The cold from the damp earth has seeped into my marrow. I wake before the sun, my neck screaming from sleeping against the silver titan root. The blue moon is still high, casting its clinical, frozen light over the campsite. My fingers are numb, the joints stiff and slow as I try to curl them into a fist.
Across the dead fire, Dorian is already awake.
He stands by the clearing's edge, staring into the dark thicket where the mirror-eyed creature was lurking. His sword is unsheathed, the steel resting casually against his thigh. He looks as though he hasn't slept a minute.
"It's gone," he says, not turning around.
"The thing with the mirror eyes?" I push myself up, my muscles complaining with every inch. "What was it?"
"A Skulker. They hunt by scent." He finally turns, his expression unreadable in the moonlight. "They don't usually track parties this size. They're cowardly things, unless they find something they've never tasted before."
His gaze drops to my backpack. My chest tightens, a sudden surge of heat flooding my cheeks despite the morning chill. He knows the "something" is me—or rather, the spices in my bag.
"We leave in five minutes," he says. "The Star-Deer meat is already drawing more than just Skulkers. We need to reach the walls of Thorne's Watch before the sun reaches its zenith."
The soldiers wake with a chorus of groans and the rattle of armor. They don't look like the same defeated men from yesterday. They move with an unnatural, brisk efficiency, their eyes bright. The mana in the Star-Deer stew has given them an edge they clearly aren't used to.
We march.
***
Thorne's Watch appears on the horizon like a jagged, wooden jaw against the mountainside.
The outpost is a sprawl of sharpened logs, grey stone, and mud-slicked paths. It's a border town in every sense. It smells of wet horses, stale ale, and the persistent, ozone-tinged scent of woodsmoke. Even from a mile away, the noise is a constant, low thrum—blacksmiths' hammers, shouting merchants, and the distant, rhythmic chanting of mages maintaining the perimeter runes.
The gate is a massive slabs of dark-stained oak. Guards in rusted mail stand atop the ramparts, their crossbows pointed toward the treeline. They don't look welcoming.
As we reach the perimeter, a boy darts through the muddy street. He's maybe twelve, skin smudged with soot and grease, wearing a tunic three sizes too large. He's weaving through the crowd like a fish in a stream, but as our group nears, he stops dead.
He doesn't look at Dorian. He doesn't look at the Royal prize on the pole.
He looks at me. His nose twitches.
"Boss," the kid whispers. It's not directed at anyone, just a hushed exhilation of breath.
"Out of the way, urchin," one of the soldiers grunts, pushing past.
The boy stumbles, but his eyes never leave my pack. There's an intensity there that's more than just hunger. It's recognition. My stomach flips. If this kid can sense the Earth-side ingredients through three layers of canvas and leather, I'm in more trouble than Dorian promised.
We pass through the inner gates. The air here is thicker, heavy with the scent of the local market. A street vendor is frying something on a flat iron plate nearby.
The scent is greasy and metallic. I watch a soldier buy a stick of whatever it is. It looks like a fried centipede leg, coated in a dull red powder. He bites down. The crunch is audible—sharp and dry—and a thick, grey juice spatters his chin. The taste must be horrific; his face twists in a grimace before he swallows.
*Food Item 1: Fried Skitterer-Leg. Texture: Glass-hard exterior with a mealy, sour interior. Smell: Burned copper and stagnant swamp water.*
"Wait here," Dorian says as we reach the garrison headquarters. He hands my cleaver to the guard with the broken nose. "If she moves toward the gates, break her legs. I need to speak with the High Inquisitor."
I'm left standing in the center of the muddy square. I'm an anomaly. People in tunics made of coarse, scratchy wool stare at my synthetic hoodie. They whisper. They point at my sneakers.
The soot-smudged boy from the gate is back. He's leaning against a hitching post ten feet away, watching me with those wide, hauntingly observant eyes.
"You smell like blue mountains," the boy says suddenly. His voice is raspy, like he's been shouting in the cold.
"I don't know what that means," I say, keeping my voice low. I'm hyper-aware of the guard behind me.
"Everything here smells like dust and blood," the kid continues, stepping a few inches closer. "Even the fancy folk in the Upper District. But you... you smell like somewhere else. Somewhere where the salt doesn't burn."
My pulse leaps into a frantic rhythm. "Get lost, kid. You're gonna get me in trouble."
"I'm Finn," he says, ignoring my warning. "I have a golden tongue. I can taste the air. You've got magic in your bag. Not the chanting kind. The kind you eat."
I don't have time to answer. The heavy doors of the garrison swing open. Dorian emerges, his face set in a hard, grim line. Beside him is a woman dressed in flowing, blood-red robes with gold trim. She has hair the color of bone and eyes that look like they've seen every lie ever told in Valdris.
This must be the Inquisitor.
"Millie Chen," the woman says. Her voice is like ice skating over velvet. "Commander Ashford tells me you've performed an undocumented miracle with the carcass of a Star-Deer."
"I cooked dinner," I say. My jaw is tight. "No miracle involved."
"Everything is a miracle until you know the mechanics," she says, descending the stone steps. She stops right in front of me, her height making her feel like a looming shadow. "I am High Inquisitor Ravenna Thorne. I regulate the purity of what enters the bodies of our citizens. Tell me, Millie, where do you source your seasonings?"
My brain flashes through the options. The lie has to be solid. "The Seas of the Ash-Lands," I say. "In the far West. My family were merchant-cooks. We harvest the salt from the volcanic vents."
Ravenna tilts her head. She reaches out a hand—her fingers are long, tipped with gold-dipped nails—and strokes the canvas of my backpack.
"The Ash-Lands are a myth," she says softly. "But the energy coming from this bag is not. I smell primal mana. Something this kingdom hasn't seen in three centuries."
She looks at Dorian. "If this is what I think it is, she's not a poacher. She's a gold mine. Or a heretic."
Dorian's hand moves to his sword pommel, but it's a reflexive, protective twitch. He doesn't look at her. "She's a prisoner. If she's a heretic, that's your jurisdiction. If she's a chef, the King wants her in the Royal Kitchens."
"We shall see," Ravenna says. She turns back to me. "The garrison is preparing a feast tonight for the departing northern fleet. You will assist. You will use your... 'Ash-Land' ingredients. If the effects are as the Commander described, you will live. If my men suffer any side effects, you will be burned in the square before sunset."
They drag me into the garrison kitchen.
It's a cavernous, stone-walled hall. Heat blasts from five different hearths. It smells of old flour and wet dog. The head chef here is a massive man named Tobias who looks at me like I'm a cockroach he found in the soup.
"I don't need help," Tobias bellows, slamming a meat mallet onto a bench. "Especially not from a girl who dresses like a tavern wench's bad dream."
"Orders are orders, Tobias," the guard says, shoving me toward a station.
I look at what he's cooking. A massive cauldron of what can only be described as grey pottage. There's grain floating in it, but it's swollen and waterlogged.
"This is what you're serving the soldiers who protect this wall?" I ask. My chef instincts override my fear for a second. The pottage smells of iron and despair.
Tobias scowls. "They're lucky to get that. We've had a blight on the grain for three months. Everything tastes like dirt."
I look at the remaining Star-Deer meat on the table. The heart and liver are there—high mana, high iron, but difficult to cook if you don't know what you're doing.
"Give me the heart," I say.
"The what?" Tobias laughs. "That's offal. We throw that to the hounds."
"The hounds aren't fighting a war," I say, stepping into my role. My fear vanishes, replaced by the familiar, cold clarity of a busy service. "Clean the hearth. I need the highest heat you've got."
The next four hundred words of my life are a blur of motion. I don't wait for permission. I grab the Star-Deer heart—a massive, purple organ that pulses with a faint, residual rhythm.
*Food Item 2: Sizzling Star-Deer Heart Medallions. Scent: Iron, wildflowers, and deep, woodsy clove. Taste: Metallic, gamey, but with a surprising buttery sweetness. Texture: Dense and snapping on the outside, succulent and tender on the interior.*
I slice the heart into perfect circles. I use a heavy iron skillet, getting it white-hot.
Tobias watches, his jaw hanging open as I work. He's never seen Earth-side knife skills. The way I dice the local 'stone-onions'—a vegetable with a skin like flint—is too fast for him to follow.
I pull the jar of sea salt from my bag. The High Inquisitor is watching from the doorway. Dorian is there too, shadowed and silent.
I sprinkle the salt.
The salt hits the Star-Deer fat and the reaction is immediate. The steam rising from the pan isn't just steam—it's iridescent. Small sparks of white light dance in the air above the skillet. The aroma hits the kitchen staff like a physical blow. Two dishwashers drop their trays. Tobias actually stumbles back, his hand over his heart.
I deglaze the pan with a local, fermented honey-mead. It hisses, a cloud of gold-tinged vapor filling the room.
"Done," I say, plating the heart on a silver tray someone brought in.
I look at Ravenna. "Eat."
The Inquisitor steps forward. She doesn't use a fork. She uses those gold-tipped nails to pick up a slice of the heart. The juice runs down her finger, a dark, rich violet.
She takes a bite.
Her eyes roll back for a fraction of a second. Her breathing Hitches. A flush of heat rises up her neck, coloring her pale skin.
"I can feel the blood moving," she whispers. "I can feel every vein in my body."
She looks at me, and for the first time, I see genuine fear in her bone-colored eyes. Not because she thinks I'm a monster, but because she knows what I just did to the balance of power in this kingdom.
"This isn't cooking," Ravenna says, her voice trembling. "This is alchemy without a circle."
Dorian moves closer, his shadow falling over my station. He looks at the tray, then at me. There's a new tension in his shoulders—a protective, wary energy.
"Millie," he says softly.
"Don't," I cut him off. "I did what she asked."
A scream rings out from the garrison square.
The heavy doors burst open. The young boy, Finn, runs in, his face pale with terror.
"They're coming!" he shrieks. "The blight-monsters from the treeline! The runes are failing!"
Dorian's sword is out in a heartbeat. He looks at me, then at the tray of mana-infused food.
"Eat!" Dorian bellows to the guards in the room. "If you want to live through the night, eat every bite of that meat!"
As the soldiers scramble for the tray, Dorian grabs my wrist and hauls me toward the back exit.
"Ravenna will take you now if she can," he says, his voice urgent against my ear. "She doesn't want to regulate you. She wants to own the source of that power."
"The portal is closed, Dorian! There is no source!"
We reach the back alley, mud splashing up our legs. The kid, Finn, is right on our heels.
"The back gate," Finn says, his eyes wide. "I know the way through the sluice tunnels. They won't look there."
"Why are you helping us?" I gasp, clutching my bag.
Finn looks at me, a strange, knowing smile on his soot-streaked face. "Because I want to taste what you cook when you aren't afraid of dying."
I look back at the garrison. Smoke is beginning to rise. The screams of monsters are getting closer. My first restaurant isn't an establishment; it's a desperate flight through the mud.
The secret is safe for now, but the hunger has started. And it's not just for the food.
It's for the girl who brings the magic.
"Run," Dorian commands, shoving me toward the tunnel. "And don't look back."
As I slide into the dark, damp hole in the earth, the last thing I see is Ravenna Thorne watching us from the kitchen window, her eyes fixed on my backpack.
The secret isn't a wall. It's a target.
And I just painted it bright red.
As they disappear into the tunnels, the first monster—a creature made of rotting grain and jagged bone—reaches the kitchen door. Behind Millie, in the darkness of the tunnel, something else lets out a low, predatory chuffing sound. They aren't alone.*