The marrow pearl touches the King's tongue, and for a heartbeat, the room goes silent.
Then, the ignition happens. It isn't fire. It's a flash of pure, golden bio-luminescence that rips through the King's translucent skin. The gray, petrified veins in his neck pulse once, twice, and then shatter.
A sound like cracking porcelain fills the chamber.
Ravenna Thorne lunges forward, her silver needle aimed at the King's throat. "Heresy! She's detonating his mana-core!"
*Clang.*
Dorian's sword meets the needle in a shower of sparks. He doesn't just parry; he shoves the Inquisitor back with his shoulder. The weight of his armor slams into her, forcing her away from the bed.
"Step back, Ravenna," Elian's voice is cold, but his eyes are fixed on his father. "The Fox is hunting."
The King's chest heaves. A wet, rattling sound tears from his throat—a mixture of a gasp and a growl. His eyes, once cloudy and gray, are now terrifyingly bright, leaking trails of white light that dance like silk threads in the air.
He leans over the side of the bed and vomits.
It isn't bile. It's a pile of sharp, translucent obsidian shards mixed with thick, silver fluid. They clatter onto the stone floor like spilled diamonds, smoking with a pungent, ozonic scent that stings my nostrils.
"The Stone-Lung," I whisper, leaning over him. I'm not disgusted. I'm analyzing the 'byproduct'. "He's purging the solidified mana."
I pick up the cup of *Crystal-Grape Chilled Foam*.
"Drink," I command, my voice brookly no argument. "The marrow gave you the power to break the shards. The foam will numb the lacerations they left behind."
The King's clawed hand—now fleshy and pink at the fingertips—grabs the cup. He gulps the foam down.
***
*Food Item 1: Marrow Pearl Residue. Scent: Roasted walnut and iron. Taste: The King experiences a volcanic burst of savory fat followed by a grounding, earthy saltiness that anchors his floating consciousness. Texture: The pearls pop like caviar, releasing a liquid center that feels like velvet coating a raw wound.*
The King collapses back into the silk pillows. The brilliant white light in his eyes fades to a rich, steady violet. He breathes—slowly, deeply—the first real breath he's taken in years.
"Elian," the King rasps. His voice is a broken ruin, but it's human.
The Prince falls to his knees by the bed. "Father."
"The girl," the King says, his eyes drifting to me. "The Salt-Witch... she has... a strange fire."
"She's a chef, Father," Elian says, looking at me with an intensity that makes the skin on the back of my neck prickle. "A chef from the distant West."
I step back, my heart still racing. My hands are coated in a fine, silver dust—residue from the King's skin. It's cold. Like holding ice cubes until your palms go numb. I wipe them on my apron, the fabric rasping against my skin.
Ravenna stands in the corner, her robes tattered from the scuffle. She isn't shouting anymore. She's watching the silver shards on the floor.
"This doesn't end here," she says, her voice a low venom. "The Blight isn't a disease to be cured by soup. It is the will of the Purity. You have disrupted the natural order, Millie Chen."
"Hunger is the natural order," I say, meeting her gaze. "And I'm the one who satisfies it."
Ravenna turns and sweeps out of the room. Her mages follow, though one of them lingers, looking at the tray with a hunger that isn't spiritual at all.
***
Two hours later, the palace is in a state of quiet, frantic motion.
The King is sleeping—real, healing sleep. I'm sitting in the small dining nook adjacent to the royal kitchen. I'm exhausted. The adrenaline has left me, replaced by a hollow ache in my bones.
Dorian sits across from me. He's removing his gauntlets, his knuckles bruised from the clash with Ravenna's guard.
"You saved him," Dorian says.
"I fed him," I correct. I'm stirring a bowl of *Cloud-Berry Infusion*—a local tea that tastes like tart raspberries and rainy mornings.
*Food Item 2: Steaming Cloud-Berry Infusion. Scent: Fragrant tartness and pine resin. Taste: Sharp acid that mellows into a honey-like sweetness on the back of the tongue. Tactile: The warmth of the ceramic mug seeping into my cold fingers.*
"The Inquisition won't let this go," Dorian continues. "The 'Stone-Lung' was their greatest leash on the nobility. By curing it, you've broken the hierarchy of Valdris."
"I don't care about your hierarchy," I say, blowing steam from my cup. "I care about the portal. The Inquisition mages are still at the clearing. I need to get back, Dorian. I'm nearly out of supplies. I'm down to three bouillon cubes and a handful of pepper."
"I know," he says.
Suddenly, Finn bursts into the room. He's been hiding in the pantries, but he looks better—his face is clean, and someone gave him a small, silver-thread tunic.
"Boss! You gotta see this!" Finn says, tugging at my sleeve. "The old chef, Tobias. He's in the cellar. He found something in the Bone-Flower stores!"
I look at Dorian. He stands, his sword belt creaking.
We follow Finn down to the deep storage—the coldest part of the obsidian shard. The walls are wet here, smelling of mineral salt and stagnant water.
Tobias Reed stands in the center of a pile of burst silken sacks. The silver grain—the Bone-Flower—is everywhere. It coats the floor like iridescent snow.
"It's dying," Tobias says, his voice shaking. He points to the silver crystals.
The grains aren't shimmering anymore. They're turning a dull, matte black. As I watch, one of the crystals crumbles into soot.
"When you ignited the King's mana," Tobias explains, "you sent a resonance through the palace. The Bone-Flower grain is a parasitic entity. It feeds on the stilled energy of the host. Your... your salt. It was like poison to the flowers."
"It's a chain reaction," I realize, a cold feeling of dread settling in my chest.
If the Bone-Flower grain dies, the Inquisition loses their control. But the rich, who are addicted to the silver bread, will go into a violent, magical withdrawal. The city will descend into a frenzy within forty-eight hours.
"There's more," Finn says, pointing to a dark corner behind the racks.
In the shadows, a single stalk of a plant is growing through the obsidian. It's a flower—but not one of the Bone-Flowers. It has vibrant green leaves and a bloom that looks like a miniature sun.
It's an Earth-side marigold.
My heart stops. It's growing in a place it shouldn't be. In a world it shouldn't exist in.
I kneel beside the plant. The soil isn't soil; it's pulverized silver grain. The Earth-side flower is feeding on the dead magical crystals.
*Food Item 3: Trans-Dimensional Marigold (Uncooked). Scent: Intense peppery spice and sunshine. Texture: Waxy leaves that feel warm to the touch. Property: It's vibrating with a soft, clean energy that lacks the 'hollow' feeling of Valdris mana.*
"My mana signature," I whisper. "The portal wasn't the only bridge. My cooking... the things I brought... they're terraforming this place."
If Earth-side plants can grow here, then Earth-side people can stay here. But more importantly—the bridge is becoming permanent.
"Dorian," I say, my voice trembling as I look at the flower. "We're not going to be able to keep the secret much longer. The forest isn't the only doorway anymore."
Dorian looks at the marigold, his expression unreadable. He reaches out a hand to touch a leaf, but flinches back when he feels the heat.
"Millie," he says softly. "Prince Elian is coming. He wants to discuss your 'reward'."
I stand up, brushing the silver soot from my knees. The 'reward' is just another name for a leash.
"He wants the source of the seeds," I say. "He knows the marigold isn't from 'the West'."
A loud explosion rocks the palace foundations. Dust rains from the ceiling.
"What now?" I bark.
A frantic Violet Guard soldier runs into the cellar, blood trailing from a wound on his temple.
"The Dregs!" he gasps. "The withdrawal has hit the lower districts. The citizens who couldn't get the White-Grain... they've turned into 'Gravel-Wrights'. They're storming the Silk Gates!"
Gravel-Wrights. The end stage of petrification where the body turns to living stone but keeps moving. A literal zombie apocalypse made of minerals.
"I need a bigger kitchen," I say, looking at the dying Bone-Flower. "And I need every jar of salt in the Royal Stores."
I grab my backpack. The Salt-Witch isn't just a nickname anymore. It's a role I have to play to survive.
"Finn, get the lye. Dorian, we're going back to the front gates."
I look at the marigold. If it can grow on silver dust, it can grow on anything.
"Time to see if stone-men can be satiated," I mutter.
As Millie leads them toward the palace stairs, she hears a voice behind her. Not Finn's or Dorian's. A familiar, oily voice she hasn't heard in years. Her former Head Chef, Laurent. "Table for one, Millie? I told you that you'd never escape my shadow." But there's no one in the dark corridor except the cooling shadow of the obsidian wall.