The kitchen was quiet when James returned. Only the hum of the rune-stoves filled the air, soft and rhythmic, like a sleeping dragon’s breath.

  He slammed his palms against the counter. “How? How could Maestcarěm’s dish taste better than mine?”

  Nyindnir stood near a rack of polished pans, his expression unreadable. “I didn’t taste his,” he said. “But yours, don’t tell my wife, was the best breakfast I’ve ever had.”

  James rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Thanks, but it doesn’t matter unless the queen likes it.”

  “Maybe she’ll like the next one,” said the dwarf.

  “She’d better.” His voice dropped to a low growl. “Because this time, I’m going to blow their royal socks off.”

  Nyindnir tilted his head. “What are you making?”

  “Royal Taco Trio.”

  “Royal what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Determination replaced frustration. The kitchen lights flared brighter as if answering his resolve.

  He moved with purpose now, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, eyes sharp. He gathered the ingredients with practiced precision, his voice steady as he worked. “Grilled shrimp taco with lemon cream and herbs. Spiced beef taco with caramelized onions and garlic glaze. Roasted mushroom taco with white truffle oil. Dessert, arroz con leche baked like rice pudding. Drink, honey mead cocktail with whiskey, citrus, and ginger.”

  Nyindnir blinked. “That’s a lot of words for lunch.”

  “That’s a lot of flavor for royalty,” James replied, already gathering ingredients.

  He summoned his Mishlin Sage Kitchenware, the runes glowing as each piece took its place. The enchanted pan shimmered blue, matching his focused stare.

  He took a steady breath, letting the frustration of breakfast fade behind him.

  The dessert came first. He rinsed the rice until the water ran clear and poured it into a rune-inscribed pot with milk and sugar. As it simmered, he added cinnamon sticks, stirring until the scent filled every corner. The mixture thickened slowly, turning creamy, comforting, nostalgic.

  “Smells like home,” he muttered.

  “What’s home?” Nyindnir asked quietly.

  James paused for a second. “Somewhere far from here. Somewhere I’m not sure I’ll see again.”

  He portioned the pudding into small clay dishes and slid them into the rune oven. The tops browned into a thin golden crust while he turned to the next task.

  As the sweet aroma of baking rice filled the air, he turned to the base of his next creation.

  He kneaded soft dough from maize flour, salt, and warm water. The smell of toasted corn filled the air as he pressed thin rounds onto the rune plate. The stoves pulsed faintly, keeping each tortilla warm and pliant. They waited patiently under a soft blue glow while James prepared the fillings.

  The shrimp came first. He cleaned them carefully, tails still intact, and tossed them with salt, crushed herbs, and a squeeze of lemon. When the pan heated, he dropped them in with a hiss. The aroma of sea and citrus filled the air.

  Nyindnir’s stomach growled. “You sure this isn’t dinner?”

  “Patience, my bearded padawan.”

  He mixed thick cream with lemon zest and chopped herbs, whisking until it turned into a silky pale sauce. With a flick of his wrist, the shrimp sizzled to golden perfection. “Number one, done,” he said, resting them over the waiting tortillas.

  The second taco came alive with spice. He cooked minced beef in butter until it browned, then added caramelized onions and garlic glaze that shimmered like liquid amber.

  “Smell that?”

  Nyindnir inhaled deeply, eyes half-closing. “Smells like victory.”

  James grinned. “Smells like revenge.”

  The final taco, the vegetarian one, was calm and graceful. Mushrooms roasted under low heat, soaked in white truffle oil that perfumed the entire kitchen. He added a sprinkle of salt and black pepper, letting the natural flavor speak for itself.

  When the three were lined up side by side, each was a color palette of its own: pink shrimp with green herbs, brown beef shining under glaze, and pale mushrooms gleaming under a drizzle of truffle oil.

  Now for the drink. He placed a pot on the counter and poured in whiskey, honey mead, lemon juice, and shavings of orange peel. The fragrance bloomed with warmth and sting. Then he added ginger slices and brought it all to a slow boil. The air turned sharp and sweet at once.

  Nyindnir coughed as the steam hit him. “Burns my nose.”

  “Good,” said James. “It means it’s working.”

  When the liquid cooled, he strained it, then poured it into crystal glasses. The color was deep gold with a hint of red, like captured sunlight. He tasted a drop. The warmth spread instantly, a mix of sweetness, bite, and citrus brightness. “Oh, that’s it. That’s the balance.”

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  He began assembling everything. Small tortillas, each soft and warm, received their fillings like offerings: shrimp with lemon cream and herbs, beef with caramelized glaze, mushrooms with truffle oil. He placed them neatly on a long slate plate. The rice pudding cooled beside them, a dusting of cinnamon on top. The cocktail shone like amber beside it.

  Nyindnir couldn’t look away. “That’s… beautiful.”

  James smiled faintly. “Royal food for royal dragon hearts.”

  He packed each plate with precision, setting the tacos on rune-warmed plates etched with faint sigils that pulsed softly beneath the surface.

  As they left the kitchen, Nyindnir carried the dessert while James balanced the main platter. The palace corridor was bright again, sunlight pouring through crystal windows.

  “Do you ever get tired of cooking?” Nyindnir asked.

  “Cooking?” James smiled. “Never. Losing? That’s what I’m tired of.”

  Nyindnir laughed quietly. “Then win this one, human.”

  “Oh, I will,” said James. “Because today, I’m not just cooking. I’m declaring war, with tortillas.”

  The dwarf shook his head, smiling as they reached the great doors.

  Somewhere beyond those doors, Rennalinda waited, unaware that her next meal would be history in the making.

  James looked down at his creation, the trio of tacos gleaming like jewels under the light.

  “Let’s see the Prince of Cooks beat this,” he whispered.

  Nyindnir grinned. “You really think she’ll fall for it?”

  “She doesn’t have to fall,” said James, adjusting his collar. “She just has to taste.”

  And with that, the doors opened, the scent of spice and citrus drifted in first, then the clink of plates. James entered with the main platter balanced on one hand. Nyindnir followed with the desserts. Servants fell silent. At the far end, Queen Rennalinda waited with still eyes and an unreadable mouth. Villen stood at her right, composed. Maestcarěm was already there at her left, chin lifted, as if the room had been arranged to suit him.

  Maestcarěm spoke before anyone else. “Lunch for a queen.” He gestured and his assistants stepped forward. A stone cauldron was placed upon a rune cradle. Heat shimmered above the lip. Inside lay thick-cut slices of wild boar, their edges lacquered with their own juices. Carrots and turnips nestled in the broth like small suns and moons. Onion petals had melted to silk. Bay leaves rested on top, a final breath of forest. Beside it, a board of dark rye bread waited, the crust almost black, brushed with butter and kissed with salt.

  The aroma rolled through the hall. Smoke. Fat. Earth. It settled heavy in the chest.

  Villen looked down into the cauldron. “Rich. Familiar. Like winter nights after a long ride.”

  Maestcarěm inclined his head, satisfied. The servants ladled a portion for each taster and cut the bread into thick slabs. Villen tasted first. He closed his eyes, jaw working slowly. “Tender. Assertive. It fills the silence.”

  Nyindnir took a bite and then tore off a piece of bread. Butter melted against the hot crumb and ran down his fingers. He did not wipe it. “Heavy, but honest. It wrestles you to the table and you do not mind losing.”

  Rennalinda lifted her spoon. The boar yielded without a fight. Steam curled up like a whisper as she brought it to her lips. She tasted. For a moment nothing moved. Then her throat worked once. Her gaze lowered, not in pleasure, not in disdain, only in acknowledgment. She set the spoon down and reached for the bread. One small bite. A faint breath left her. She did not speak.

  Maestcarěm stepped back, poise unbroken.

  James set his slate plate before the queen. Three tacos, each on a rune-warmed plate etched with pale sigils. Heat hummed softly under the glaze. The shrimp shone pink and pearled, scattered with green herbs. The beef gleamed under caramelized glaze, dark and bright at once. The mushrooms lay pale and lush, finished with truffle that perfumed the space between breaths. To the right, small dishes of arroz con leche rested with thin golden crusts and a dusting of cinnamon. Crystal glasses caught the light, holding his honey mead cocktail that glowed like late afternoon.

  Her eyes flicked between the two spreads. Tradition to the left. Contrast to the right.

  Villen reached for the shrimp first. He folded the tortilla with practiced hands, bit cleanly, and stilled. A touch of sea, a spark of lemon, the soft weight of cream. His shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly. “Bright. It opens a window.”

  Nyindnir chose the beef. He did not bother with elegance. He took a generous bite and then another, eyes half closing. “Sweet at the edge, then the heat arrives. Like a forge when the door is pulled wide.” He chased it with a sip of the cocktail. He blinked. “And now there is wind in the room.”

  James said nothing. He watched, hands behind his back. Say it. Say harmony. Say balance. Say anything at all.

  Villen reached for the mushroom taco. He bit and frowned, not in critique but concentration. The truffle carried him somewhere quieter. “There is restraint here. You chose not to shout. You let the room listen.”

  Nyindnir leaned over the desserts. He cracked a spoon through the thin crust and lifted a bite. Steam met cinnamon. He tasted, then stilled, beard sinking a fraction as his jaw went slack. He swallowed with care. “Warm. Soft. Like the last light in a stone hall.” His voice dropped. “I did not know rice could do that.”

  Rennalinda did not move for a count of three. Then she reached for the shrimp. The tortilla gave a soft sigh as she folded it. The first bite touched her tongue. A line of lemon traced the roof of her mouth. Cream followed, sleek and cool. Salted heat rose a heartbeat later, settling at the base of her throat. Her fingers tightened the smallest degree. Her lashes lowered. Color found her cheeks and then receded. She placed the taco down and reached for the drink. One sip. Citrus brightened the sweetness and swept the palate clean.

  She considered the beef next. The glaze caught the light like amber. When she bit, the onion’s sweetness unfurled, and the garlic glaze lingered like a promise just behind her teeth. Her breath hitched once, then evened. She lifted the spoon to the rice pudding. The crust crackled. Cinnamon and milk rose like memory. The first taste was simple. The second was not. Her gaze drifted, not to the plate but to the cook. Only for a moment.

  James felt it. The flicker. The tiny pressure across the space between them. There you are.

  Villen set his utensils aside. “Three voices, one chorus.”

  Nyindnir nodded, eyes bright. “Lunch and a reason to live to dinner.”

  A line appeared at Maestcarěm’s jaw, so faint it might have been a trick of the light. He did not speak.

  Silence hung. The queen folded her hands. Her face was the marble mask of the throne again. “Both offerings meet the standard of my table.” Her eyes swept the room. “Both reveal different strengths.”

  James waited without moving. Hear it. Just this once.

  Rennalinda’s tone did not change. “The kingdom endures on pillars, not breezes. The winner is Maestcarěm.”

  Applause returned, polite and distant. Maestcarěm bowed. The set of his shoulders eased, pride restored to its usual seat.

  Villen did not clap. He looked at James as if speaking without sound. Nyindnir cleared his throat, then covered it with a cough and a quick sip of the cocktail.

  James smiled with the ease of a man who had rehearsed this smile in other lives. “Of course. Lunch is only the middle.” He inclined his head to the queen, to Villen, to the room that refused to lean one degree in his direction.

  They began to clear the plates. The runes dimmed as each taco left its warmth behind.

  She liked it. The thought was steady, almost calm. She liked it and I still lost. His fingers closed once at his side, then relaxed.

  He turned to Maestcarěm and let the smallest spark of charm touch his mouth. “Congratulations. Tradition stands.”

  Maestcarěm’s eyes flicked to the empty dessert dishes, then back. “As it should.”

  James bowed. He did not look at Rennalinda again. He did not need to. He had already seen what he needed to see.

  I hate losing. I hate it more when I am right. He drew a breath and set the feeling down where it belonged, at the bottom of the well where it could cool.

  “Nyindnir,” he said lightly, “shall we return to the kitchen. Dinner waits, and so does redemption.”

  Author’s Note

  follow and, if you really enjoyed it, add it to your favorites! If you’ve already done both, leaving a rating or review would help me a lot. Thank you so much in advance!

  10 chapters ahead, you can find the advance chapters here: