The note arrived folded into the shape of a leaf, held shut with a drop of black wax. No sigil. No seal. Just three lines in that elegant elven script: *Tomorrow. Sunset. My kitchens. Come alone.*
I turned it over in my hands, then set it down next to the register. Al raised an eyebrow from across the counter. I shook my head. He went back to sweeping.
---
Velysara's estate sat at the edge of Dalton, past the market square, up a winding hill. The climb was steeper than it looked from town, and by the time I reached the gate, I was breathing harder than I wanted to admit. I'd been here once before, but the gate felt just as imposing the second time.
The gate was wrought iron, black, lined with stone pillars that had seen weather. A young woman in a simple grey dress stood waiting just inside. She pushed the gate open, nodded, and turned — expecting me to follow, which I did. Through a courtyard, past a fountain that wasn't running, through a side door, down a hall. The air got warmer with each step, the smell of stone giving way to wood smoke and herbs.
The kitchen looked just as I remembered it — marble counters, copper pots, the massive stone oven at the far end. Still impressive the second time.
She was already there, seated at a small table near the window, a glass of wine in her hand.
"I don't eat often," she said, without looking up. "But when I do, I prefer it to be worth the trouble."
The blue interface flickered at the edge of my vision. I ignored it.
"Anything you don't like?"
"Surprise me."
Same as the note. Two words, casual, like she hadn't already given me the same challenge days ago.
I decided to stop thinking and start cooking.
---
I started simple. A Margherita. If I were being judged, I wanted to show her the basics done right. Flour, water, salt, yeast. San Marzano-like tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, basil. No shortcuts. No tricks.
She watched from her chair, silent. I could feel her gaze on my back as I worked the dough. It wasn't unsettling, exactly. Just... present. Like cooking under a spotlight.
The oven was a dream. Even heat, consistent flame. I slid the first pizza in and turned to prep the second. Mushrooms, garlic, ricotta, and a drizzle of truffle oil I found in her pantry. White pizza, no sauce. Let the cheese do the work.
By the time the Margherita came out, the smell had filled the kitchen. I sliced it, plated it, and set it in front of her. She picked up a fork. Studied the pizza. Then cut a single bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Set the fork down.
"Good."
High praise, from a dragon. I turned back to the counter, rolling the next dough between my palms. I worked in silence, the only sounds the crackle of the oven and the soft thud of my hands against the dough. Given enough time, you can get used to even an eight-hundred-and-forty-three-year-old dragon waiting to be fed.
---
The white pizza went next. Same ritual. She ate more slowly this time. Two bites. Three. A pause to drink.
"You've done this before," she said. Not a question.
"Every day for the last few months."
"Before that?"
I hesitated. "Different kind of cooking."
She didn't push. I appreciated that. Everyone in this world seemed to want something from me — Big Brother Dearest wanted to expose me, Fendrel wanted to study me, the grey-cloaked woman wanted to understand me. But Velysara just wanted pizza. And that, at least, I knew how to give.
The dessert pizza was the last one. Honey, sliced apples, a dusting of cinnamon, a crumble of something that might've been goat cheese. I was gambling on that one. She finished the whole slice. Licked her fingers. Then leaned back in her chair and looked at me with those pale, ageless eyes.
"You have a gift," she said. "But gifts attract attention. Be careful who you trust."
I waited. She didn't elaborate.
I cleared my throat. "Can I ask you something?"
"You can ask."
"About this world. How old is it? Was it always... like this?"
She was quiet for a long time. Long enough that I thought she wouldn't answer. Then: "This world wasn't always like this. Something happened. Long before my time."
"What kind of something?"
Her eyes met mine. "The kind that leaves a scar."
That was all she gave me. I wanted more. I wanted to ask about the scar, about what happened, about whether it was connected to the system I carried in my head. But I could feel the edges of the conversation closing like a door. She'd given me what she wanted to give, and asking for more would only get me nothing.
I packed my knives. Wiped her counter. Thanked her for the kitchen. She was already looking out the window, her face unreadable.
---
I walked home in the dark. The roads were empty. The cold bit through my jacket. I kept hearing her voice.
*Be careful who you trust.*
I'd been careful my whole life. That's why I was here, in a body that wasn't mine, in a world that didn't make sense, running a pizzeria powered by a blue box I couldn't explain. Careful had gotten me exactly this far.
I didn't know if that was a good thing or not.
The pizzeria's sign glowed ahead, warm and yellow. I unlocked the door, stepped inside, and stood in the dark kitchen for a while. The oven was cold. I left it that way.