The kitchen felt colder that evening. The fires had burned low, and the enchanted runes on the walls flickered like tired candlelight. James stood at the counter, staring at his reflection in a silver bowl filled with water.

  “Why?” he muttered. “She liked it. I know she did. Then why won’t she admit it?”

  Nyindnir leaned against a crate nearby, arms folded. “Maybe Maestcarěm’s food really was better?”

  James turned, eyes narrowing. “Come on. I’ll admit it wasn’t bad, but it was safe, rich yes, but hollow. No spark, no soul.”

  The dwarf shrugged. “Maybe that’s how the queen likes it.”

  “Maybe…”

  James rubbed the back of his neck, pacing slowly. The kitchen’s quiet echoed inside his chest. For once, he didn’t feel like talking. He sank into a chair and stared at the ceiling.

  He could still see Rennalinda’s calm face from earlier that day, polite, distant, impossible to read. She hadn’t praised him, hadn’t even frowned. Just a quiet nod, as if saying that perfection didn’t always need fireworks.

  Simplicity.

  The word lingered like a small spark in his mind. He looked down at his hands.

  “Maybe she’s right,” he whispered. “Maybe I’ve been overdoing it.”

  Nyindnir raised an eyebrow, recalling the absurdly long ingredient list James had given him last night. “You? Overdoing something? Shocking.”

  James laughed weakly. “I’ve been trying to show off. Maybe what I should’ve been doing is reminding people why food exists in the first place.”

  “To eat?”

  “To feel,” said James softly. “To remember.”

  He remembered the menu he had planned yesterday, complex, ambitious, full of flair and spectacle. He smiled faintly. That wasn’t what he needed tonight. Plans could wait. Tonight wasn’t about showing off. It was about honesty, about something real.

  He stood, straightened his sleeves, and took a deep breath. “Alright. Dinner. No more fireworks. Just warmth.”

  “What’s on the menu?”

  “Mushroom soup. Chicken Alfredo. Strawberry semifreddo.”

  Nyindnir blinked. “That’s… normal?”

  “Exactly,” he turned to Nyindnir. “Can I ask you for a favor?”

  “Of course.”

  “At Ruune’s farm, near the entrance, there were some violet flowers. Could you have a few of them brought here?”

  Nyindnir frowned. “You’re cooking with flowers now?”

  James shook his head with a small smile. “No. I’m setting the mood.”

  Nyindnir gave him a puzzled look but didn’t argue. The dwarf simply shrugged and moved to the counter, staying nearby as James began his preparations.

  The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of runes and the faint whisper of the fire. The air smelled faintly of metal, stone, and ash. It was the perfect kind of silence for thinking.

  He started with the dessert. The Mishlin Sage bowl hummed softly as he whipped cream into light peaks. Strawberries were sliced and mixed with sugar and crushed ice from the rune coolers. The frozen fruit glistened without losing color. He layered them carefully, fruit, sweet cream, another layer of strawberry puree, and left the bowl to rest in the cooler.

  “It’s not fancy,” he said. “But it’s honest.”

  Nyindnir looked at him curiously. “Starting with dessert?”

  “It needs to set,” James replied, wiping his hands. “Some things just need time.”

  He smiled faintly, then reached for the flour.

  Next came the pasta dough. He poured flour onto the counter, cracked in two eggs, and began to knead. The dough turned smooth beneath his palms, soft as silk.

  Nyindnir offered to help, but James shook his head. “No need. This part’s therapy.”

  He rolled the dough into ribbons, letting them rest under a cloth. The rhythmic motion calmed him more than he expected. The tension in his shoulders eased as his mind focused only on texture, balance, and patience.

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  The bubbling of the rune boiler filled the room. James took a slow breath, feeling the heaviness in his chest dissolve into the steady rhythm of work.

  Then he turned to the soup. The mushrooms were fresh from Ruune’s farms, earthy, rich, still carrying the scent of rain. He sliced them thin, his knife moving slower this time, deliberate. Butter melted in the pot, golden and quiet.

  He added onions, stirring until they softened, then dropped in the mushrooms. They hissed, releasing steam that carried the promise of something honest. He poured in broth and a touch of cream, then lowered the heat.

  For the first time in days, he didn’t rush. He just listened.

  The bubbling sound was steady, comforting. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the aroma.

  “Simple,” he said. “Feels right.”

  Nyindnir adjusted his seat, arms crossed, watching quietly from the corner of the kitchen.

  “I asked one of the elves to fetch those flowers. Shouldn’t take long,” he said.

  James nodded without looking up. “Thanks.”

  The dwarf grunted softly, something between approval and curiosity. He stayed there, watching as James moved from one pot to another with quiet focus.

  The next dish was the Chicken Alfredo.

  The chicken sizzled in butter and garlic until golden. He drained the resting pasta ribbons, setting them aside while the sauce came together in a single pot, cream, a wedge of sharp mountain cheese, a pinch of salt. He stirred slowly, folding everything together like a quiet confession.

  The scent filled the kitchen again, but this time it wasn’t demanding attention. It was humble. Familiar.

  Nyindnir sniffed the air. “You’re not trying to impress anyone, are you?”

  “No,” said James, smiling faintly. “I’m trying to remember who I am.”

  They stood in silence for a while. The soup simmered softly. The smell of garlic and butter lingered, warm and gentle. The faint sweetness of strawberries filled the air like a promise of peace.

  Nyindnir finally spoke. “You know, James, maybe that’s what she’s been waiting for all along.”

  James nodded. “Maybe.” He lifted one of the spoons, tasting the soup.

  The flavor was earthy, creamy, soft. Nothing extraordinary, and yet it felt whole.

  He exhaled slowly. “This isn’t a meal,” he said. “It’s an apology.”

  Nyindnir smiled. “Then let’s hope she’s hungry for forgiveness.”

  As night settled over the mountain palace, James placed the dishes on a silver tray. The steam from the soup curled upward like a quiet prayer.

  A soft knock came at the kitchen door. When it opened, a young elf stepped inside, carrying a small bundle wrapped in linen. He bowed lightly and revealed a handful of violet flowers, their color deep as twilight.

  “For you, sir,” he said. “From Ruune’s garden.”

  James accepted them gently, a faint smile touching his lips. “Perfect timing.”

  He plucked one delicate petal and placed it atop the strawberry semifreddo, its purple hue gleaming against red and white. The rest he slipped into a clear glass of water, setting it beside the tray.

  “Decoration?” Nyindnir asked quietly.

  “No,” James said. “A reminder.”

  The dwarf said nothing more. The kitchen fell silent again, filled only with the hum of cooling runes and the faint shimmer of candlelight.

  He didn’t know if Rennalinda would love it, or if she’d simply nod again and move on.

  But for the first time since he’d entered this world, James didn’t care about praise.

  He only wanted her to understand.

  And maybe, for just one meal, to feel what he felt when he cooked.

  That food, at its core, was never about showing off.

  It was about reaching out.

  The dining hall was quiet when the dishes were brought in. The torches burned low, their flames mingling with the pale glow of the runes carved along the walls. The light was neither day nor night, just a soft shimmer that made the silverware glint like starlight.

  Maestcarěm stood first. His movements were precise, regal, every step a performance.

  He lifted the lid of his platter with a flourish. Steam rose like velvet curtains parting before a stage.

  “Spiced goose, marinated in mulled wine and roasted on stone,” he announced. “Accompanied by chestnut and dried plum purée. Served with a winter wine infused with cinnamon and clove.”

  The scent was rich, intoxicating, almost heavy enough to fill the lungs.

  Rennalinda’s eyes softened slightly; this was nobility on a plate, elegant, decadent, safe.

  She cut a small piece, placed it on her tongue, and closed her eyes.

  Warm spice.

  Tender meat.

  Sweet fruit.

  It was flawless.

  And utterly predictable.

  Maestcarěm bowed. “For Her Majesty, a meal worthy of lineage.”

  Then it was James’s turn.

  He walked forward slowly, his expression calm, no pride, no fear.

  His tray was simple. A bowl of creamy mushroom soup, a plate of Chicken Alfredo glistening with a quiet shine, and a glass bowl of strawberry semifreddo crowned with a single violet petal.

  Next to it, in a small glass of clear water, rested the remaining violets.

  Rennalinda tilted her head. “Those flowers… are they edible?”

  James smiled, a real one this time. “Not this time.”

  Her brow furrowed, uncertain if he was teasing her.

  Nyindnir, from the side, hid a grin behind his beard.

  She lifted her spoon. The soup touched her lips first, gentle, earthy, rich but not loud.

  It reminded her of morning mist and wet soil after rain.

  Something inside her chest stirred, unfamiliar.

  Then the Chicken Alfredo, tender, smooth, wrapped in warmth.

  Cream, garlic, and butter whispered together like a song she almost remembered.

  Her heartbeat picked up, uninvited.

  Finally, the semifreddo.

  The spoon broke the frozen layer with a soft crack.

  The strawberry cream melted instantly, cold and sweet, wrapping her tongue in softness.

  The violet petal brushed her lips as she tasted, and the world around her seemed to fall away.

  Red, pink, white, violet, colors burst like memories.

  For a moment, she saw herself reflected in the dessert: her pale skin, the flush of her cheeks, her violet eyes.

  It was as if the dish was looking back at her.

  She blinked, breath caught, trying to compose herself.

  But James had already stepped back, quietly watching.

  The hall was silent for a long moment.

  Then Villen cleared his throat. “The Queen’s judgment?”

  Rennalinda’s gaze flicked between the two chefs.

  Her lips parted, but the words hesitated.

  “…Maestcarěm,” she said finally. “The execution was flawless.”

  A murmur ran through the attendants.

  James didn’t move. He only smiled faintly, bowed, and turned away.

  Rennalinda watched him go, her hand unconsciously brushing her lips, as if the taste still lingered there.

  And though she would never say it aloud, the sweetness of strawberries and violet would follow her into her dreams that night.

  [Quest Failed: A Meal Worthy for a Queen!]

  The Queen did not speak her heart aloud.

  Failure registered... though something feels incomplete.

  Author’s Note

  You guys are awesome.

  Overcooked just climbed to #18 on Rising Stars, all thanks to you guys. Let’s see how far we can push it.