The kitchen smelled of onions, garlic, and sharp spices. Ael stood over the wooden table, his small hands moving carefully. He cut the carrots into thin rounds, each slice even and shining with their bright color. Then came the potatoes, peeled smooth and diced into small neat cubes. His knife did not stumble; his focus was sharp, his movements steady, as if each cut was a piece of art.
He dropped the vegetables into a heavy iron pot, where butter was already melting into gold. The sound of the sizzle filled the air, followed by the rising perfume of spice—pepper, cumin, a touch of chili, and the faint sweetness of cinnamon. Ael stirred slowly, his wrist moving with a rhythm, pouring in broth with one hand and sprinkling crumbled cheese with the other.
The stew thickened, rich and creamy, colors blending like a painting. His face, though simple and small, carried a strange glow as he worked. It was not beauty in looks, but beauty in skill and passion.
From the far end of the kitchen, unseen by others, Kael's eyes lingered. He watched the way Ael leaned forward slightly, biting his lip in concentration, unaware of the gaze upon him. The prince's heart beat heavier than the boiling stew.
The long royal table gleamed under golden chandeliers. Silver dishes were carried in one after another—roasted pheasant, honey-glazed bread, spiced wine, and rich sauces. The chef's creations were set proudly before the king. But among them, two smaller bowls rested quietly—Ael's dishes. One of them was the spiced cheese stew.
Everyone began to eat. Laughter filled the hall, spoons clinking, voices rising in cheer. The king praised the chef's roast, while the queen admired the sweetness of the bread. Ael's stew, however, sat quietly at Kael's place, steam curling upward like a secret waiting to be discovered.
Kael lifted his spoon with little interest in the royal dishes before him. His eyes lowered to the stew, its golden broth thick and speckled with vegetables, the melted cheese binding it all together. He stirred once, then brought the first spoonful to his lips.
The taste struck him instantly—warm, spiced, sharp, and soothing at once. It carried none of the heavy pride of the royal meals, but instead a quiet strength, simple yet unforgettable. His chest tightened. He wanted more, yet he forced his face still, expression unreadable.
While the others continued laughing and eating, Kael set his spoon down, pushing aside the untouched royal dishes. He cleared his throat and rose from his seat.
"Excuse me," he said evenly. "I have work to attend."
Nobody questioned him. The king waved him off, still busy praising the roast. Kael walked away, but in truth, he only left because he could not show how deeply that simple stew had touched him.
From his place near the servants' corner, Ael stood silently, hands folded, watching the great feast unfold.
He dared to lift his eyes when Prince Kael touched the stew. Just a small glance, stolen quickly, but enough to see him taste it. Ael held his breath, waiting for even the smallest sign—approval, dislike, anything.
But Kael's face remained unreadable, the same cold mask he always wore. Ael's chest sank. Did it taste poorly? Was it not enough for a prince? He bit his lip, lowering his gaze to the floor.
Then, unexpectedly, Kael rose from the table, leaving behind most of the feast but finishing more of Ael's stew than the rest. No one seemed to notice. But Ael did.
A flicker of warmth stirred in his heart, though doubt still shadowed it. "Maybe… just maybe," he thought, "he liked it."
The heavy door of his chamber closed behind him with a thud, shutting out the noise of the royal dining hall. Kael loosened his collar, pacing slowly across the room. His mind replayed the taste that still lingered on his tongue—spiced stew, rich and warm, nothing like the endless bland royal feasts.
For the first time in years, he felt… hungry again. Not for luxury, but for that taste.
He rang the bell by his bedside, and when his maid entered, he spoke firmly yet calmly.
"Bring me that stew," he said. "The one the kitchen boy made. Serve it here, in my chamber."
The maid froze for the briefest moment, eyes flickering with surprise. It was rare—almost unheard of—for the prince to request a dish by name, especially one made by a lowly kitchen boy. She quickly lowered her gaze, masking her thoughts behind obedience.
"As you command, Your Highness," she said softly, bowing before leaving the chamber.
He could almost see the boy's focused hands, the way he poured the broth with care.
The kitchen was still alive with the after-rush of dinner. Pots clattered, flames hissed, and the air was heavy with spices and roasted meats. Ael stood near the chopping board, carefully cleaning the knife he had used for his stew, his fingers still smelling faintly of peppers and herbs. His sister was stacking plates, while his father gave quiet instructions to the younger helpers.
Suddenly, the sound of silk shoes against the stone floor silenced the room. The maid—Kael's personal maid—entered, her presence enough to make even the head chef pause. She bowed politely, her voice steady yet carrying authority.
"The Crown Prince has sent me," she announced. "He wishes to be served the spiced stew… in his chamber."
The room went still. For a moment, no one moved. The head chef blinked in surprise—royalty rarely called dishes to their chambers, let alone one made by a young assistant.
Ael froze, his heart thudding against his ribs. The prince… asked for my stew?
His sister's eyes widened, then softened with a proud smile, while one of the older kitchen mates chuckled, whispering, "Our little brother has caught the prince's tongue."
The head chef finally broke the silence. "Well then," he said, his voice both stern and proud. "Ael, prepare a fresh serving at once. And be quick—His Highness waits for no one."
Ael's hands trembled slightly as he reached for the pot. He tried to steady himself, pouring the golden broth into a polished silver bowl. He sprinkled the final touch of herbs—just the way he had done before—only this time, every movement felt heavier, as though the prince himself were watching.
As the maid took the tray, her eyes flickered toward Ael. For the briefest second, there was curiosity there, maybe even respect, before she turned briskly away.
When the door closed behind her, Ael stood still, breath caught in his chest. Why me? Why my dish? he wondered, his mind a storm of confusion and something… warmer, unspoken.
The chamber was dimly lit by tall candles, shadows swaying across the heavy velvet curtains and the carved wooden pillars. Kael sat at his long desk, papers scattered before him—military reports and letters from distant allies. Yet his eyes were fixed on none of them.
When the door opened, his maid stepped in with a silver tray. She lowered it carefully, the aroma of Ael's stew immediately filling the room. The fragrance was strong yet warm, spiced but comforting—so unlike the heavy, bland royal feasts he had grown tired of.
Kael leaned back in his chair, his sharp gaze resting on the bowl. He waved the maid away with a dismissive flick of his fingers. He wanted no audience. Only the dish.
When the door closed, he reached for the spoon slowly, as though savoring the moment before even tasting it. The broth shimmered, golden and rich. He took one small sip.
His lips curled into something rare—a smile.
This… this is different.
It has fire, it has heart.
Another spoonful. And another. Soon, the prince was no longer sitting with his usual grace but leaning forward, devouring each bite with quiet hunger. The flavors clung to his tongue—spice, cheese, the earthy sweetness of slow-cooked vegetables—and beneath it all, something else. A trace of the boy who made it.
Kael set the spoon down for a moment, fingers tapping the edge of the bowl. His thoughts turned sharp.
Ael. The kitchen boy. Small, unremarkable to most. But this… this is not the work of someone ordinary.
His jaw tightened. He could not let his curiosity be seen, not in a palace where his father's eyes were everywhere, judging, condemning. And yet, he knew he would call for the stew again. Not only for the taste… but for the maker.
The storm outside rumbled faintly, but Kael barely noticed. He leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment. His lips still burned with spice, and he thought—dangerously—of the boy who had created it.
And for the first time, Kael found himself impatient for tomorrow's meal.