As he worked, hands deep within the dough, he could hear his mother’s humming. Her careful instructions. Kaladin was wrong; Lunamor hadn’t become a cook. He’d always been one, since he could toddle up the stepstool to the counter and stick his fingers in the sticky dough. Yes, he’d once trained with a bow. But soldiers needed to eat, and nuatoma guards each did several jobs, even guards with his particular heritage and blessings.
