The cart rattled away into the mist, leaving the group standing under a crooked streetlamp that buzzed like a drunken wasp.
Ash hefted Poffin higher on his shoulder with a grunt. The little guy mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "seven more pancakes please," and then flopped harder against him.
"Right," Ash said, glancing around. "First priority — find a roof before Poffin melts into a puddle."
Velvet nodded, brushing rain mist off her cloak. "There was an inn just up ahead. Looked decent."
Vix, twirling a dagger idly between her fingers, smirked. "Decent for us, or decent for normal people?"
"Normal-ish?" Velvet said dryly. "I think they let suspicious types stay, too. We'll blend right in."
Together they made their way down the sleepy street. Emberglow Enclave at night was a curious thing — lanterns hanging low from wires, the buildings carved directly into veins of reddish stone that shimmered faintly even without sunlight.
Here and there, night market stalls packed up their goods, and old women in patchwork cloaks muttered prayers to hearth-spirits as they doused their fires.
Seren kept a protective hand near her staff, scanning the quiet corners. Lyra admired the magic traces laced into the walls — old, potent things, woven into the very foundation of the town.
Ash... mostly just tried not to drop Poffin, who was somehow getting heavier by the second
"He's absorbing moisture," Ash muttered. "It feels like I'm carrying a soaked rag."
They spotted the inn at the corner — The Glowing Ember, a warm-looking place with crooked beams and the comforting smell of cinnamon bread leaking through the door. A carved wooden sign swung overhead, depicting a cheerful ember sprite with a mug in hand.
Ash pushed through the door first, the bell chiming softly above them.
Inside, the inn was cozy — low ceilings, heavy wooden beams, and a roaring hearth where a few locals nursed mugs of thick cider. The innkeeper, a short, square man with a magnificent moustache, raised an eyebrow at their entrance, but after one look at Poffin's pitiful half-conscious drape over Ash's shoulder, he just grunted and nodded toward the counter.
"Need rooms," Ash said shortly, trying to avoid waking the half-lump snoring into his collarbone.
"Got two upstairs," the innkeeper said, wiping his hands on a towel. "Big ones. You'll have to share."
Velvet stepped forward before Ash could open his mouth. "We'll take them."
She dropped a few coins onto the counter with a satisfying clink.
As they climbed the narrow stairs, Vix leaned toward Ash and whispered, "You realize you look like a single father of six right now?"
Ash's only response was a slow, steady glare that could have frozen lava.
Vix chuckled all the way to her room.
The rooms were snug, if anything, a little cramped — low ceilings, quilted beds, and windows that rattled when the wind blew. But after days on the road and a half-soggy cart ride, it might as well have been a palace.
Poffin barely touched the mattress before he faceplanted into it, dead to the world in an instant. A small snore escaped him, something between a purr and a hiccup, as his little limbs sprawled like an abandoned doll.
Ash stared at him for a moment, hands on his hips. "Bet he's dreaming of wagyu."
Velvet chuckled, already setting her things down neatly by the corner. "Or an entire cow."
The others shuffled around, claiming beds and staking their tiny territories like a rowdy band of exhausted raccoons. Seren offered a prayer of thanks to the hearth spirits, while Kale immediately fell into a paladin's very dignified sprawl across his bed, boots and all. Vix, of course, vanished without a word—probably casing the building in case of 'emergency window exits.' Lyra tried to unpack a book, dropped it, and muttered arcane insults under her breath.
Velvet peeled off her cloak and tossed it on the nearest chair. She shot a glance over to Ash, who was loosening the straps on his gear.
"You handled yourself well today," she said lightly.
Ash snorted. "Handled a sack of bricks with legs, you mean."
"I meant the leadership," Velvet said, half-smiling. "And the patience. Especially when your... second-in-command was barking nonsense orders at everyone."
Ash stretched his arms over his head with a groan. "It's a talent. I just pretend he's speaking a very specific dialect of madness."
Velvet laughed — a soft sound, warm despite the long day.
"Get some rest," she said, her voice gentler now. "Tomorrow's another long one."
"You too," Ash said, giving a casual salute. "And don't let Poffin claim your pillow. He bites."
Velvet smirked. "I'll keep that in mind."
The candles burned low as one by one, the party drifted off into sleep. Outside the inn, the wind sighed against the glowing walls of Emberglow. In the deep hours of the night, even the ever-watchful spirits of the Enclave seemed to rest easy.
For now.
---
Morning broke with the kind of blinding optimism only a town festival could summon. Emberglow's streets were practically bursting at the seams — colorful banners fluttered between the buildings, the smell of roasted meats and fresh pastries thick enough to choke a wyvern, and the sound of clanging pots somehow blended into a half-decent melody.
The party found themselves wandering into the heart of it: the Town Plaza. And what a heart it was — bustling with competitors setting up and preparing days before "The Emberglow Annual Master Cook Competition!"
Ash squinted up at the gaudy lettering. "Master Cook, huh? Wonder if there's a prize for 'Most Likely to Set the Kitchen on Fire.'"
Velvet elbowed him lightly. "Careful, or you'll get drafted."
But it wasn't Ash they had to worry about.
Poffin, who had been sleepwalking through town like a sack of yawns, suddenly froze.
He blinked once. Sniffed the air twice.
Then, with the solemnity of a holy man receiving a vision, he bolted.
"Poffin?!" Seren called after him, but it was too late — he was already weaving through the crowd like a furry missile.
They caught up to him seconds later, finding him standing dead center among the stalls — utterly awestruck.
Around him, vendors shouted for attention, handing out tiny bite-sized samples of stews, candies, roasts, and breads. Sizzling sounds, the pop of caramelizing sugar, the steam rising like divine offerings into the morning sky... It was, for Poffin, a glimpse of paradise.
He muttered something, wide-eyed, his paws trembling slightly — an incoherent stream of what could only be described as tearful joy. Ash, translating out of habit, murmured to the others:
"He says... he has found the Promised Land."
Velvet watched in amusement as a nearby baker, mistaking Poffin's reverent stare for hunger (which, fair enough), handed him a skewered meat sample. Poffin took it with shaking hands, whispered something heartfelt, and popped it into his mouth with a blissed-out sigh that could've melted glaciers.
"I think," Velvet said, folding her arms, "we've lost him."
From the corner of the plaza, a booming voice called out:
"All competitors for the Open Challenge of Master Cooks, report to the registration stations!"
Poffin's ears twitched.
His head swiveled.
A slow, devilish grin crept up his face.
Ash immediately felt a spike of dread. "Oh no. No, don't you even think about it—"
But Poffin was already marching toward the signup booth, shoulders squared like a warrior going to war.
They followed after Poffin, weaving through the bustling plaza, trying to catch up before the disaster fully committed itself.
Ash was the first to voice it, muttering as he jogged beside Velvet, "Am I the only sane one left wondering how he plans to cook anything when he only knows how to eat?"
Seren, trotting behind, added thoughtfully, "Technically, he's a master of consumption. Not necessarily creation."
"Big difference," Vix chimed in, twirling a dagger in one hand. "One makes a steak. The other steals it."
Ash sighed heavily, catching up to the fluffball of chaos just as Poffin was scribbling something onto the competition roster.
"Poffin," Ash tried, "maybe think this through, buddy. You're not exactly—"
Poffin turned around, eyes fierce, voice low with dramatic weight.
"Let me cook," he declared.
The plaza seemed to fall silent around them (or maybe it was just in Ash's head).
Velvet tilted her head, studying Poffin. Then, in typical Velvet fashion, she shrugged. "Well... it was why we came here."
Ash gave her a look that could only be translated as 'Please do not encourage the feral gremlin.'
Velvet smiled sweetly, ignoring him.
"The prize for winning the Open Challenge isn't just gold or fame," she reminded them all, voice turning sharp with purpose. "It's access to Emberglow's private archives. Culinary secrets, ancient recipes, and historical records. Including—" she gave a meaningful glance to Ash, "—a cookbook for using Emberglow Sugar the right way, which weirdly doubles as a Flufferbeast history archive. The days when Flufferbeasts were more than just folklore"
Ash muttered under his breath, "You mean back when physics still made sense."
But Velvet wasn't backing down. Neither was Poffin, who now stood at the center of the registration booth like some pint-sized general surveying his battlefield.
Ash rubbed his temples. "So we're putting our hopes of accessing vital historical documents... on the culinary skills of a food vacuum."
Poffin nodded sagely.
Vix snickered. "Honestly? Could be worse."
"Yeah?" Ash growled. "How?"
Vix shrugged. "Could be me."
Fair point.
The fate of historical discovery — and probably their dignity — now rested in the furry paws of someone whose only known culinary technique was enthusiastic consumption.
Ash pinched the bridge of his nose. "We're doomed."
Velvet simply grinned, the glint of adventure already in her eyes.
"Have a little faith," she said. "After all... he did say to 'let him cook.'"
And as they turned back toward the competition grounds, Poffin was already surveying the ingredients tables like a warlord eyeing enemy territory.
The group made their way over to a massive board tacked with rules, scrawled in proud, overdecorated handwriting. It looked like it hadn't been updated in twenty years — give or take a few gravy stains.
Ash read aloud, deadpan, "'Each cook must compete in pairs. Solo entries are prohibited. Cooperation is key to the Emberglow Spirit.'"
The group turned almost simultaneously to stare at Poffin, who was proudly flexing his nonexistent muscles in preparation.
Silence.
Then Seren, voice as sweet as honey, said, "Well, Vix is good with knives. She could be Poffin's partner."
Everyone froze.
Ash turned slowly to Seren like she had just suggested lighting themselves on fire for warmth.
"You're suggesting Vix?" he said flatly.
Even Vix raised a brow. "Hey," she said defensively, crossing her arms. "I can cook."
Lyra snorted. "Yeah, if the goal is slow, painful death."
"I am right here, you know," Vix said, poking a thumb into her own chest.
Kale, in all his well-meaning, golden retriever-like glory, chimed in helpfully. "I think your cooking's not that bad, Vix."
She beamed — for all of two seconds.
Then Kale continued, thoughtfully scratching his chin, "I mean... it's at least edible. Mostly. Barely."
Vix's smile cracked.
A meaty thwack echoed across the plaza as she smacked Kale upside the head with the back of her hand.
"Thanks for the glowing endorsement, your highness," she muttered, while Kale winced and muttered something about 'constructive criticism.'
Meanwhile, Ash was pinching the bridge of his nose again like a man who had seen his future, and it involved flames.
"We are so screwed."
Velvet, however, merely clasped her hands behind her back and leaned toward Poffin, who was watching the entire scene with the detached air of a king overseeing a particularly lively court.
"Well, your majesty," Velvet teased lightly. "Since you need a partner and the chefs here are... less than inspired... what will you do?"
Poffin puffed up his cheeks thoughtfully, then tapped a tiny paw against his chin. Finally, he pointed a dramatic claw at Ash.
Everyone turned to stare at him.
Ash pointed to himself, dumbfounded. "Me? You want me?"
Poffin nodded firmly.
As if to say, You are my only hope, you halfway-competent sandwich. You're the only one who understands me.
Ash groaned. "Why do I feel like this is going to end with me on fire?"
Vix grinned wolfishly. "Probably because it will."
Velvet only laughed, her voice light and knowing.
"Relax, Ash. Just... let him cook."
Ash didn't know if it was destiny calling, or just plain stupidity dragging him deeper.
Ash and Poffin approached the sign-up table, where a middle-aged man with half-moon spectacles and the permanent expression of someone spiritually allergic to paperwork sat slumped behind a cluttered desk.
"Team name?" the man asked without looking up.
Ash hesitated.
Poffin, however, dramatically slapped the parchment with a pawprint.
The registrar finally peered up... squinting at the creature now gleaming with terrifying confidence.
"Uh..."
He leaned closer.
"Is... is he... your cook?" the registrar asked, voice straining under the realization.
Ash scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah. Partner too."
The registrar opened the massive tome of contest rules with a thud, thumbing through it furiously like it might save his sanity.
"No bribery... no familiars without summoner oversight... no mechanical golems, no drugs... no ghost chefs... uh... no banshee infestations...no possession of deceased ancestor to win competition, huh. Nothing about—uh, whatever he is."
He looked back up, defeated.
"Well, no rules against whatever that is. You're in."
Poffin beamed, victorious.
Ash gave a tight smile, the type you give when you realize the train has already left the tracks but you're too polite to point it out.
Meanwhile—
A loud, unmistakably whiny voice pierced the plaza from the next registrar booth over.
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN I CAN'T ENTER WITH MAELGRA?!"
Heads turned.
And there, wild hair and all, stood none other than Holt — Ash's ever-charming rival Beast Tamer — who looked like he was two seconds away from flipping the whole table.
And perched indignantly on Holt's shoulder, somehow tiny compared to their last encounter, was Maelgra, the once-mighty wyrmling who now barely had the mass of a fat housecat. She squeaked in fury, as if threatening mortal peril in a voice too squeaky to be taken seriously.
Ash blinked.
"...Why is Maelgra travel-sized now?"
Velvet muttered, "Maybe he washed her wrong."
Lyra snorted into her hand.
Seren, trying to be optimistic, said, "Maybe she's going through a second childhood?"
Vix leaned on Ash's shoulder, grinning. "Maybe he just keeps losing that badly."
Holt was still throwing a fit.
"I demand a recount! A revision! A completely new set of rules! This is discrimination against dragons!"
The registrar he was yelling at calmly pointed to a faded poster stuck to the side of the booth:
"Contestants must be of cooking-capable intelligence."
"Maelgra is plenty intelligent!" Holt snapped.
The registrar shrugged with the apathy of a man who had seen twenty-six competitors cry before lunch. "Tell it to the judging committee."
Maelgra, as if sensing the gravity of the moment, tried to blow a majestic flame...
and instead coughed up a tiny, sad spark.
Ash couldn't help it.
He laughed.
Quietly, but it was there, betrayed by the shake of his shoulders.
Poffin grunted and tugged at Ash's apron, as if to say, Focus. We have a destiny to claim.
Ash sighed, shaking his head.
"Alright, alright. Let's get cooking, your highness."
Velvet, arms crossed, just smirked. "This will be... entertaining."
And as Holt fumed and Maelgra squeaked murderously, Ash and Poffin marched proudly back home — the first sparks of a legendary disaster already in the making.
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