Rumi pushed through a swinging door that led into what I could only assume was the kitchen. The heavy wooden panel slammed behind us with a dull thud that sounded suspiciously like the closing of a prison cell.
"Here you go, snow-top. Your palace for the evening."
I stopped dead in my tracks. The smell hit me first—a nauseating cocktail of stale ale, congealed animal fat, and wet, rotting wood. My eyes traced the source to what could only be described as the Eighth Wonder of this godforsaken world: a monument to human gluttony constructed entirely of dirty dishes.
They rose from the washbasin in geological layers, each strata marking a different meal service. At the bottom, breakfast plates crusted with dried egg yolk. In the middle, lunch bowls with the remnants of some unidentifiable stew hardened into cement. And crowning this masterpiece, dinner plates still glistening with fresh grease, precariously balanced like a drunkard playing Jenga.
"You cannot be serious," I said, my voice flat with disbelief.
Across the kitchen, a stout figure grunted without looking up from the counter he was wiping down. He stood about chest-high to me, but what he lacked in height he made up for in width. His massive beard was braided into intricate patterns that put my peasant tunic to shame. A dwarf, if I had to guess, based on the proportions.
"Three festivals' worth of carnage, that," he said, his voice a rumbling bass note. "Been building all day. Cook don't clean, that's the rule."
I turned to Rumi, ready to negotiate a different arrangement. Something dignified. Something that didn't involve my hands touching whatever that black substance was crusted onto the bottom of that pot.
In my past life, I employed people whose entire job was to ensure I never had to look at something like this. I had people who employed people who made sure I never had to look at something like this. I was so removed from dirty dishwater that I could have claimed ignorance about the entire concept of plates needing to be cleaned at all.
Rumi must have read my thoughts because her smile stretched into something positively predatory. She reached up and patted my shoulder with exaggerated sympathy, her hand lingering just long enough to feel condescending.
"Have fun, snow-top," she said, her voice sickeningly sweet. "Soap's under the sink. Don't break anything expensive."
She turned to leave, and I couldn't help but notice the slight, victorious bounce in her step. Her small white tail twitched once, twice, a final dismissive punctuation mark on my humiliation.
The door swung shut behind her, leaving me alone with Mount Disgustcare and the dwarf.
He chuckled, the sound like rocks tumbling down a hillside. "Good luck, lad. That's three hours' worth, easy. I'm heading out the back when I'm done here. Lock up the kitchen door when you finish."
I stared at the tower of filth, then at the door through which Rumi had disappeared. My legs twitched with the primal urge to bolt. One swift exit, and this nightmare would be someone else's problem. What was the worst that could happen? They'd chase me down for the price of one meal? Please. I'd outrun debt collectors with far more resources and motivation.
But then I pictured Rumi's face if I ran. Those crimson eyes narrowed in smug confirmation of exactly what she thought of me from the moment I walked in. Just another pretty boy running from responsibility.
Plus, that ridiculous twitching tail... and the view from behind wasn't half bad.
I shook my head. Focus, Rome. Asset analysis comes later. Right now, I had to weigh actual costs and benefits. The cost: three hours of manual labor. The benefit: a place to sleep, a foundation to build on before heading to Orario, and maybe the satisfaction of proving that damn bunny wrong.
But more than that—to dine and dash, to run from a single meal's debt? Pathetic. I'd been a king of industry, not some common thief. If I was starting over at the bottom, I would do it with my dignity intact.
I sighed, rolled up the sleeves of my scratchy tunic, and approached the sink like a man walking to his execution.
"Right," I muttered. "How hard can it be? Water, soap, scrub."
First mistake: I dumped half the soap container into the basin. Within seconds, bubbles rose like a sentient foam creature hellbent on kitchen domination. They spilled over the edges, creating slick patches on the floor.
Second mistake: I grabbed a plate from the middle of the stack. Physics responded predictably. Three bowls and what looked like a gravy boat crashed to the floor. None broke, thankfully, but gravy splattered across my pants like abstract art.
"Perfect," I hissed. "Just perfect."
The dwarf looked over, shook his head with a smirk that disappeared into his beard, and hung his apron on a hook. "Nights like these make me glad I just cook the food." He lumbered toward a back door. "Good night, dish boy."
And then there was one.
Time lost all meaning as I battled the never-ending pile. For every plate I cleaned, two more seemed to appear. My technique was abysmal. I scrubbed too hard on delicate glassware and too softly on cast iron pans. Water soaked the front of my tunic. Grease splattered my sleeves.
Worst of all, I couldn't stop thinking about how ridiculous I must look. Rome Valentine, who once closed billion-dollar deals over breakfast, reduced to fishing food scraps out of dirty water.
If any of my former business rivals could see me now, they'd die laughing.
Then again, they were likely all dead already, centuries or millennia gone in whatever world I'd left behind.
That sobering thought carried me through another thirty minutes of scrubbing before the tavern noise began to die down. Footsteps faded, doors closed, and eventually, only the occasional creak of the building settling broke the silence.
I was down to the final layer of breakfast dishes when the kitchen door swung open. Rumi walked in, rolling her shoulders with the kind of bone-deep fatigue I recognized from people who'd been on their feet all day. Her ears drooped slightly lower than before.
She stopped dead when she saw me—or more accurately, when she saw the state of the kitchen. Her mouth dropped open, those crimson eyes widening in what could only be described as horrified awe.
I followed her gaze. Sudsy water covered about a quarter of the floor. My "clean" stack of plates still had visible grease streaks. I'd sorted the silverware by type rather than washing it. And whatever that black substance was on the pot, it remained defiantly intact despite my best efforts.
I stood straighter, projecting confidence I absolutely did not feel. "Almost finished."
"Are you an idiot?"
The words burst out of her with genuine bewilderment. She marched over, physically shoved me aside with her hip, and took position at the sink. "Move. Just... move."
I stepped back, equal parts offended and relieved.
"This isn't facing a minotaur," she muttered, grabbing a plate with food still stuck to it. She scraped the remnants into a wooden bucket beside the sink. "For the pigs. Nothing is wasted."
She dunked a stack of plates into the scalding water I'd been avoiding because, well, it was scalding.
"This does half the work for you," she explained without looking at me. "Heat melts the grease. Basic cooking knowledge."
"I don't cook," I said before I could stop myself.
"Shocking," she replied dryly. "Stand there and pay attention. I'm not teaching this twice."
She scrubbed with firm, circular motions, her hands moving in a steady rhythm. Splash, scrub, rinse, stack. Splash, scrub, rinse, stack. There was an almost hypnotic quality to it.
The kitchen was small, and with both of us at the sink, space became a premium commodity. Our shoulders nearly touched. From my height advantage, I could see the top of her head, the way her ears occasionally twitched when she concentrated particularly hard on a stubborn spot. A strand of dark hair had escaped her ponytail, curling against her neck.
"Your technique is surprising," I said, leaning slightly closer. "Is dishwashing your true calling, or just a hobby?"
She didn't look up, but her elbow found my ribs with unerring accuracy—not a painful jab, but a clear message. "Shut up and watch, snow-top. Or you'll be doing this again tomorrow."
I grinned. "Yes, ma'am."
For the next twenty minutes, I actually paid attention, learning the proper way to clean each type of dish and utensil. The rhythm of the work was almost meditative once you got past the inherent grossness. Rumi didn't speak much, but her demonstrations were clear enough.
"You're really not terrible at this," she finally said, handing me a dripping pot to dry. "For someone who's clearly never worked a day in his life."
"I've worked," I corrected her. "Just not with my hands."
Her ears perked up slightly, curiosity momentarily overriding her fatigue. "What did you do before? Before you ended up lost in the woods dressed like a farmhand with the name of a nobleman."
An excellent question. What could I possibly say that wouldn't sound insane? I was a corporate magnate from another world who got poisoned at my own party and made a deal with a goddess?
I settled for a partial truth. "I made decisions. Important ones. I was good at it." I dried the pot with more focus than it required. "Very good at it."
"Hmm." She didn't sound convinced but didn't press further. "Well, whatever you were before, right now you're the guy who owes for dinner and needs to finish these dishes."
She handed me the scrub brush. "Your turn. Show me you actually learned something."
I took it, our fingers brushing briefly in the exchange. Her hands were small but calloused, the skin rough from constant work.
"So demanding," I said, but started scrubbing the way she'd shown me. "Tell me, is it the ears that make you so bossy, or is that just your natural charm?"
To my surprise, a ghost of a smile flickered across her face. "The ears are for hearing better when people talk nonsense. The bossy is all me."
The last of the dishes didn't take long with proper technique. As I dried and stacked the final plate, Rumi inspected my work with critical eyes.
"Passable," she announced, which I suspected was high praise in her book. "Follow me. I'll show you where you're sleeping."
She led me through a narrow door into a small storage room off the kitchen. Bags of flour and dried beans lined one wall. A narrow cot had been wedged into the corner, with what looked like clean but worn blankets folded at its foot.
"It's not much," she said, lighting a small lamp on a shelf. "But it's better than the woods."
The room was tiny, barely larger than the cot itself. When she turned to leave, we were suddenly face to face, barely a handspan apart. For a brief moment, neither of us moved. I could smell the faint scent of cinnamon clinging to her hair.
Her ears twitched once, and she stepped back abruptly. "Breakfast is at dawn. Mr. Finn will want to talk to you then."
I nodded, suddenly aware of how exhausted I felt. "Thank you."
She paused at the door, surprise briefly crossing her features. "You're welcome, snow-top." Then her usual scowl returned. "Don't think this makes us friends."
"Wouldn't dream of it, bunny girl."
The door closed, and I was alone. I sat heavily on the cot, my body aching in places I didn't know could ache. One meal had cost me hours of labor, and I still had no clear path to Orario.
Yet strangely, I felt better than I had all day. I had a plan, however basic: work, earn money, travel to Orario, fulfill whatever mysterious mission I'd been sent here for. First rung on the ladder.
From corporate king to dishwasher. What a cosmic joke.
I lay back on the cot, staring at the rough wooden ceiling. "Small steps," I whispered to myself. "You worked your way up once before. You can do it again."
With that less-than-comforting thought, I closed my mismatched eyes and surrendered to sleep.