The Royal Kitchens at midnight were a spooky, cavernous place filled with the smell of cold ash and leftover boar.
Elian stood at the massive iron stove, wearing nothing but his trousers and Cassian's silk robe, which dragged on the floor behind him like a bridal train.
[Current LP: 335]
He had the [System Cheese]—a wheel of gouda that glowed faintly with quality—and a loaf of bread he had liberated from the pantry.
"Okay," Elian muttered, slicing the bread with a dagger he found near the cheese board. "We need carbs. We need grease. We need comfort food."
He fired up a small section of the stove. He threw a slab of butter into a pan. He assembled the sandwiches.
It wasn't haute cuisine. It was a grilled cheese. But in a world of roast pheasant and jellied eels, melted cheese on toasted bread was a revelation.
"Sizzle for me," Elian whispered to the pan.
