Morning came too soon.

  James hadn’t slept a single second. He’d spent the entire night staring at the wagon ceiling, replaying every terrible decision that had landed him in a dragon’s travel party. His mind was a noisy kitchen of panic, sarcasm, and caffeine withdrawal.

  When he heard footsteps outside, he immediately shut his eyes and faked a snore.

  It didn’t work.

  “Get up. I know you’re awake,” Villen said, voice calm enough to be terrifying.

  James groaned. “Oh, fuck. How’d you know that?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Stand up and tell the others you’ll be coming with me when I say I’m heading back to restock supplies.”

  “Whatever,” James muttered.

  Villen’s tone sharpened. “What was that?”

  James straightened instantly. “Nothing! Of course, sir. I’ll do exactly as you command.”

  “Also,” Villen added, “make breakfast. I’m hungry.”

  James rolled his eyes. “Make breakfast. Brew coffee. Feed the dragon. Eat, eat, eat,” he mumbled under his breath.

  “Are you complaining?”

  “Absolutely not, sir. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Then hurry up.”

  James dragged himself out of the wagon, the exhaustion of a sleepless night weighing on every step. Perfect, he thought. Cooking for a dragon with murder issues. What could possibly go wrong?

  The morning fire was already crackling. Marty or Gerrard must have started it, probably Marty, judging by the cheerful humming that made James want to punch something.

  Villen stood by the flames, arms folded, radiating authority.

  “What are you staring at?” Villen asked.

  “Just wondering when you’ll pull out the ingredients,” James replied.

  “Didn’t we still have owlbear meat from yesterday?”

  James blinked. “Wait, you’re going to eat leftovers? Then why the hell did I—” He stopped when Villen’s gaze shifted toward him, sharp as a blade. “Haha, just kidding! Of course, if Your Eminent Appetite prefers day-old owlbear, who am I to argue? I just thought maybe something fresh would suit your refined palate.”

  Villen studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “You have a point. What do you need?”

  “A few eggs, some garlic, tomatoes, onions… Marty’s got some oil left, right? A few peppers. And some spices.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Chef’s honor.”

  Villen looked thoughtful. “Our supplies are running low. I’ll have to return to restock after breakfast.”

  Before James could react, Marty spoke up from the fire. “No need for that! We can hunt or forage along the way. There’s plenty in the forest.”

  Gerrard nodded in agreement. “Exactly. Once we reach Min City, you can buy whatever else you need. We’ll help too. No reason to go back.”

  Villen smiled faintly. “That’s kind of you, but I can restock faster alone. I’ll catch up with you on the road.”

  James froze mid-motion. He stayed quiet, eyes fixed on his pan like it held the meaning of life. He could feel Villen’s gaze boring into him.

  “Where will you restock?” Marty asked.

  Villen’s expression didn’t change. “Me? From a merchant I know.”

  “A merchant? Where exactly?”

  Villen cleared his throat and locked eyes with James. The message was clear: Go on.

  James, of course, couldn’t help himself. “Oh, supplies, huh? Fancy supplies. I’m so curious where you find them. Maybe I should tag along. Min City can wait.”

  Marty blinked. “Wait, James, you said you were heading to Min City.”

  Gerrard frowned. “You can’t just leave us halfway.”

  James raised both hands dramatically. “Well, you know me... maybe you don’t. A wandering chef must wander. You two go ahead to Min. I’ll travel with Villen and meet you there later.”

  Villen’s smile widened. “Ah, James. How considerate.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s me, considerate to the point of stupidity,” James said with a forced grin. The sleeplessness in his eyes made the smile look like a bad joke. “Anyway, first breakfast, then travel.”

  Marty and Gerrard exchanged worried looks as James turned back to the fire. The morning sun rose higher, and with it, the quiet dread that breakfast might be his last meal.

  The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint chill that clung to every breath before the sun rose high enough to burn it away. A small campfire crackled at the center, its smoke curling lazily upward.

  James crouched beside the fire, sleeves rolled, eyes half open but hands alive with instinct. Cooking on no sleep was nothing new; he’d done worse in back-alley kitchens back on Earth. Still, doing it under a dragon’s supervision added a certain motivational edge. His weapon of choice wasn’t a pan but the same battered shield he’d been cooking on for days. Its surface was scarred, blackened, and seasoned by too many bad decisions, pizzas, and one very questionable burger recipe.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  He wiped it once with a cloth, then poured a thin layer of oil over the metal. The surface shimmered as it heated.

  “All right, you beautiful piece of war equipment,” he muttered. “One more breakfast before you retire.”

  He reached into the small sack beside him and pulled out a few thin strips of leftover owlbear meat, yesterday’s work, still holding that faint roasted coffee aroma. He cut the meat into smaller bits and tossed them onto the shield to reheat, letting the oil wake the flavor back to life. The camp filled instantly with the smell of sizzling fat and spice.

  Marty turned at the sound. “You’re cooking that again? I thought we buried the rest.”

  James didn’t look up. “Correction, you buried the useless parts. This is the good part. The part that says, ‘I’m still worth something.’ Like me.”

  Tiny sparks danced as the oil hissed. He tossed in chopped onions and garlic, each sizzle sharper than the last. The aroma grew thicker, sweet, smoky, and wild. Then came the diced tomatoes, bright red and bursting with juice. He stirred them together with the tip of his knife, the mixture bubbling as it met the heat.

  Villen’s shadow fell across him. “What are you making?”

  “Something that’ll make you forget your murder issues,” James said without missing a beat. “Breakfast shakshuka. Tomato base, eggs, spice, and a little owlbear because we’re low on chickens.”

  “Shakshuka,” Villen repeated, tasting the word.

  “Yeah. Sounds exotic, doesn’t it? Basically poor man’s breakfast that got famous because it looks good in a pan. Or in this case...” He tapped the shield. “...a war relic.”

  Villen’s brow twitched. “You are cooking on a shield again.”

  “Consistency builds flavor,” James said. “That’s science.”

  He sprinkled in salt, crushed red pepper, and a few chopped green herbs. The tomatoes softened into a thick sauce, glowing under the morning sun. The owlbear meat browned along the edges, the smell deepening into something almost comforting.

  Not bad, James thought. Still smells like danger, but at least breakfast danger.

  When the sauce began to bubble, he cracked four eggs right over the top. The whites spread slowly, catching around bits of tomato and meat, while the yolks stayed golden and proud in the center.

  “See that?” he said, gesturing with the knife. “Perfect balance. Controlled chaos. The culinary version of living with a dragon.”

  Marty peeked over his shoulder. “That looks… really good.”

  “Don’t jinx it,” James said. “The last time someone said that, he died choking on food.”

  Villen crouched beside him, eyes narrowing as the mixture thickened. “It smells… interesting.”

  “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me,” James said dryly. “Here, hand me that bread.”

  He took a half-stale loaf from Gerrard, tore it into rough pieces, and laid them around the edge of the shield to soak up the sauce. The smell now was maddening: tomato, pepper, garlic, and meat blending into something primal.

  After a few minutes, the eggs firmed up, the yolks trembling softly in their pools of red. James lifted the shield off the stones, set it on a flat rock, and nodded to himself.

  “There. Owlbear shakshuka, breakfast of champions, and people who didn’t plan ahead.”

  He tore off a piece of bread and scooped up a bite, letting the yolk run down his fingers. “Mmh. Not bad. Little hint of fear in the aftertaste, but that’s authentic.”

  He handed the shield toward Villen. “Your turn, O Mighty Dra... ahem, Sir Villen.”

  Villen blinked, then took a cautious bite. His expression didn’t change for several seconds. Finally, he said, “It’s… spicy.”

  “Good. That means it’s working.”

  Marty tried his own scoop and instantly coughed. “That’s working? It feels like my mouth’s on fire.”

  James grinned faintly. “Exactly. Does that remind you of something, someone? You’re welcome.”

  Villen ate another bite, slower this time. “The flavor is strong. Sharp. It reminds me of something.”

  “Yeah,” James said, stretching his back. “Reminds me of regret.”

  Gerrard swallowed another bite, slow and deliberate. “It’s better than I expected.”

  James yawned. “Story of my life.”

  The campfire popped, sunlight warming the clearing. For a rare moment, everyone was quiet, just the sound of chewing, the smell of spice, and the faint metallic glint of a shield that had once been meant for war but now served a nobler purpose: breakfast.

  They ate in a comfortable, noisy rush. The sun climbed a little higher, chasing away the last chill, and the camp smelled of tomato, spice, coffee, and bread. When the plates were empty, Villen rose as if unfolded from a dark cloak.

  “If we leave early,” he said, “we might catch you before you reach Min City.”

  James snorted. “Perfect plan. And if we miss each other in Min, do me a favor, don’t forget me, alright?”

  Marty laughed. “Forget you? Never.”

  Gerrard grinned, half sentimental and entirely ridiculous. “Even on my deathbed I’ll remember that owlbear burger.”

  James bowed with exaggerated solemnity. “My dish thanks you for the compliment. Dishes are always grateful.”

  Marty shoved a mug at him. “Don’t worry. We’ll handle the washing. Go. Quick in, quick out.”

  “Watch your step on the road. Don’t be owlbear meal,” James warned as Villen began to walk away.

  They left without fanfare. Villen’s boots made soft impressions in the dew, and for a while the two of them simply walked in silence, the convoy of wagons and the crackle of the dying fire behind them. The air was light with birdsong and something else James could not name. It made his scalp prickle.

  After a few minutes he couldn’t help himself. “So where exactly are we going? Marty was saying that heading that way is basically No Man’s Land. I thought that place was mostly stories.”

  Villen did not answer at once. He scanned the treeline, then shrugged as if shrugging were the most natural thing in the world. “There is nothing there for men but death,” he said flatly.

  James could not resist. “Wow. Motivational speaker material. Ever think about doing that for a living?”

  Villen glanced at him. “We should be far enough by now.”

  “For what?” James asked. “Wait, hold on, remember I still have those coffee beans. If you kill me, no one gets any coffee, and you do not get my culinary genius.”

  Villen’s face was unreadable. For a long beat he said nothing, then, cold and flat, he said, “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t bother with this walk. I’d kill you right there.”

  James pushed farther, because panic was an excellent seasoning for conversation. “So what gives? Why the theatrics?”

  Villen’s reply was short and sharp: "Shut up."

  They had walked another few paces when Villen stopped, turned, and looked at him as if the question were the last drop of tea in an empty cup. He raised his hand. It flicked through the air like an invitation or a warning. A subtle hum filled the clearing. The world seemed to inhale.

  The air around them pooled with mana. It gathered like low fog, then brightened, then shivered. Colors sharpened until the leaves looked almost painted. James felt the skin on his arms tighten as if the morning had been rewound and tuned to a higher frequency.

  “Uh,” James said, voice smaller than he meant. “What are you doing?”

  Villen’s mouth curved into a thin smile. “There are things you do not understand.”

  Light poured from him then, not the soft glow of a camp lantern but a hard, clean radiance that made the dew at their feet look like scattered glass. The sound of the world changed. James’s ears filled with a ringing like far-off bells. The mana coalesced around Villen’s frame, shifting fabric and bone and breath into something that did not obey the rules James had grown up with.

  He felt the air turn cold and hot at once, like plunging his hand into a wound lit by sunlight. His knees weakened.

  Villen expanded as if someone had pulled up a painting of a man and stretched it into a mountain. Scales unrolled where skin had been. Wings folded and then unfurled, enormous and shadowing the grass. A head rose with eyes like dying embers and teeth like broken ivory. The dragon was older than mountains and younger than a rumor.

  James blinked at it, heart doing a clumsy jig. The world telescoped into one precise, stupid thought: Holy shit.

  Then his legs gave out. His breath caught. He tasted metal and tomato and fear. The last thing he saw was the vast, burnished flank of Villen filling the sky.

  The next sound was his own body hitting the ground.

  He was out cold.

  Above him, Villen lowered his massive head. For the first time that morning, he said nothing, and the silence felt sacred.

  Author’s Note

  Hi folks! Quick reminder, we’ve already hit 4 reviews, which means we’re one step away from the bonus chapter!

  And remember, once we reach 10 total reviews, next week’s release will jump from 2 chapters to 3!

  follow and, if you really enjoyed it, add it to your favorites! If you’ve already done both, leaving a rating or review would help me a lot. Thank you so much in advance!

  10 chapters ahead, you can find the advance chapters here: