Morning sunlight spilled over the streets of the Royal Capital, illuminating the cobblestones and the endless stream of posters that seemed to appear overnight.
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Guild halls, marketplace boards, caravan stations, and busy crossroads all bore the same announcement.
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"High-End Restaurant Staff Recruitment – Location: Eddleguard City."
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At first, most people walked past without much interest.
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Another job notice.
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Another piece of paper.
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Then someone stopped.
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A young apprentice carrying a bundle of letters narrowed his eyes and leaned closer.
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"…Three… gold?"
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A baker's assistant beside him froze.
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"…Three gold per month… for a chef?" [≈ 300 USD / ≈ 270 EUR]
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A few more people gathered.
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"…Normal chefs get forty silver a month."
"…Waiters get ten, maybe twenty if they're lucky."
"…Cleaners usually just get meals."
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They kept reading.
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Chef: 3 gold per month [≈ 300 USD / ≈ 270 EUR]
Waiter/Waitress: 1 gold 20 silver per month [≈ 120 USD / ≈ 108 EUR]
Cleaner: 90 silver per month [≈ 90 USD / ≈ 81 EUR]
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Then another section caught their eyes.
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Employee Benefits (All Staff, First Ever in History):
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Private single room with a bed
Shared bathroom and toilet
Daily lunch allowance: 3 silver [≈ 3 USD / ≈ 2.7 EUR]
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"…They give rooms?"
"…To everyone?"
"…Even cleaners?"
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Murmurs spread, small and restrained, but filled with disbelief.
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Then someone read further down.
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And their face stiffened.
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Additional Requirements:
All employees must sign a high-grade magical contract.
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"…Contract?"
"…What kind of contract?"
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The explanation was written clearly and without mercy.
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The contract forbids leaking, selling, or hinting at any recipe or internal technique.
If the signer attempts to do so, they will feel excruciating pain.
If they still persist, they will lose the memory of the recipe entirely.
The contract holder will be notified immediately.
The violator will be arrested and imprisoned.
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The air around the board changed.
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"…Excruciating… pain?"
"…And memory loss?"
"…And prison…?"
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A man swallowed.
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"…That's… not a joke."
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A woman stepped back half a step.
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"…This isn't just a promise contract… this is a punishment contract…"
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Someone muttered quietly,
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"…That means they're absolutely serious about protecting the recipes."
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"…And it means if you sign it," another replied, "you can never betray them."
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Some people frowned.
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Some hesitated.
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A few quietly walked away.
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But many stayed.
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Because the rest of the poster was still there.
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The salary.
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The benefits.
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The unheard-of treatment.
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And then another line drew attention.
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Waiters and Waitresses must meet appearance, grooming, and etiquette standards.
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"…So they want good-looking staff."
"…High-end restaurant… figures."
"…Does that mean I'm out already?"
"…Maybe I still have a chance if I dress properly…"
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In another part of the capital, chefs were gathering around the same posters.
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"…Practical cooking test required."
"…Ingredients provided. Evaluation by head staff."
"…Three gold a month…"
"…I've cooked twenty years for forty silver. This is still… a lot."
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No one said it could buy a house.
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No one said it would change their life forever.
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But everyone understood it was rare.
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Very rare.
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Across the kingdom, the same posters appeared in other cities.
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At caravan stations.
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At guild halls.
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At employment offices.
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Everywhere, the same quiet discussions happened.
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"…Eddleguard is far…"
"…But the benefits…"
"…And the pay…"
"…And that contract is scary…"
"…But that also means the place is serious."
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In Eddleguard, the Astley estate was already preparing.
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Inside a large office, paperwork was stacking up at a frightening speed.
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"…We're going to need more desks."
"…And more clerks."
"…And more ink."
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Charles looked at the first report and exhaled slowly.
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"…It's started."
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The butler adjusted his glasses.
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"Yes, my lord. And once people realize how strict the contract is, only the truly serious ones will remain."
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Saphy sat on her chair, swinging her legs lightly.
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"…That's good," she said. "…I don't want people who only think about selling secrets anyway."
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Outside, the first real lines were forming.
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Guards kept order.
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Clerks called out names.
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Applicants whispered to each other.
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"…Three gold for a chef…"
"…Rooms and lunch…"
"…But that contract…"
"…If you sign it, there's no going back…"
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Some people turned back.
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Many didn't.
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They came anyway.
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Because this wasn't just a job.
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It was a serious workplace.
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With serious rules.
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And serious rewards.
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In Eddleguard, the Astley family waited.
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Tomorrow, the real screening will begin.
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And only those prepared to stake their future on skill, discipline, and loyalty would remain.
_________
The first morning in Eddleguard was crisp, the sun barely peeking over the estate walls.
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The courtyard of the Astley kitchen was quiet, except for the soft shuffle of shoes and the occasional nervous cough.
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Chefs from across the kingdom had gathered, their hands tight around knives, rolling pins, and aprons.
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Some were young, some middle-aged, some grizzled veterans—but all of them shared the same tension in their posture.
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The head invigilator stepped forward, robes neat, expression calm but commanding.
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"Welcome," he began, voice steady and clear, carrying across the courtyard.
"You have come here knowing the terms. Every one of you is aware of the magical contract you will sign should you join. The consequences for betrayal are severe. There will be no carelessness, no shortcuts, no excuses. This is why we expect seriousness, discipline, and skill."
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A hush fell over the crowd. Every chef straightened involuntarily, hearts beating faster.
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The invigilator raised a hand, and assistants rolled out tables, each laden with ingredients.
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"Each of you will receive the ingredients you requested beforehand. Nothing more, nothing less. You are responsible for your own technique, timing, and precision. The evaluation will be absolute. Those who fail will be dismissed immediately. Those who succeed may become part of the first staff of the Astley estate's high-end restaurant."
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The chefs' eyes darted to the tables. Perfect cuts of meat, fresh vegetables, rare spices, and carefully measured grains glimmered in the morning light.
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Everything they could possibly need had been prepared in advance.
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And yet, even with the perfect setup, the tension was suffocating.
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A young chef, barely twenty, wiped his palms on his apron.
"…I've trained for years… but this… this is different," he whispered to no one in particular.
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An older chef, arms crossed, muttered under his breath,
"…If I mess up now, all that experience means nothing."
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Some stared at their stations, breathing shallow, fingers twitching near their knives. Others silently closed their eyes for a brief moment, centering themselves.
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The invigilator's gaze swept across the group.
"Remember," he said, lowering his voice so everyone leaned in.
"The contract is not merely a formality. Carelessness will be punished. Loyalty and precision are as important as flavor. Every dish you create here will be judged not just for skill, but for discipline. Take your stations, and begin when instructed."
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The courtyard was silent except for the soft rustle of aprons and the distant clink of utensils.
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Each chef stepped forward to their table, inspecting the ingredients, feeling the weight of the moment.
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Some glanced at their neighbors, seeing equal tension mirrored on every face.
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Some silently cursed their own trembling hands.
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And some… silently smiled.
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This was the first real test, the one that would decide who could even reach the kitchens of the Astley estate.
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The air was electric with focus, nerves, and anticipation.
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The invigilator raised a hand.
"Begin."
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Immediately, the courtyard erupted into focused chaos.
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Knives flashed as chefs sliced vegetables with precise rhythm. Carrots, onions, and peppers fell into neat piles. Some chefs diced rapidly, a blur of motion, while others took slower, deliberate cuts, examining each slice for uniformity.
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On another side, meat sizzled as it hit hot pans. Garlic, herbs, and butter hissed together, releasing a sharp, savory aroma that curled into the air and made the stomachs of even the calmest spectators growl.
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One young chef, his face pale but determined, worked over a clay pot, carefully marinating chicken in layers of spice he had spent days perfecting. He stirred slowly, ensuring each piece absorbed the seasoning evenly.
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Nearby, an older chef, grizzled and experienced, wielded his cleaver with precision, cutting through thick cuts of beef with minimal effort. The sound of the blade striking the chopping board was steady and rhythmic, a stark contrast to the frenetic motions of some of the younger chefs.
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A pair of cooks focused on pastries. Flour dusted the air like fine snow as they kneaded dough, rolled it out, and cut precise shapes for later baking. Butter hissed as it hit a hot pan, mingling with the faint sweetness of vanilla and sugar.
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The scents combined into a rich tapestry: earthy vegetables, smoky meats, aromatic herbs, and warm, sweet dough. Each chef's table seemed to exude its own signature aroma.
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A nervous apprentice glanced at his neighbors. One was flambéing a sauce, flames licking the sides of a small pan, while another worked methodically on a delicate reduction, simmering it down to perfection.
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"…Focus…" he muttered under his breath, adjusting his grip on his knife.
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Sweat beaded on foreheads. Fingers trembled slightly as they chopped, stirred, and seasoned. Each movement carried weight. A slip could mean disqualification. A delay could cost precious minutes.
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One chef, working on a complex stew, leaned close to smell the aroma, adjusting seasoning with the tip of a spoon. Another flicked a spatula expertly, flipping thin slices of meat in a sizzling pan, listening for the right pop and sizzle.
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A younger chef working vegetables suddenly paused, eyes widening in panic. A small pile had been cut unevenly. She corrected it immediately, hands moving faster, trying to regain composure.
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The courtyard was alive with motion and sound: knives tapping, pans sizzling, spoons clinking, and the occasional murmur of frustration or relief.
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Invigilators moved quietly among the stations, eyes sharp, noting technique, timing, and precision. They did not speak. Their presence alone added weight to every action, making the chefs acutely aware of the stakes.
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The aroma of roasted meat, simmering broth, and fresh herbs mingled with the sound of intense concentration, creating a sensory tension that pressed on every participant.
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Some chefs paused momentarily, inhaling the scents to steady themselves. Others leaned into their rhythm, chopping, stirring, and tasting with an almost mechanical precision.
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And through it all, the knowledge of the magical contract lingered in the back of everyone's mind. Mistakes were not just failures—they were failures under watchful eyes, where the consequences for carelessness could be severe.
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Each table had its own identity:
One for delicate pastries and breads,
One for searing meats and sauces,
One for intricate vegetable preparations,
One for complex stews and marinades.
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The courtyard had transformed into a symphony of skill, tension, and aroma. Each chef moved with purpose, aware that today, every chop, stir, and sear was a statement of their ability—and their loyalty.
By the second day, the courtyard had transformed again—this time into a proper tasting arena.
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The judges, all members of the Astley castle kitchen staff, assembled around long tables, their aprons spotless, knives and spoons laid out for assessment. They moved with the practiced efficiency of people who had worked together for years, yet their eyes were sharp, critical, and unflinching.
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Each chef approached, presenting their dishes carefully, plates arranged with precision, aromas rising like an invisible halo.
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The first tasting began.
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A young chef, trembling slightly, presented a pan-seared fish with a delicate herb sauce. The head judge leaned forward, inhaled the aroma, and took a small bite. Silence followed.
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"…The fish is cooked perfectly," he said finally. "Moist, tender, not a hint of overcooking. The herbs are balanced. But the sauce needs more acidity to cut through the richness."
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The chef exhaled, both relieved and disappointed, scribbling notes furiously.
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Next, a stew arrived, thick with spices and slow-cooked vegetables. Another judge sampled, nodding slightly.
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"…The flavors are bold, layered. Timing is excellent. But the potatoes are slightly undercooked. Adjust your technique for consistency."
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Some chefs faltered as their dishes were tasted. A few had unevenly cooked meats, overly salty sauces, or pastry too dense. Their faces fell, shoulders slumping.
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"…I've failed…" one muttered quietly.
"…I'll have to try again…"
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The judges moved systematically, tasting each creation, offering succinct but meaningful feedback:
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"…Excellent caramelization here, but the seasoning is timid elsewhere."
"…Beautiful knife work, but timing on the garnish needs work."
"…Creative pairing, but texture of the sauce doesn't complement the main ingredient."
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The courtyard filled with quiet murmurs, the smell of roasting, baking, and herbs mingling with the tension of anticipation.
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By the end of the first two days, it became clear that some chefs were far above the rest. Their dishes not only met the technical requirements but carried flavor, creativity, and composure under pressure.
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The week stretched on. Each day brought new challenges: dishes that needed multi-course preparation, time-limited creations, and intricate plating that tested both skill and endurance.
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By the seventh day, the judges convened, murmuring amongst themselves in low tones. Originally, the plan had been to select ten chefs for the Astley estate kitchens.
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"…These four are exceptional," one remarked.
"…And these two have a flair for innovation," another added.
"…We can't leave out these others—they're seedlings of great talent," a third concluded.
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After deliberation, the number of chefs selected grew from ten to eighteen.
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Some chefs cried quietly, tears of frustration and relief mixing in equal measure. Some slumped in exhaustion, disappointed at their failure but determined to improve.
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Those chosen felt a mix of awe and nervousness—they knew that once they joined the Astley estate kitchens, the magical contract would bind them forever, ensuring loyalty and secrecy.
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For the castle kitchen staff, the week had been exhausting but gratifying. They had seen potential in the youngest applicants, skill in the seasoned veterans, and creativity that promised a new era for Astley cuisine.
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Outside, in Eddleguard, word began to quietly spread among the staff and recruits: the chefs chosen were exceptional, and the restaurant's kitchens would be stocked with talent unlike any seen before in the kingdom.
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And for the chefs themselves, this was only the first step. From here, every dish they prepared would carry both the prestige and the weight of the Astley name—and the strict, magical contract that ensured their loyalty.
The judges had tasted the first round, and the courtyard buzzed with anticipation.
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One by one, the selected chefs were called forward, presenting their dishes with care.
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First was Liora Vandren, nineteen, small and wiry, amber eyes focused sharply on her plate. Her movements were precise, her knife technique flawless, and her sense of balance perfect. She placed each slice exactly where it belonged, her calm demeanor belying the nerves beneath. The judges leaned in, tasting her perfectly seared fish with delicate herb sauce. Their eyes widened slightly—her timing, precision, and balance were extraordinary for her age.
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Next came Cael, tall, broad-shouldered, rugged hands showing years of labor. His roasted meats were hearty and robust, the seasoning bold. He exuded quiet confidence, a steady presence among the nervous young chefs.
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Elenora, twenty-six, with curly chestnut hair pulled back neatly, presented a tray of pastries. Her delicate features and graceful movements drew a quiet murmur from the judges. Each pastry was light, consistent, and visually elegant.
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Jarin, twenty-eight, lean with sharp gray eyes, chopped vegetables rapidly and precisely. His flavor combinations were inventive, though his plating sometimes betrayed nervousness.
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Rodric, thirty-two, stocky and muscular, handled large cuts of beef with practiced precision. Smoke and aroma rose in perfect harmony, demonstrating a methodical and reliable hand.
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Soren, twenty-one, youthful and freckled, focused on sauces and reductions. His movements were deliberate, tasting frequently, adjusting seasoning carefully. A slight tremor betrayed inexperience, but his talent shone through in complex flavors.
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Mavek, thirty-seven, broad-faced with a thick beard, worked a bubbling stew. Slow, methodical, and precise, every ingredient cooked to perfection, though his desserts lacked finesse. The judges noted his consistency and reliability.
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Thalia, twenty-four, slender and elegant, with long black hair flowing as she moved gracefully. Her seafood dishes were delicate, plated beautifully, her nerves almost invisible under pressure.
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Fenric, thirty, sharp-featured with dark eyes, had a bold flair. He experimented confidently with spices and unusual combinations, some risks paying off brilliantly, others drawing subtle critiques.
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Gideon, twenty-nine, muscular with a shaved head, grilled meats and hearty dishes expertly, his wide smile never faltering. Solid, dependable, but lacking the daring of younger competitors.
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Perrin, twenty-two, slim and agile, chopped with exceptional dexterity, though timing on larger dishes occasionally faltered. His quick hands were both his strength and weakness.
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Vaylen, thirty-three, tall and narrow-faced, focused on breads and dough-based items. Each loaf perfectly kneaded, baked, and scored. Calm, methodical, never rushed, though less flashy than the more experimental chefs.
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Dorian, twenty-five, wavy blond hair, athletic build, presented bold flavor pairings with a touch of creativity. His dishes impressed but occasionally lacked consistency.
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Kael, twenty-seven, short and stocky, excelled at roasting and grilling. Steady, dependable, and precise, though presentation lacked finesse.
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Luthor, thirty-one, angular-faced with a short beard, specialized in soups and sauces. Meticulous and slow, dishes nearly flawless in technique but conservative in creativity.
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Isran, twenty, lean and wide-eyed, displayed exceptional knife skill. Energy high, inexperience shown in timing errors, but recognized as a fast learner.
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Tybalt, twenty-three, tall with dark curls, focused on desserts. Some minor plating mistakes under pressure, but creative combinations noted. Nervous energy and enthusiasm evident.
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Finally, Darion, twenty-six, broad, strong, tanned from outdoor labor, excelled in hearty dishes. Steady hands and solid flavors made him a dependable candidate, though lacking finesse of younger experimental chefs.
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As the week went on, the judges tasted, critiqued, and observed every nuance of technique, timing, flavor, and presentation. The courtyard was filled with aromas of roasting meats, baking breads, simmering sauces, and fresh herbs, each table creating a distinct sensory signature.
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By the end of the week, the selection had been difficult. Originally, only ten chefs were to be chosen, but several candidates had shown remarkable talent.
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In the end, eighteen chefs were selected. The three women—Liora Vandren, Elenora, and Thalia—stood out not just for skill but composure and creativity under pressure. Liora, in particular, had impressed the judges with her knife technique, balance, and flawless execution, earning quiet nods of approval from the seasoned kitchen staff.
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Some chefs who had not made the cut slumped in disappointment, quietly accepting the verdict. Others clenched fists, determination burning in their eyes, already planning how to refine their skills for the next opportunity.
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The courtyard, once chaotic with chopping, searing, and stirring, now hummed with the aftermath of intense scrutiny. The Astley castle kitchen staff, having carefully tasted and observed each candidate, began organizing the new team that would become the backbone of the estate's ambitious restaurant venture.