright, girl. No distractions," she muttered, more to herself than the bird. Irene bobbed her head as if she understood, then waddled backward to give space.

  Carrie pressed her palms flat against the edge of the circle. The fire in her marrow surged, spilling ember-light through the gaps in her ribs. Mana wasn't a thing she felt, exactly—more like the absence of exhaustion, a hollow where fatigue should be. She focused on flour first: coarse-ground, unspoiled, the dusty scent of it clinging to memories of kneading dough before she'd ever had bones to knead with. The circle flared, lines glowing dull orange. A burlap sack materialized halfway out of the stone floor, then jerked to a halt. Carrie hissed through clenched teeth and shoved more mana into the summoning. The sack popped free with a sound like tearing parchment, landing with a soft thud.

  One down.

  Irene let out a low caw, shuffling closer to inspect the haul. The crow pecked experimentally at the burlap, then flapped onto the sack’s lumpy top as if claiming it. Carrie’s fingers twitched—her mana reserves were already down by a third, and the flour had taken more out of her than expected. She flexed her hands, the faint glow in her joints dimming further. "No time to waste," she muttered, shifting her focus to back to get the last 3 sacks she needed. The circle pulsed weakly under her palms.

  Milk was trickier. It wasn’t just about summoning liquid; it had to be fresh, contained, unspoiled. Carrie dug into half-remembered sensations—the cool weight of a pitcher, the creamy smell of it just poured. The circle flickered. A ceramic jug materialized, sloshing violently as it tipped sideways. Carrie lunged, barely catching it before it shattered. The lid was loose—she clamped it tight with bony fingers, heart pounding despite the lack of one. Two-thirds of her mana gone now, and the jug was only three-quarters full. Irene cocked her head, eyeing the spillage seeping into the stone cracks.

  "At least the eggs won't be an issue. I've summoned them plenty of times now, I just need to remember to put them in a box." Carrie said to herself as the circle once again glows as she push the last of her mana inside it. After she puts a small bowl down filled with hay that Irene had somehow gotten her talons on, made into one of many nests the crow has made for herself around the fort. The eggs pops into existance one by one inside the nest of hay. Carrie groans, not because of pain, but annoyance when she notices that one of them landed slightly off-center and cracks, yolk slowly leaking out.

  She sighs as she picks up the eggs, putting them carefully into another bowl she had prepared beforehand. Irene hops over, inspecting the broken egg before poking her beak into it, slurping up the yolk greedily. Carrie doesn’t stop her—waste not, want not. Besides, the crow deserved a treat after helping her all night.

  The summoning circle flickers one last time before fading entirely, the charcoal lines now just smudges on the floor. Carrie collapses onto her bony backside, staring at the meager haul. Three sacks of flour, a jug of milk, a dozen eggs (minus one), and no sugar. She hadn’t had enough mana left to even attempt it. The skeleton rubs her temples, the fire in her marrow guttering low. Tomorrow’s breakfast would be thin gruel and hardtack again. Maybe, if she was lucky, she could stretch the milk into a weak porridge for the wounded in the infirmary.

  A distant shout echoes from the courtyard—someone’s arguing. Carrie doesn’t bother looking up. Supply shortages meant tempers were fraying faster than old rope. Irene, however, hops to the windowsill, feathers puffed with curiosity. The crow lets out a series of rapid clicks, a sound Carrie’s learned means *trouble*.

  She’s about to shoo Irene down when the kitchen door slams open. A hulking figure fills the doorway—Sergeant Grish, a bearman and very much at the end of his temper. The fur around his muzzle is matted with old blood, and his chainmail hangs crooked, missing half its rings. He doesn’t bother with greetings. "Mess hall’s got two fistfights brewing, and the captain wants you to magic up some damn calming tea before he has to start breaking skulls."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Carrie’s fingers tighten around the empty summoning circle. Her mana’s spent, her bones aching from the effort but she knew what he meant with a calming tea. There where some special herb plants that has survived so far and prefered to grow in the winter that the captains of this fort drank when needing to stay awake and alert. But also had a mild calming effect when drank in smaller amounts and mixed with honey. Which was a luxury they didn’t have right now. She glanced at the cracked eggshell Irene was still picking at. *Desperate times.*

  "I can't *magic* anything right now, Sergeant," she said, her voice raspier than usual. "But I’ve got some frostleaf left. It’ll have to do."

  Grish’s muzzle wrinkled. "Frostleaf tastes like piss," he growled, but the slump of his shoulders betrayed his resignation. He knew as well as she did—options were thin. Carrie watched the bear-man’s claws flex, his temper barely leashed. If the mess hall was already at fists, frostleaf tea wouldn’t douse that kind of fire, but it might keep the captain from ordering a culling. Again.

  "Hey look up Sergeant, I've gotten at least some flour so Berta can finally bake some bread for breakfast tomorrow." Carrie said quickly, pointing to the sacks as Grish's massive frame hovered in the doorway. The bearman's nostrils flared as he sniffed the air, his dark eyes flicking toward the meager haul. For a tense moment, Carrie thought he might snap—either at her or the nearest wall—but then his shoulders dropped another inch.

  "Bread," he repeated, the word thick with something between hope and exhaustion. His claws tapped restlessly against the doorframe. "Better than hardtack. But the tea—"

  "I know." Carrie pushed herself upright, her bones clicking. Frostleaf grew in the fort's inner courtyard, stubborn as lichen between the stones. Harvesting it now meant braving the cold, but she'd done worse. "Give me twenty minutes."

  Grish grunted, which Carrie took as agreement. The moment he lumbered off, Irene launched from the windowsill, circling once before landing on Carrie's shoulder. The crow's weight was negligible, but the gesture was familiar—*I'm coming with you*.

  The courtyard was a graveyard of broken siege engines and frost. Carrie's footsteps crunched through the thin ice coating the flagstones, her fire affinity barely enough to keep the cold from seeping into her joints. The frostleaf clung to the north-facing wall, its silver-blue leaves curled tight against the chill. Carrie knelt, careful not to disturb the roots.

  "Don't suppose you could help pluck these?" she muttered to Irene. The crow responded by snatching a leaf in her beak and yanking—too hard. The stem snapped, sending a shower of icy droplets down Carrie's skull. "Or not."

  By the time she'd gathered enough leaves, her fingers were stiff, the marrow-fire within her guttering like a dying candle. The kitchen felt like a furnace in comparison. She dumped the frostleaf onto the counter, reaching for the mortar and pestle. Grinding the leaves released a sharp, medicinal scent that made Irene flap away with an offended squawk.

  The first pot of water was already boiling when the door creaked open again. Carrie didn't look up—until she heard the scrape of talons on stone. Not Irene's.

  A harpy stood in the doorway, her feathers ruffled and one wing hanging at an awkward angle. Lieutenant Veyla, from the look of her uniform's tattered remnants. The harpy's golden eyes fixed on the steaming mortar. "They said you were making tea," she rasped.

  Carrie's grip tightened on the pestle. Veyla wasn't supposed to be here—not after the last raid. The lieutenant had led the counterattack, and from the blood matting her breast feathers, it hadn't gone well. "You should be in the infirmary," Carrie said.

  Veyla's laugh was a dry crackle. "Infirmary's out of poultices. Figured I'd steal a sip before the captain drinks it all." She limped forward, her talons leaving faint scratches on the stone.

  Carrie hesitated. Frostleaf tea was bitter, barely palatable, but it numbed pain as well as nerves. And Veyla looked like she needed it—her feathers were patchy where they weren’t crusted with blood, and the way she favored her left side suggested broken ribs. The skeleton scooped half the crushed leaves into a second mug without comment, pouring boiling water over both. The steam smelled like winter and iron.

  Irene fluttered onto the counter, eyeing the harpy warily. Veyla ignored the crow, her gaze locked on the mug Carrie slid toward her. Her talons trembled as she wrapped them around the clay. "Captain’ll skin you for sharing," she muttered, but drank anyway, her throat working in quick, desperate gulps.

  "Let him try." Carrie stirred honey—the last of it—into the captain’s portion. A luxury, but one that might keep him from asking where the other half of the frostleaf went. "They pulled you out of the ravine, didn’t they?"

  Veyla’s laugh was a ragged thing. "Pulled. Dragged. Same difference." She set the empty mug down with a clatter, her talons leaving smears of dried blood on the clay. "Lost half the squad. Rest are still out there, pinned down by those thrice-damned ghouls."

  Carrie’s fingers stilled around the honey jar. The ravine was supposed to be safe—a shortcut for the supply caravan. If ghouls had infested it... She glanced at the pantry. Three sacks of flour wouldn’t matter if the fort starved waiting for a route that no longer existed.

  Irene hopped onto the harpy’s shoulder, pecking gently at a tattered feather. Veyla didn’t shrug her off. "They’re holed up in the old watchtower," she continued, voice lowered. "Ghouls can’t climb worth a damn, but they’ve got the place surrounded. Captain’s calling a rescue at dawn."

  Dawn. When Carrie’s mana would barely have refilled enough to summon a loaf of bread, let alone supplies for a mission. She pushed the captain’s tea aside. "How many are out there?"

  "Twelve. Maybe less by now." Veyla’s wings twitched, a grimace pulling at her beak. "We need rations. Medical supplies. And—" She hesitated, her gaze darting to the summoning circle’s smudged remains. "Something to burn the dead."

  Carrie’s marrow-fire flickered. Ghouls hated fire.

  The door burst open before she could respond—Grish, his muzzle flecked with fresh blood. "Captain’s losing his damn mind out there—" He froze, nostrils flaring as he took in Veyla. "Lieutenant. You’re supposed to be—"

  "Alive?" Veyla bared her teeth. "Reports of my death were exaggerated."

  Grish growled, but it lacked heat. He snatched the captain’s tea, downing it in one swallow despite the scalding heat. "They’re moving up the rescue. Now."

  Carrie’s bones clattered as she stood too fast. “*Now?*” Her marrow-fire dimmed—she hadn’t even begun to recover. Grish wiped his muzzle with the back of a clawed paw, his growl deepening.

  “Ghouls are tunneling. They’ll be under the tower by sunrise.” He crushed the empty mug in his grip, shards scattering across the stone. “No time for pretty plans.”

  Carrie’s fingers twitched toward the summoning circle’s remains—charcoal and desperation. Twelve soldiers needed fire, and she had embers where her heart should be. Irene pecked at her knuckles, insistent. “I know,” she muttered. The crow flapped onto the counter, seizing a half-rotten onion in her beak and dropping it into the mortar with a wet thud.

  Veyla’s feathers lifted. “What are you—?”

  “Distractions and preprations, its time for some old home alone defenses." Carrie muttered and began to work. Already planing in her head what to do. "Oh and Veyla? Catch!" Carrie said as she threw a minor health potion to the harpie's face before returning to her work. Barely hear the question of where she'd gotten her hands on the potion, "Made it myself before I got here, got few to spare. Now drink up, we need you in fighting condition."

  With practiced motions, Carrie snatched the onion Irene had dropped into the mortar and began grinding it into a pulpy mess. Her bony fingers moved with a speed that belied her exhaustion—this wasn’t just cooking anymore. This was alchemy. She tossed in crushed frostleaf, a pinch of sulfur scraped from the fort’s few remaining firestarter sticks, and the last dregs of honey. The mixture hissed as she poured boiling water over it, the stench sharp enough to make Grish’s ears flatten.

  "Firebombs?" Veyla rasped, clutching the health potion like a lifeline.

  "Firebombs. The simplest of them anyways." Carrie scooped the concoction into empty glass jars. "I got a handy little book given by a stoney friend of mine with some alchemy recpies to learn more when he found out I can do the basics of it with my cooking equipment. They don't pack a lot of punch per say....but they do spread wide and far if you throw them right."

  Grish exhaled through his nose, steam curling from his muzzle. "Ghouls burn easy," he admitted, flexing his claws. "But this won't be enough."

  Carrie's fingers hesitated over the last jar. "No. But..." She glanced at Irene, who cocked her head, then abruptly took flight—scrabbling at the rafters until she dislodged a small burlap bundle. It hit the counter with a clink of glass. Carrie untied the knot, revealing three vials of murky green liquid. "Spider venom," she said. "From the nests in the east barracks. I was saving it for broth—thins the blood, makes wounds bleed longer."

  Veyla's pupils dilated. "Mix that with fire, and—"

  "Ghouls don't just burn." Carrie's marrow-fire flickered in her ribcage. "They melt."

  Grish smiled for the first time in weeks—a jagged, toothy thing. "You're a nasty little thing, aren't you?" He snatched two jars, tucking them into his belt with surprising delicacy.

  Veyla downed the health potion in one gulp, her feathers fluffing as the magic knit her wounds. She seized the remaining firebombs, her talons clicking against the glass. "We'll need to move fast. Ghouls can smell weakness." Her voice was steadier now, the tremor gone.

  Carrie watched as the left, glad to be of help. But also dreading whats to come afterwards once its know a skeleton cook who can do basic alchemy. Its was bad enough when people was shocked that she was a sentient lesser skeleton with a cook class, know it was going to get worse when they learn she can do more than just cook. But she pushes the thoughts away, looking at Irene who was perched on her shoulder. "We got work to do."

  Carrie spent the rest of the night preparing for tomorrows breakfast, while also mentally preparing herself to what was to come soon enough.