The roar of the white dragon isn't just a sound; it's a vibration that rattles the fillings in my teeth.
The beast's scales are the color of sun-bleached bone, each one as large as a dinner plate. As it descends, the beat of its wings sends a freezing gale through the docks, knocking over crates and slamming shutters tight. The air instantly turns sharp and metallic, smelling of dry ice and ozone.
Ravenna Thorne stands on the beast's neck, her crimson robes whipping in the wind like a fresh wound.
"She's coming for the salt," Dorian grunts. He shoves me toward the shadowed alley behind the tavern. "Finn, stay behind the crates! Do not let them see your face."
I scramble back, my hand clutching the strap of my backpack so hard the leather bites into my palm. My pulse is a frantic drum against my collarbone. I look at the man in the silver mask. He remains standing in the open, his violet eyes fixed on the dragon.
The dragon hits the pier.
The wooden planks groan and splinter under its weight. Ravenna leaps down before the dust even settles, her golden-tipped nails gleaming in the torchlight. Behind her, twenty Purifier mages form a crescent moon of white steel and glowing staves.
"Commander Ashford," Ravenna says. Her voice is a silk ribbon cutting through the chaos. "And the nameless shadow of the court. Step aside. I have a spiritual blight to excise from this den of filth."
The masked man steps forward, his violet flame extinguishing as he lowers his hand. "High Inquisitor. Your jurisdiction ends where the Crown's necessity begins."
He reaches up and unhooks the silver mask.
Underneath is a face that could have been carved from marble. He's younger than I thought—perhaps twenty-seven—with high, sharp cheekbones and a mouth set in a line of permanent dissatisfaction. The violet of his eyes is deeper now, swirling with the same magical intensity I saw in the tavern.
Dorian's sword remains drawn, but he dips his head. "Prince Elian."
The Crown Prince of Valdris.
Ravenna doesn't flinch. She doesn't bow. "The King is failing because of heretical poisons, your Highness. Taking this girl to the palace is inviting the fox into the henhouse."
"Then let her be the fox," Elian says, walking toward me. His boots click rhythmically on the splintered wood. "The hounds haven't done much to stop the Stone-Lung, have they?"
I stand my ground as the Prince reaches me. He smells of cedar and old library books. Up close, his violet eyes look like they're searching for a secret I haven't even told myself yet.
"Pack your things, Chef," Elian commands. "You're under my personal protection. To touch you now is an act of high treason."
I look at Ravenna. Her eyes are slits, her mouth a tight line of pure, unadulterated fury. She knows she can't touch me in front of the Prince, but she also knows the road to the capital is long.
***
We don't leave by sea.
A Royal carriage, armored in blackened iron and pulled by six six-legged *Gallow-Horses*, waits for us at the edge of the Shadow Market. It's a somber, silent vehicle, guarded by twelve of Elian's elite Violet Guard.
Dorian and I are shoved into one side; Finn huddles in the corner, looking terrified. Elian sits across from us, his silver mask resting on his knee like a discarded toy.
As the carriage jolts into motion, the hunger in my stomach turns from a dull ache to a sharp, stabbing pain. Adrenaline is a thief; it steals your energy and leaves you hollow.
"Eat something," Dorian says, noticing the way my hands are trembling.
I reach into my bag. I have no time for a five-course meal, but a chef always keeps emergency supplies. I pull out a small tin of *Soot-Baked Chili Root*.
*Food Item 1: Soot-Baked Chili Root. Scent: Bitter char and a pungent, peppery kick. Appearance: A gnarly, black tuber sliced into thick, ugly chips. Taste: Initial acrid bitterness that transitions into a slow, spreading heat. Tactile: Hard and fibrous, requiring slow chewing that grounds the nerves.*
I shove a piece into my mouth. The bitterness is a slap in the face. It's a local root I found in the Shadow Market, but I've soaked it in Earth-side chili oil.
"The Salt-Witch is a scavenger," Elian observes, watching me chew.
"The 'Salt-Witch' hasn't had breakfast," I snap back, my voice gravelly. "If you want me to save a king, I need my brain at full capacity. And that requires calories."
I hand a piece of the root to Finn, who nibbles on it with the practiced stoicism of an urchin.
"You use that oil," Elian says, pointing at the traces of red on my fingers. "The red heat. It is... peculiar. I have studied the trade routes of the South. They bring peppers that burn the throat, but none that leave this floral, citrus lingering. Where is it from?"
"The Hidden Valley," I say, the lie flowing smoothly. "To the West. It only grows where the soil is rich in iron."
Elian studies me. I don't look away. Rule one: look them in the eye and they'll assume you're too bold to be a liar.
***
We arrive at the High Palace of Valdris as the sun begins to bleed purple over the mountains.
The palace is a nightmare of soaring spires and suspended bridges. It's built into a massive shard of obsidian that rises from the center of the capital. Everywhere there is glass—shifting, magical panes that catch the dying light and throw rainbow reflections onto the streets below.
But as we pass through the final gate, the atmosphere changes.
The air smells of clinical cleanliness—lemon, sharp pine, and a cloying, medicinal undertone that I recognize from Earth hospitals. It's the smell of death being fought with incense.
We are led past dozens of "Stilled Grace" statues—ministers, advisors, and guards who were too close to the King when the Blight-shards erupted from his lungs. They are grey, lifeless monuments in the halls.
"The kitchen," I demand as we reach the inner sanctum. "I'm not seeing the King until I see my equipment."
"He is fading, Millie," Dorian warns, his voice soft.
"I don't care," I say, my eyes fixed on the Prince. "If I see him without a cure ready, the Inquisition wins. They'll claim I'm a fake. Give me three hours in a kitchen. Alone."
Elian nods once. "Dorian, take her to the Royal Larder. Give her anything she asks for. If anyone tries to enter, including my sister or the Bishop, kill them."
The Royal Kitchen is a cathedral of gastronomy.
Thirty chefs in starched white linens stop what they're doing as I walk in. They look at my mud-stained clothes, my messy ponytail, and my backpack with varying degrees of shock and contempt.
At the center stands an old man with a long, thin mustache and a toque that looks like it's held up by magic. This must be Tobias Reed.
"So," Tobias says, eyeing me with the look of a man who's about to lose his pension. "The miracle-cook has arrived. I suppose you'll want my copper pans and the White-Grain from the Royal Stores?"
"I don't want your pans, and I definitely don't want your grain," I say, dropping my backpack onto a marble prep table. The *thud* echoes in the silent kitchen. "I want your most concentrated *Ice-Cress*, five pounds of raw beef marrow, and every clove of *Mage-Garlic* you have."
"Beef marrow?" one of the sous-chefs sneers. "For the King's constitution? He can barely swallow water."
"He's going to swallow this," I say, pulling out my cleaver.
I don't look at them. I clear the table in one swift motion.
***
*Food Item 2: Frozen Marrow Consommé. Scent: Rich, deep beef aroma balanced by the sharp, electric scent of Mage-Garlic. Appearance: Clear as a diamond, with small, frozen pearls of marrow fat suspended in the center.*
I work.
I render the beef marrow over a low, blue flame, skimming the surface until it's pure, liquid silk. I don't use Earth salt yet. I use a local ingredient: *Sun-Dehydrated Kelp*. It has a natural, briny MSG hit that serves as a base.
I dice the *Mage-Garlic* into pieces so thin they're transparent. The garlic doesn't smell like regular garlic; it smells like a thunderstorm.
Tobias watches from a distance, his hands trembling. He's never seen a woman move like this. My knife doesn't chop; it dances. *Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch.* The sound is hypnotic.
Then, I pull the salt.
Just a pinch. I sprinkle it over the simmering marrow broth.
The reaction is a soft, rhythmic *hiss*. The marrow fat begins to gather together into tiny spheres. They don't melt; they crystallize into golden pearls. The "primal mana" from the salt is forcing the protein and the magic in the garlic to bond.
"She's crystallizing the fat," Tobias whispers. "That takes weeks of fermentation."
"I don't have weeks," I mutter.
***
*Food Item 3: Crystal-Grape Chilled Foam. Scent: Intense sweet-tart fruit with a finish of cold mint. Texture: Air-light, disappearing on the tongue but leaving a cooling sensation that lingers for minutes.*
I finish the dish.
A single bowl of clear consommé with golden marrow pearls. Beside it, a small cup of the grape foam. One is a blast of grounding heat and protein; the other is a local anesthetic to clear the throat of the Stone-Lung's shards.
Dorian enters the kitchen. He's swapped his field armor for the Violet Guard uniform, looking like a statue of discipline.
"The King is coughing blood, Millie. The High Inquisitor has reached his bedside. She is demanding he be put into permanent 'Stilled Grace' to preserve his soul."
"She's trying to petrify him while he's alive," I say, my blood boiling. "Standard Inquisition play."
I grab the silver tray. My hands are finally steady.
"Let's go," I say. "Time to see if this King has the stomach for real food."
We move through the palace, the tray heavy in my hands. I catch my reflection in a passing mirror. My eyes look different—fiercer. My hair is a mess, and there's a smear of soot on my cheek. I look like a woman who just crawled out of a hole.
We reach the Royal Bedchamber.
Two massive doors made of solid silver swing open. The smell of death is overwhelming here.
At the center of the room, lying in a bed of white silk, is a man who looks more like a gargoyle than a king. His skin is mottled grey. His fingers are locked in a claw-like pose, already beginning to harden into stone.
Ravenna Thorne stands over him, a silver needle in her hand. She looks at me as I enter, and her eyes flash with murderous intent.
"You are too late, heretic," Ravenna sneers. "The Stone has reached his heart."
"He's still breathing," I say, stepping past the guards and walking straight to the bed.
The King's eyes—a faded violet—flick toward the tray. His throat makes a rasping, wet sound.
"Out of the way, Ravenna," I say, my voice steady. "The kitchen is in session."
I pick up a spoonful of the marrow pearls.
As the first golden marrow pearl touches the King's lips, a violent tremor shakes the entire palace. Outside, the bone-white dragon lets out a deafening shriek of pain. The marrow pearls don't just melt; they ignite, and the King's eyes turn a blinding, brilliant white.