The Mountain Palace felt different now.

  Gone was the chaos of the lower floors, the echo of roaring beasts and splashing water. Up here, everything was still, clean marble, cold air, and the faint scent of iron and incense drifting through the hallways. James followed Nyindnir through the spiraling corridor that led back toward the royal kitchens, his boots tapping lightly against the stone.

  “So,” the dwarf said, glancing up, “when do you need your ingredients?”

  “Three days from now,” James replied without hesitation.

  Nyindnir raised an eyebrow. “Waiting for Ruune’s crops to grow, then?”

  “Exactly. And I’ll need a few things from his fields too.”

  “You’ll find most of what you need in the kitchen,” said the dwarf. “We store the harvests in cold rooms, kept fresh by runes. Temperature regulated, humidity balanced, even the air’s filtered with enchantments. The elves are annoyingly meticulous about food.”

  James blinked. “So… refrigerators?”

  “Refriger-what?”

  “Fridge. Cold boxes that keep food from spoiling.”

  Nyindnir frowned. “You say strange things sometimes, human. They’re not boxes, they’re chambers. Runes and frost spells keep the produce preserved. You won’t see anything like it in human world.”

  James smirked. “You’d be surprised what I’ve seen. But hey, I’m impressed.”

  The dwarf’s expression softened, almost proud. “You should be.”

  James tilted his head. “By the way, you’ve got cheese. Do you have other dairy products? Yogurt? Cream?”

  Nyindnir squinted. “Other dairy… what now?”

  James sighed. “Okay. Yogurt. It’s like fermented milk. Soft, smooth, tangy. And cream, that thick layer on top of milk after you let it sit for a while. You can churn it into butter or whip it into heaven.”

  “Never heard of either,” Nyindnir admitted.

  “Then we’re changing that,” James said, grinning. “Come on. Let’s teach your people a little culinary science.”

  They entered the royal kitchen again, and James couldn’t help but stop at the threshold.

  It was exactly as he remembered, vast, luminous, and intimidating. The copper pots gleamed like mirrors. Steam curled lazily above enchanted stoves, and every inch of the marble counters reflected the glow of rune-lit fire. The place still felt like a cathedral built for chefs instead of priests.

  Nyindnir gestured toward the far end of the hall. “There he is. The head of the royal kitchens.”

  James followed his gaze and nearly whistled.

  A tall elf stood at the central counter, hair tied in a perfect knot, every movement precise enough to shame a surgeon. His silver apron gleamed as if polished by moonlight itself. Dozens of assistants moved around him like planets orbiting a sun. Even the fire beneath the pans seemed to flare brighter when he passed.

  “That,” Nyindnir said quietly, “is Maestcarěm. Prince of Cooks.”

  James blinked. “Prince of what now?”

  “Prince of Cooks. That’s his title. Some say he once fed half the royal court with a single dish. Others say his knife work can carve letters on a falling leaf.”

  “Right,” James muttered, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “So basically Gordon Ramsay with elf ears.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  They approached, and the assistants immediately bowed, parting like a wave. Maestcarěm didn’t look up. He sprinkled something green over a tray of pastries and murmured something under his breath, and the aroma burst through the room like perfume. Then, finally, he turned.

  “Ah,” he said smoothly, voice low and melodic. “The human chef.”

  James smiled, polite but mischievous. “The one and only. It’s an honor to meet you, Master Maestcarěm. I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

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  The elf inclined his head, his smile more like a smirk. “All of it true, I’m sure.”

  “Undoubtedly,” James said with mock reverence. “A true culinary legend.”

  “Flattery,” said Maestcarěm, “is a tool for the insecure. Do you plan to cook or compliment?”

  James grinned. “Can’t I do both?”

  The elf didn’t answer. His gaze swept over James’s attire, lingering on the immaculate fabric that seemed to shimmer faintly under the light. “Your clothes do not inspire confidence. You look like a noble playing at being a chef.”

  “Funny,” said James, “I was just thinking you look like someone who smells their own soup for fun.”

  Nyindnir coughed loudly to hide his laughter.

  The elf ignored the jab. “So, what are you here for, human?”

  “I need milk,” James said. “A few buckets, preferably fresh.”

  “Milk?” Maestcarěm raised an eyebrow. “For what purpose?”

  “You’ll see.”

  The elf clapped once, and two assistants appeared instantly. “Bring him the freshest milk we have,” he ordered, his tone clipped.

  As they hurried off, he folded his arms. “We use milk for bread, for cheese, for stew. I hope your plan is worth the disruption.”

  “Oh, it will be,” James promised. “I’m making something that’ll outlast kingdoms.”

  The assistants returned with three wooden buckets, brimming with creamy milk. James knelt beside them and dipped a finger in, tasting it thoughtfully. “Good stuff. Thick. Probably high in fat content.”

  Maestcarěm tilted his head. “You can tell that by taste alone?”

  “I can tell a lot of things by taste,” James said. “Like when someone doesn’t season their food enough.”

  The elf’s expression sharpened, but James ignored him and continued working.

  He grabbed the first bucket and set it aside. “Alright. Here’s the problem. You don’t have yogurt, which means you don’t have a starter culture. To make yogurt, you need a bit of yogurt to begin with. It’s like the world’s most inconvenient paradox.”

  Nyindnir frowned. “So what will you do?”

  “Cheat,” James said cheerfully. “I’ll let nature do the work.”

  He took a ladle and poured milk into several smaller bowls, placing them at different corners of the kitchen, some near the warm stoves, others in the cooler corners.

  Maestcarěm watched with faint disgust. “You’re… leaving milk out?”

  “Yes.”

  “To spoil?”

  “Exactly.”

  The elf blinked. “That is barbaric.”

  James smiled sweetly. “That’s science, my friend. The trick is finding which strain of bacteria curdles it safely. Once we get a healthy culture, we’ll use that as the base. Give it a day or two.”

  “Disgusting,” Maestcarěm muttered under his breath.

  “Delicious,” James corrected. “You’ll thank me later.”

  He turned back to the milk buckets and frowned. “One more thing. What do you do with the thick top layer that forms after gently heating the milk and letting it rest?”

  Maestcarěm looked genuinely confused. “The what?”

  “The thick layer. The top part.”

  “Oh. We skim it off and throw it away.”

  James froze. “You… what?”

  “Of course. It’s useless residue.”

  There was a long pause. The kitchen grew very quiet.

  James exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing a smile. “You’re throwing away liquid gold.”

  The elf blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Clotted cream,” James said, struggling to keep his tone calm, “is one of the most valuable dairy products you can have. You can churn it into butter, turn it into whipped topping, or use it to make sauces so rich your gods will weep. And you’re dumping it down the drain?”

  Maestcarěm frowned, insulted. “We have no use for it.”

  “Then it’s time you learned.”

  Nyindnir stepped back as James grabbed a shallow pan. “Alright,” he said briskly, “I’ll show you. First, you let the milk sit undisturbed for a few hours. The fat rises to the top. You scoop it gently, no mixing, no shaking, and that’s your cream. From there, possibilities are endless.”

  He demonstrated, skimming the top of the milk with slow precision, lifting the pale layer into a bowl. It gleamed under the rune light like polished ivory.

  Maestcarěm’s assistants leaned closer, fascinated despite themselves.

  “This,” James said, “is the good stuff. What you’ve been wasting could make dishes fit for kings. Or, in this case, dragons.”

  The elf’s tone turned icy. “You presume much, human.”

  “I presume correctly,” James said lightly. “And don’t worry. When I’m done, you’ll be the second-best cook in this mountain.”

  Nyindnir snorted loudly, pretending to cough when the elf’s glare snapped toward him.

  James continued his impromptu lesson, transferring the cream into another pot and heating it slightly. The smell was faint but heavenly, sweet and fresh.

  “Once you heat it gently, it thickens. You can spread it on bread, mix it with honey, or use it in desserts. It’s called clotted cream. Trust me, the Queen would kill for this once she tastes it.”

  Maestcarěm’s lips twitched. “A bold claim.”

  “Confidence,” James said, “is the spice of creation.”

  He wiped his hands, surveying the milk bowls scattered across the kitchen. “Now we wait for the fermentation to do its job. The trick is patience. The milk will curdle, separate, and eventually thicken into yogurt. Once I’ve got a safe starter, we’ll make enough to feed the whole palace.”

  Maestcarěm folded his arms. “You risk poisoning us all.”

  James grinned. “That’s why you’re my test subject.”

  The elf’s expression froze. “Excuse me?”

  Nyindnir laughed so hard he had to lean on a counter.

  “Relax,” James said. “I’ll taste it first. Probably.”

  “Probably?”

  “Depends on how brave I feel tomorrow.”

  As the kitchen returned to motion, Maestcarěm stalked away muttering about “mad humans and their spoiled milk.” James, meanwhile, adjusted one of the bowls to catch a shaft of sunlight filtering through the window.

  The milk shimmered faintly, its surface still as glass. He leaned in and whispered to himself, “Come on, little microbes. Do your thing.”

  Nyindnir watched from the side, shaking his head with amusement. “You’re insane.”

  “Insanely brilliant,” James said, standing. “Once this is done, we’ll have butter, cream, and yogurt. Three new inventions, one kitchen. Tell Villen he owes me royalties.”

  The dwarf laughed again. “I’ll be sure to deliver that message personally.”

  As James wiped his hands on a towel, his gaze drifted to the grand oven at the far end of the kitchen. He smiled faintly, mind already running with possibilities like cheesecake, butter sauces, and pastries layered with clotted cream.

  “Three days,” he murmured. “Just three days.” He could almost taste the future already.

  And for the first time since entering this world, James felt something close to home: milk, fire, and creation.

  The holy trinity of every chef worth burning for.

  Author’s Note

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