Twenty minutes later, the Royal Kitchens of the palace were under siege by Primrose.
"Out of my way!" Primrose commanded, tying a borrowed apron over her dusty combat gear. "I need six pots of boiling stock! I need the freshest venison you have! And where is the heavy cream?"
The Royal Chefs, terrified of the woman who had just nuked a moon, scrambled to obey.
Primrose moved like a whirlwind. This was her element. She didn't need the Heart of the Tide or the Nine Tails here. She just needed a knife and fire.
She chopped vegetables with machine-gun precision. She seared meat until the crust was perfect. She balanced spices by scent alone.
The Warlords were hovering by the door.
"Is that the Glazed Boar?" Rurik whispered, pressing his nose against the glass. "She hasn't made that since the Winter Festival."
"It smells like victory," Rajah groaned, clutching his stomach.
