Morning sunlight poured through the carved marble lattice, tracing lines of gold across the floor. The air carried the faint scent of dew and roasted herbs from the palace gardens. When James opened his eyes, two familiar silhouettes were already standing at the door.

  “Good morning,” said Nyindnir, his beard gleaming like polished copper. “Ready?”

  James rubbed his face, grinning. “Middle name. I was born ready.”

  The dwarf chuckled.

  Villen stepped forward, composed as ever. “You asked for this, so I made the rules. You will prepare a breakfast for three. One plate for Rennalinda, one for me, and one for Maestcarěm. He will do the same for you.”

  “Fair enough,” said James. “Did you bring what I asked for yesterday?”

  Villen turned slightly toward Nyindnir.

  “Everything’s waiting in the kitchen,” the dwarf said. “Exactly as you requested.”

  James sighed dramatically. “Shame we don’t have cacao. Making chocolate from cocoa fruit takes two weeks, and I’ve got, what, three hours?”

  “Then show us what you can do without it,” said Villen. “I expect great things. Nyindnir will accompany you. We wouldn’t want you getting lost before breakfast.”

  Villen left the room, his cloak trailing a faint shimmer in the light.

  Nyindnir watched him go, then turned to James. “I don’t know about you, but I’m oddly excited.”

  “Oh, master dwarf,” said James, stretching his arms, “Villen may have asked for three servings, but I’ll make a fourth just for you. You deserve a taste of greatness.”

  Nyindnir frowned. “Not sure whether to thank you or curse you.”

  James laughed. “Then curse me after you’ve eaten. For now, our mission is clear: conquer Queen Rennalinda’s stomach.”

  “You say the strangest things, human.”

  They made their way through the corridors, their steps echoing between stone arches. The scent of baked bread grew stronger as they approached the kitchen. Inside, the place buzzed with life: elves moving silently, dwarves handling heavy pots, and the faint shimmer of runic stoves heating without flame.

  James opened his inventory with a quiet flick of thought. One by one, the Mishlin Sage Kitchenware appeared on the counter, gleaming tools etched with faint runes that pulsed when touched. He arranged them neatly, checking each piece with care. The frying pan gave a soft, reassuring hum when his hand brushed its handle, as if recognizing its owner.

  “Well,” said James, cracking his knuckles, “let’s begin the show.” He rolled up his sleeves and took a deep breath. The kitchen waited, silent but expectant.

  Breakfast for a queen, he thought. Turkish poached eggs with a British touch. My own little rebellion on a plate: Poached Egg Benedict.

  “Step one,” he muttered, “muffins.” The flour was lighter than wheat, made from finely sifted barley grown in the dungeon’s 99th floor. He poured it into a bowl, added crushed sugar crystals, warm milk, and a spoonful of thick cream skimmed from the top of yesterday’s batch.

  Clotted cream, he thought with a grin. The very soul of indulgence, the proof that patience always paid off.

  He stirred the dough until it sighed under the whisk, then turned the brass dial on the rune-oven. The symbols along its rim shifted from blue to orange as heat gathered within. A low hum filled the air, runes pulsing like sleepy fireflies.

  While the muffins baked, he prepared the yogurt base for the Turkish poached eggs. The tang of fermented milk met the sharpness of vinegar as he stirred, adding salt and garlic until the aroma filled the air.

  Nyindnir leaned against the counter, watching. “You make it look like you’re forging art instead of food.”

  “Cooking is crafting,” said James. “Just with smells, textures, and a lot more yelling when things burn.”

  He cracked the eggs, each one perfectly round and fresh. The yolks shimmered like molten gold. He poached them carefully in simmering water infused with a rune of stability, ensuring the whites wrapped neatly around their cores.

  When the muffins emerged, their tops were golden, the air rich with cream and butter. He sliced one open, steam curling upward.

  “Perfect,” he murmured. “Now the Benedict twist.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  He layered the base with a spoonful of yogurt, placed a poached egg on top, and finished it with melted butter, paprika dust, and a hint of crushed mint leaves.

  The scent drew glances from nearby cooks, who whispered to one another as if afraid of disturbing some sacred ritual.

  James didn’t notice. He was already preparing the second act, moving from savory to sweet without missing a beat.

  The raspberry pancakes came next, fluffy, pink, and lightly caramelized at the edges. He folded clotted cream into the batter, watching it swirl like clouds of milk. As the pancakes cooked, he drizzled honey across them, the golden liquid catching the morning light.

  “You always cook like this?” Nyindnir said, brow raised. “No wonder Sir Villen likes your dishes.”

  “Only when someone’s watching,” James said, stacking the pancakes with a grin.

  He garnished the top with fresh raspberries, their juice bleeding down the sides in crimson ribbons.

  Now for the drinks. He ground the coffee beans by hand, the scent bursting through the room like an awakening spell. The Mishlin Sage pot hissed as he poured the brew into milk, crafting a smooth latte with foam shaped into a simple heart.

  Beside it, he blended passion fruit with chilled milk and sugar, creating a bright yellow smoothie that shimmered like sunlight caught in glass.

  When the last cup was filled, James wiped his hands on a towel and took a step back. Four plates. Four cups. A masterpiece of color and contrast.

  Nyindnir whistled. “By the forge, that’s beautiful.”

  “I know,” James said, smirking. “But it’s not beauty that wins battles, it’s taste.”

  “Then let’s march these soldiers to war.”

  They carried the trays through the long hallway toward the dining chamber. The walls glowed with runelight as the doors opened.

  Queen Rennalinda sat at the far end of the long table. Her hair, black as midnight silk, framed a face pale as carved marble. Violet eyes watched in quiet command, their calm hiding something sharper beneath. Even the air around her seemed to still, as if unwilling to disturb her poise.

  Villen stood beside her, composed as ever. And to her left, Maestcarěm waited with his arms folded, the faintest sneer tugging at his lips.

  Maestcarěm was the first to step forward.

  His assistants carried a wide slab of black stone, still steaming from the heat runes beneath it. On top rested miniature tarts, each no larger than a palm, their crusts dusted with cinnamon and glazed with honey. Melted butter shimmered across the surface as the scent of apple and spice filled the hall. For a moment, the air itself seemed to grow warmer.

  “Apple and cinnamon tartlets,” he said calmly. “Baked upon stone and brushed with royal honey. A classic breakfast of our court.”

  He bowed his head slightly, every gesture measured, every movement perfect. Even his disdain carried elegance.

  Rennalinda’s violet eyes softened as she regarded the dish. “Beautiful,” she murmured. She took one tart with delicate fingers and broke it open. A trail of steam escaped, carrying the scent of childhood hearths and comfort.

  The first bite brought sweetness and nostalgia. Her heartbeat steadied, her expression serene. Villen smiled faintly. Nyindnir let out a low hum of approval.

  “Rich and royal,” Villen said. “A taste worthy for a Queen.”

  “Traditional,” Rennalinda added, her tone even. “Balanced. Safe.”

  A flicker of pride passed through Maestcarěm’s gaze. “As it should be, Your Majesty.”

  He stepped back, confident, while the servants poured honey mead into slender glasses. The liquid glowed amber in the morning light, heavy and decadent. The taste was luxurious, yet it lingered too long, weighing down the palate.

  Then James approached.

  He carried his tray with one hand, the other resting lightly behind his back. Four plates, four cups, and a confidence that bordered on arrogance.

  “Breakfast is served,” he said, setting the tray down.

  Rennalinda tilted her head. “You prepared more than requested.”

  James smiled. “Art resists limitation.”

  He uncovered the plates. The golden muffins, the poached eggs gleaming with butter and mint, the yogurt glistening beneath ribbons of yolk. The scent unfurled like silk, light yet intoxicating. The air shifted again, honey sweetness giving way to garlic, dairy, and warmth.

  Rennalinda leaned forward. “This aroma…”

  “That,” said James, placing a hand on his chest, “is curiosity, ambition, and possibly indigestion.”

  Villen stifled a laugh. Nyindnir coughed to hide his grin.

  When Rennalinda lifted her spoon, time seemed to slow. The yolk spilled open, molten gold running into white yogurt and scarlet paprika. The first bite touched her tongue and her breath caught. A soft sound escaped her lips, barely a whisper. Heat bloomed at the base of her throat, racing up until her cheeks flushed pink. For the briefest instant, her heartbeat quickened, and the world around her faded.

  Then, as if nothing had happened, she straightened her posture and set the spoon down. “Different,” she said quietly. “Unexpected.”

  Villen tried his portion next. His eyes widened slightly before he composed himself. “Balanced acidity, warmth, and spice,” he said. “It challenges the senses.”

  Nyindnir took a large bite, eyes lighting up. “By the forge, this is glorious! Who knew eggs could taste like this?”

  Maestcarěm’s jaw tightened. “An amusing novelty,” he said, voice cool. “But hardly refined.”

  James’s smile widened. “Refinement is overrated. Flavor, on the other hand, is eternal.”

  The queen’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment. Her violet eyes flickered with something unreadable, and then she looked away.

  “Both dishes were excellent,” she declared. “But tradition sustains a kingdom. The winner is Maestcarěm.”

  Applause followed, polite and hollow. Maestcarěm bowed again, victorious but not satisfied.

  James simply nodded. “Of course,” he said lightly. “After all, breakfast is only the beginning.”

  Nyindnir leaned closer, whispering, “You should have won.”

  James was trying his best to keep his composure. “I should have won indeed,” he muttered, voice low but tight. Anger flushed across his cheeks, heat rising faster than he could hide it. “But he did.”

  He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. He hated losing. But what he hated more was her reaction to his dish. It wasn’t disgust, nor admiration. It was something else, something that twisted in his chest and lingered longer than it should have, as if her gaze alone had left a mark he couldn’t shake.

  As they turned to leave, Rennalinda glanced toward him one last time. Her expression was unreadable, but her pulse still quickened from memory. The taste lingered on her lips, bright and daring, like a secret she could never admit.

  And in that silence, Maestcarěm’s victory felt strangely hollow, while James’s defeat shimmered like the promise of dawn.

  Author’s Note

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