The iron manacles are cold. They bite into my wrists, the metal smelling of rust and old blood.
Dorian doesn't look back as he leads the way through the thicket. He moves with a predator's grace, dodging thorns that catch on my jeans and scratch my shins. His soldiers surround me, two in front and two behind. I'm the centerpiece in a parade of prisoners.
The Star-Deer carcass hangs from a pole carried by the two strongest guards. Its indigo fur matted with dried blue gore. Its six golden eyes stare at nothing. Every time its weight shifts, the pole creaks, a rhythmic sound that keeps time with our footsteps.
"The capital is three days' march," one of the guards says. He's younger than the others, his leather helm slightly too large for his head. "Commander, do we really need to haul the beast? It'll be rotting by noon tomorrow."
Dorian doesn't break his stride. "The King wants proof of the poaching. If it rots, we salt it. If it stinks, we bury it in ice magic."
I stumble over a root. Dorian catches my elbow, his grip like a vice through my hoodie. He hauls me upright without looking at me.
"Don't die yet, Chef," he says. "The gallows is a more formal ending."
"I'm not a poacher," I rasp. My throat feels like I've been swallowing sand. "I didn't even know what that thing was."
Dorian stops. He turns, his storm-grey eyes boring into mine. "Ignorance of the King's law isn't a defense. Especially when you're found in his woods wearing the clothes of a court jester and carrying a blade I can't identify."
He reaches into a pouch at his belt and pulls out my cleaver. The steel catches the filtered purple light of the canopy.
"High carbon steel," I mutter. "Hand-forged."
"It's strange," Dorian says, tilting the blade. "No mana signature. No runes. No guild marks. Where did you get this?"
The portal. The closet. My apartment with the unwashed dishes.
"Distant lands," I say, the lie taste-tested and ready. "To the West. Past the Great Frontier."
"The Frontier is a wasteland of monsters and dust," Dorian counters. He steps closer, invading my space. He's tall enough that I have to tilt my head back, and the smell of him is overwhelming—pine, cold iron, and woodsmoke. "Nothing comes out of the West but death. You don't look like death. You look like you've never seen a day of combat in your life."
"I've survived three years under a Michelin-starred chef," I say. He doesn't understand the words, but the bitterness in my voice carries. "That's plenty of combat."
He scoffs and tosses the cleaver back into his pouch. "Keep moving."
***
We camp as the two moons rise. One is a sickly, pale yellow; the other is a sharp sliver of blue. Together, they wash the forest in a light that makes everything look like an old photograph.
The soldiers work in a practiced silence. A fire is built using more of the silver titan bark. The flames lick the air in blue tongues, casting long, shivering shadows against the ancient trees.
I'm sat against a stump, my hands still bound. The soldiers ignore me, focusing on their gear. They're exhausted. Their faces are gaunt, skin caked in the dust of the trail.
Dorian sits across from me, sharpening his longsword with a whetstone. The sound—*shhhhk, shhhhk*—is the only thing breaking the quiet of the woods.
One of the men, a thickset soldier with a broken nose, starts the evening meal. He pulls a slab of dried, grey meat from a rucksack and tosses it into a blackened iron pot with some water. He adds a handful of shriveled, brown roots that look like dead fingers.
Within minutes, the smell hits me. It's a tragedy.
The scent is acrid, like burnt hair and damp basement. The meat isn't browning; it's just graying, releasing a murky scum that floats on the surface of the boiling water. No herbs. No salt. No care.
My stomach churns. It's an insult to the ingredients. Even the shittiest scraps deserve a little dignity.
"Is that for eating or for poisoning the enemy?" I ask.
The cook looks up, scowling. "It's standard army rations. Be glad you get a bowl, prisoner."
I watch as he stirs the grey sludge. "That meat is tough because you're boiling the life out of it. And those roots? They're bitter unless you peel the skin and soak them first."
The soldier laughs, a harsh sound. "A chef. I forgot. You think we have time for fine dining in the middle of a monster-infested forest?"
Dorian pauses his whetstone. He looks at the pot, then at me. "Can you do better with what we have?"
"I could do better with a shoe and some rainwater," I say.
Dorian stands. He signals to the guard with the keys. The man hesitates, then steps forward and unlocks my manacles. The relief is instant, a dull ache pulsing in my wrists as blood flow returns.
"Prove it," Dorian says. "Cook. If it's edible, I might forget to mention the Star-Deer for tonight."
I rub my wrists, eyes scanning the camp. I need tools. I need leverage.
I walk to the pot, the soldiers watching me with open skepticism. I look into the grey mess. It's worse up close. The "roots" are some kind of tuber that smells faintly of soap.
"Backpack," I say. "I need my pack."
Dorian nods to a guard who drops my bag at my feet.
I reach inside. I have a small jar of sea salt—fine flakes I bought from a specialty shop back in Shanghai. I have my lighter. And I have the secret.
Earth food has something this world lacks. Primal mana. I saw it when I cooked the Star-Deer. The reaction between my ingredients and the flora here.
I grab a wooden ladle and start by skimming the grey foam off the top of the pot. The cook tries to protest, but I fix him with my best *don't-fuck-with-my-station* glare. He shrinks back.
"Give me the Star-Deer," I command.
The camp goes silent.
"That's Royal property," the thickset soldier says. "We can't touch that."
"Half of it is already bruised from the fall and the carry," I point out, gesturing to the hanging carcass. "If you don't use it now, the musk from the bruised glands will taint the rest of the meat. Use the shoulder. It's salvageable."
Dorian watches me, his hand resting on his sword pommel. "Do it," he tells his men.
They carve a chunk of the violet meat. Even raw, the scent is incredible—floral, with a heavy musk. I take the meat and slice it into thin, translucent ribbons. I'm used to a global-knives set, but the camp's small paring blade is sharp enough.
I sear the Star-Deer ribbons in a separate, small pan they use for frying eggs. No oil. The meat's own fat is enough. It renders out clear and shimmering, smelling of wild berries.
Then, the salt.
I sprinkle a pinch of my sea salt over the meat.
The moment the Earth salt hits the magical meat, the blue flames of the fire flare up. The meat doesn't just hiss; it sings. A high-pitched, harmonic vibration that makes the soldiers' ears twitch. The aroma changes. The musk vanishes, replaced by a deep, rich umami that makes my eyes water.
I toss in the roots—peeled now—and let them caramelize in the Star-Deer fat. I add a splash of the soldiers' rough wine.
The steam that rises isn't murky anymore. It's a thick, savory cloud that smells like home.
I serve it into five wooden bowls. No sludge. No bitterness. Just tender ribbons of violet meat in a rich, dark reduction with sweetened, buttery tubers.
I hand the first bowl to Dorian.
He takes it, his expression guarded. He looks at the meat. It's perfectly medium-rare, the center a pulsing lilac, the edges a crisp, salted brown. He takes a bite.
He stops chewing. His eyes widen.
"Gods," he breathes.
The soldiers don't wait for permission. They dive in. The clearing is silent for several minutes, the only sound the scraping of spoons against wood.
One of the guards, the younger one, lets out a long, shuddering sigh. "I feel... warm. My legs don't ache anymore."
He's right. As I watch them, I see the change. The gauntness in their faces fills out. Their eyes lose the clouded look of exhaustion. The "mana" in the meat, enhanced by the Earth salt, is repairing them.
Dorian finishes his bowl. He licks his thumb, catching a stray drop of the sauce. He looks at me, and for the first time, I don't see the executioner. I see the commander.
"What did you put in this?" he asks. His voice is a low rumble. "This isn't just food. My sword hand is steady for the first time in weeks. I feel like I could fight a dragon and win."
"Salt and skill," I say, leaning back against the stump. My heart is racing, but my face stays calm.
Dorian stands up, moving toward me. He stops just a foot away, towering over me. The light from the blue fire catches the sweat on his neck.
"That salt," he says, his gaze dropping to my bag. "I've seen Sea-Gold before. Merchants from the Southern Isles sell it for its weight in silver. But theirs doesn't taste like this. It doesn't *spark*."
He reaches out, grabbing a lock of my hair and tilting my head up. His thumb brushes the line of my jaw. It's not a romantic gesture. It's a search.
"You aren't a simple chef from the West," he whispers. "I don't know who you are, or what you're doing in these woods, but this 'magic' of yours... it's dangerous. There are people in Valdris who would cut your throat just to own a jar of that salt."
"Then I guess I'm lucky you found me first," I say, trying to ignore the heat radiating from his hand.
"Lucky isn't the word I'd use," Dorian says. He lets go of my jaw, but he doesn't step back. "Tomorrow, we reach the frontier outpost of Thorne's Watch. The inquisitors will want to know about your ingredients."
My blood runs cold. "Inquisitors?"
"They ensure the purity of the Kingdom's food," he says, his voice losing its warmth. "Unlicensed magic in cooking is a crime against the Crown. If they find Earthly... unusual... substances in your possession, they won't just hang you."
He turns and walks back to his bedroll, leaving the empty bowl on the grass.
"Get some sleep, Millie," he calls over his shoulder. "If you can't prove the source of your spices by tomorrow noon, you won't live to see the capital."
The soldiers have fallen into a deep, mana-induced sleep, their snoring heavy in the woods. I sit alone by the dying blue fire.
The portal is closed.
The inquisitors are coming.
And my only weapon is a half-empty jar of salt.
I reach into my bag, my fingers brushing the cool glass of the jar. I think of the Star-Deer meat. The way it reacted. This world is hungry for what I have. Maybe I can't find the portal back. Maybe I'm stuck here in the dark.
But I know one thing about hunger.
It makes people desperate. And desperate people can be manipulated.
I lie back against the roots of the titan tree, looking up at the two moons. Somewhere in this world, there has to be a kitchen where I can make a stand. If I can't cook my way out of this, I don't deserve the title of chef.
A twig snaps at the edge of the camp.
I freeze.
In the shadows, between two silver-barked trees, something is watching. It isn't a soldier. It's taller, leaner, with eyes that reflect the blue moon like mirrors.
It's been following us. And judging by the way its nostrils flare, it didn't come for the soldiers.
It came for the smell of the Earth salt.
I slowly reach for the cleaver Dorian forgot to take back.
This world isn't just another land. It's an ecosystem of appetites. And I've just rang the dinner bell.