The voice is a razor-blade against my sanity.
"Table for one, Millie?"
I whirl around, the paring knife in my boot half-unsheathed before I even realize I'm moving. The corridor is empty. Only the wet obsidian walls and the guttering violet flame of a torch.
There is no Chef Laurent. There is no Shanghai kitchen. He's three thousand miles and an entire dimension away.
"Boss?" Finn's voice pulls me back. He's staring at me, his eyes wide with worry. "You okay? You looked like you saw a ghost."
"Just the shadows," I say, my heart hammering a frantic, erratic beat against my ribs. "I'm fine. Just tired."
I'm not fine. I'm hearing echoes of the man who broke me. My ears are ringing, and the smell of the damp palace stone is shifting, for just a second, into the acrid scent of a commercial-grade degreaser. I force a breath, clutching my backpack. Focus on the service. Focus on the now.
The floor beneath our feet vibrates with another explosion.
"They've breached the West Wing!" a guard screams from the stairs. "The Gravel-Wrights are inside!"
Dorian grabs my arm. "The Prince is waiting at the High Bastion. If the gates fall, this whole palace becomes a tomb. We have to go."
We sprint. My boots click on the obsidian floors, the sound echoing in the chaos. We pass through the main dining hall—once a place of luxury, now filled with panicked nobles clutching silver plates as if they could shield them from death.
Prince Elian is at the head of the great stairs. His violet cape is tattered, and he's holding a two-handed blade that glows with the same sickly silver light as the dying grain.
"Millie," Elian calls out. He looks at my backpack. "Tobias says you found a flower in the dark. Tell me it can do more than look pretty."
"It eats the rot," I say, panting as I reach him. I look down the stairs.
The scene below is a vision of hell.
Hundreds of people—or what used to be people—are surging into the foyer. Their skin is jagged, grey stone. Crystals of petrified mana grow from their eyes like weeping gems. They don't walk; they lurch, their movements accompanied by the sickening sound of grinding rock.
A Gravel-Wright slams its stone fist into a pillar. The obsidian cracks. The creature lets out a sound that isn't a scream—it's the sound of a mountain breaking.
"Blades don't work," Elian grunts, parrying a stone limb. "Every time we cut them, the mana in the air just reforms the crystal. They're endless."
I look at the creatures. They aren't biological anymore. They're a chemical reaction out of control. And every chef knows that if a sauce is breaking, you don't keep whisking. You change the chemistry.
"Dorian, get me to the banquet station in the hall!" I shout. "Elian, tell your guards to aim for their joints. Don't try to kill them—just slow them down."
"What are you making?" Dorian asks, throwing himself in front of me as a stone-shielder lunges.
"I'm making an acid wash," I say.
I reach the banquet table. It's still covered in the remnants of a noble's feast. Crystal bowls of fruit, expensive vinegars, and heavy silver pitchers of wine.
***
*Food Item 1: The Boiling Citrus-Iron Infusion. Scent: Intense, nose-stinging vinegar and charred lemon. Appearance: A murky, golden liquid that bubbles violently, throwing off sharp, yellow sparks. Tactile: The heat of the iron pot seeping through my leather gloves.*
I work like a madwoman. I grab every bottle of *Night-Vinegar*—a sour, fermented wine with high acidity—and pour them into a massive iron soup cauldron.
"Finn! The marigold!"
Finn hands me the flower we found in the cellar. I don't hesitate. I tear the sun-colored petals and drop them into the vinegar.
The reaction is violent. The moment the Earth-side flower hits the magical acid, the liquid turns a bright, toxic green. It doesn't boil; it roars. The 'primal mana' in the Earth petals is eating the alkaline magical property of the vinegar, creating a high-energy corrosive.
I add a handful of my Earth-side sea salt.
The salt acts as the stabilizer. The green liquid goes still, but it starts to hum—a low, vibrating frequency that makes the glassware on the tables shatter.
"Get this into the pitchers!" I command.
***
*Food Item 2: The Solder's Fortification Brew. Scent: Rosemary, heavy black pepper, and beef fat. Taste: A punch of heat that coats the throat and sends a wave of unnatural energy to the heart. Appearance: Deep brown, thick, and steaming.*
"Wait," I tell the soldiers who are retreating toward the station. "Drink this first."
I've thrown my last two bouillon cubes into a pot of boiling water with local *Beef-Grip*—a tough, sinewy meat. The salt in the cubes unlocks the hidden proteins in the local beef.
Dorian grabs a mug, gulps it down, and his eyes practically glow. The mana from the Earth-stock hits his system, mending the micro-tears in his muscles instantly.
"The taste," he rasps, looking at the cup. "It's like... lightning in the blood."
"Go!" I push him toward the line.
***
*Food Item 3: Deep-Fried Magma Curds (Unintentional Result). Scent: Burned cheese and sulfur. Texture: Craggly, glass-hard exterior with a liquid, molten center.*
While the acid is being prepared, a Gravel-Wright breaches the table. I grab a bowl of heavy cheese curds intended for an appetizer and throw it into a pan of hot fat on the burner. The creature's stony hand swipes through the boiling oil.
The cheese melts and sticks to the mineral limb. The Gravel-Wright halts, its stone limb sizzle-fusing under the grease and salt.
It's not enough to kill it, but it's enough to stall.
"Pour it!" Elian bellows.
The guards on the balcony tilt the pitchers of my marigold-vinegar over the foyer. The green liquid rains down on the Gravel-Wrights.
The effect is immediate.
When the acid touches the stone skin, the sound is deafening. A thousand snakes hissing at once. White smoke billows from the creatures' joints. The stone doesn't shatter; it softens. It turns back into malleable clay.
The Gravel-Wrights try to swing their arms, but the mineral structure is compromised. Their stone limbs sag. They collapse into heaps of wet, grey sludge on the foyer floor.
"It's working!" Finn screams.
But as the smoke clears, a figure appears at the shattered gate.
Ravenna Thorne isn't wearing her white robes anymore. She's wearing armor made of pure, translucent Bone-Flower crystal. She's holding a staff that looks like it's carved from the King's own petrified lung.
She walks through the puddles of sludge, the acid not even marking her boots.
"Impressive, Salt-Witch," Ravenna calls out, her voice amplified by magic. "You've discovered how to break the Stone. But can you feed the god who demands it?"
She slams her staff into the floor.
The ground beneath the palace trembles. In the center of the foyer, the grey sludge begins to rise. It's not turning back into Gravel-Wrights. It's coalescing into one singular mass—a titan of shifting mineral and Bone-Flower grain, twenty feet tall, its face a distorted, crystalline mask of the King's own features.
"A Great-Eater," Elian whispers, his sword shaking. "A mana-vessel. It doesn't have joints, Millie. Acid won't stop it."
The titan lets out a roar that sends the remaining nobles fleeing for the Upper Chambers.
I look at my bag. It's empty. No more bouillon. No more salt. I have nothing left from Earth except my knives and a single jar of dried chilies.
"The vault," I say, grabbing Elian's shoulder. "Where does the King keep the White Grain for himself? Not the diluted stuff for the masses. The pure heart-grain."
"It's beneath the throne," Elian says. "But only a priest of the Purity can open it."
"Dorian," I say, my face cold. "I need that grain. Now."
"How?"
"I'm going to cook the heart out of that thing," I say, pointing at the titan.
The titan swings a massive, liquid-stone fist, obliterating the banquet station I was just standing at. I dive out of the way, the heat of the impact scorching my hair.
I look at Ravenna. She's smiling.
I realize then that she isn't trying to destroy the palace. She's trying to force me to reveal the source of my magic. She's creating a problem so large that only my "salt" can fix it.
She's playing a game of chicken with the entire kingdom's hunger.
I stand up, wiping the soot from my forehead. My fingers are trembling, my heart racing, but I feel the cold, sharp focus of the service.
"Finn," I say. "Find me the King's silver wine press."
"What for?"
"I'm done making soup," I say, pulling my cleaver. "It's time for a reduction."
I look at the titan, and for a second, I see Laurent again. A massive, looming threat that thinks it owns my work.
I don't hear his voice this time. I hear the sound of a stove turning on.
As Millie starts to move toward the throne, a secondary explosion rocks the throne room. Not from Ravenna. The ceiling collapses, and three figures in sleek, futuristic Earth-side tactical gear drop down on ziplines. One of them looks at the titan, then at Millie. "Target confirmed. The Chef is still alive."