The very same day after his dairy experiment, the palace felt unusually bright. Sunlight poured through the glass corridors, scattering gold across the marble floors. The air smelled faintly of salt and steel, perhaps the residue of palace cleaning magic. James and Nyindnir made their way toward the same chamber where he had first woken up earlier today. The polished walls reflected their steps in a rhythm too perfect to be natural.

  At the end of the hall, the door stood open. Inside, Villen waited, arms crossed, his usual calm expression locked firmly in place.

  “What took you so long?” he asked.

  Nyindnir scratched his beard sheepishly. “Ah, Sir Villen, James had some… interesting ideas. About seaweed, and yogurt, and what he calls milk cream. We had to stop by the kitchen.”

  Villen blinked once. “Seaweed? You can eat that?”

  “I asked the same thing,” said the dwarf. “Apparently you can.”

  The dragon lord paused, tapping his chin. “Truly? You are sure?”

  James grinned. “Absolutely. Seaweed is delicious. You can fry it, dry it, boil it into soup, or even make snacks from it. It’s like edible ocean magic.”

  Villen’s eyes flickered with thought. “Then I should inform the gatherers outside the dungeon. If they find seaweed near the coasts, they will collect it.”

  “Excellent idea,” said James. “The world deserves sushi. Anyway… what did Rennalinda say?”

  Villen’s face flattened. “Rennalinda…”

  James leaned forward. “Yes, Rennalinda.”

  The dragon looked away, then back again. “Rennalinda…”

  James threw up his hands. “For the love of God, man, talk! Are you trying to drive me insane?”

  Villen finally sighed. “Rennalinda agreed to taste your cooking. But only for the sake of her people. She does not believe you can surpass Maestcarěm.”

  For a moment there was silence. Then James laughed so hard he nearly fell backward. He pictured her again, the calm fire in her eyes, the way she made the word “human” sound like an insult wrapped in silk. Maybe that was why he wanted to win so badly, not just to prove his worth, but to wipe that smug look from her face. He was too heartbroken to admit it, but the truth was simple: he just wanted to impress her.

  “Maestcarěm? The guy who throws away milk cream? The culinary genius who doesn’t even know what butter is? Oh, this is rich.”

  “Those were her words,” Villen replied evenly.

  “Fine,” said James, wiping his eyes. “Tell your Prince of Cooks to prepare his best meals three days from now. Three rounds. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. We’ll see who deserves that title. Oh, boy, I’m so fed up. I’m on fire.”

  Villen lifted a brow. “Calm yourself, champion. This is not a competition.”

  “Oh, it is for me,” James said. “You can count on that.”

  The dragon studied him for a moment, then exhaled softly. “If it will ease your spirit, I will admit something. Between us, I enjoy your food more than Maestcarěm’s.”

  James blinked, surprised. “Wait, seriously?”

  A faint blush touched Villen’s ears. “Do not repeat that. Now, I will inform the kitchen.” He turned quickly toward the door.

  Nyindnir chuckled. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts, human. Try not to burn down the palace before the contest.”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” James muttered.

  Both of them exited, leaving him alone in the quiet chamber.

  James dropped into a chair and exhaled. “Alright. Three days. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. A full royal course.”

  He tapped his fingers against the table, already sorting through recipes in his mind. Maybe start with something comforting. Pancakes? No, too human. Something unique. Maybe fusion: coffee rub, herb butter, vanilla cream dessert. His mind buzzed with ideas until the sunlight shifted across the floor and the shadows grew long.

  Two days later, James returned to the kitchen. The air was thick with the smell of baked bread and roasted herbs. He stepped through the doorway and immediately spotted Maestcarěm waiting near the counter, arms crossed and lips curled into a smirk. His uniform was spotless: white silk with a faint citrus scent that made his arrogance feel sanitized.

  “So,” the elf said smoothly, “your shamelessness knows no bounds, human chef. Tomorrow, I will show you what true culinary mastery looks like.” He waved a hand toward the bowls on the side table. “And while you were gone, your milk experiment has filled my kitchen with a most unpleasant odor.”

  James grinned. “Are you sure that’s not the smell of your ego?”

  The elf’s eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”

  “I said,” James replied calmly, “sour milk smells bad. It’s supposed to. Now I just have to find out which one isn’t deadly.”

  Maestcarěm folded his arms. “And how, pray tell, do you intend to do that?”

  “I was thinking of testing it on you,” James said. “But I need you alive for tomorrow, so maybe not.”

  He turned toward the table, sniffed the first bowl, and immediately regretted it. “Notes of rotten socks and despair,” he muttered. “A promising start.” Then he placed his palm above the bowl.

  [Food Sense Activated]

  Item identified: Spoiled Milk (Unsafe Culture)

  Side Effects: Severe stomach cramps, dizziness, temporary paralysis, and choking on your own bad decisions.

  Warning: Do not consume.

  James winced. “Yup. Definitely not yogurt.”

  He moved to the next bowl.

  [Food Sense Activated]

  Item identified: Contaminated Ferment (Toxic Mold Variant)

  Side Effects: Hallucination, vomiting, spontaneous regret.

  Warning: Why are you still doing this? Curiosity may be fatal.

  James snorted. “Because science.”

  One by one, he tested every bowl. All failed. Each time, the system’s responses grew snarkier, as if it too had lost patience.

  Finally, at the last bowl, a faint sparkle glowed beneath his hand.

  [Food Sense Activated]

  Item identified: Fermented Milk (Stable Culture)

  Side Effects: None detected.

  Taste Profile: Tangy, smooth, alive.

  Status: Safe for consumption.

  James grinned in triumph. “Ha! Found you, little miracle.”

  He dumped the rest into a waste bucket and carried the final bowl like it was holy relic.

  “This,” he said, turning to Maestcarěm, “is the foundation of greatness.”

  The elf raised a brow. “It smells… sour.”

  “That’s the point,” James said. “From this, I can make more. Bring me fresh milk, same quantity as before.”

  The assistants obeyed without a word. James poured a spoonful of the living culture into each bucket, mixing carefully.

  “There,” he said. “Now these will ferment overnight. Keep them safe. And if you even think about tampering with them…”

  He leaned closer, his smile too calm to be comforting. “You’ve seen what my abilities can do.”

  Maestcarěm’s lips tightened. “Hah. I do not need tricks to win. A human could never reach my level.”

  James stepped back, brushing his hands. “We’ll find out tomorrow.”

  He walked toward the door, pausing just long enough to toss a final remark over his shoulder. “Oh, and clean the air, would you? I’d hate for my yogurt to absorb your attitude.”

  The elf’s jaw twitched. “You arrogant—”

  “See you at breakfast!”

  The door closed behind him, leaving silence and the faint scent of milk behind.

  That night, the palace slept beneath a blanket of soft starlight. Deep in the kitchens, the newly cultured milk sat quietly in its bowls, alive with unseen life. Somewhere in the shadows, Maestcarěm watched the containers, his pride battling his curiosity.

  James, meanwhile, was back in his quarters, sketching menus by candlelight. Right after he handed Nyindnir a full list of ingredients he thought he might need for tomorrow, James sighed. Better be prepared than sorry afterwards, he told himself while scribbling notes in the margins.

  Nyindnir, on the other hand, was still in quiet shock after reading the list. He hadn’t said much, just nodded stiffly and left James alone with his plans.

  “Breakfast first,” he muttered. “Something that hits both flavor and heart. Something royal, but simple. Pancakes, maybe. Or… yogurt parfait with honey and clotted cream. Yeah. Let’s show them what real comfort tastes like.”

  He smiled, his eyes gleaming.

  “Tomorrow,” he whispered, “we make history.” For the first time since his arrival, the kitchen didn’t feel foreign. It smelled like ambition, like home. And somewhere between the candlelight and the clinking of cooling metal, James realized he wasn’t just cooking for survival anymore, he was cooking to belong.

  The candle flickered. The yogurt slept.

  And somewhere in the kitchen below, destiny began to ferment.

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