Morning light slipped into the hut as James woke to the faint clatter inside. His back ached from straw, his legs from yesterday, and his stomach made the loudest complaint of all: hungry.

  He sat up, hair sticking out like it had plotted against him overnight, and dragged himself toward the hearth. Bree was already there, sleeves rolled, braid sharp enough to cut glass. A pot rested over tired embers, filling the hut with the sour tang of ash and the sad promise of an empty stomach.

  “Morning,” he muttered, voice rough.

  Bree answered with a nod, carrying about as much warmth as yesterday’s rain.

  “Mind if I check the kitchen? You said I could handle breakfast.”

  She waved toward a crooked shelf and low bench like she was pointing out suspects in a lineup. “There. Don’t make a mess.”

  James did a quick sweep with his eyes and his hands, the chef part of his brain clicking into inventory mode.

  On the shelf: coarse flour, a string of onions that looked like they’d survived three winters, two tired leeks, garlic, dried thyme and sage, a pinch of salt, and a horn of peppercorns so precious it probably had a family name.

  On the bench: yesterday’s goat bones, a few lean scraps of shoulder, wrinkled carrots, turnips, half a cabbage, and a chunk of bread hard enough to kill a man if thrown.

  In a wicker basket, like a small miracle, a generous clutch of eggs.

  He exhaled through his teeth and grinned. “Okay. We can work with this.”

  Bree folded her arms. “Work with what?”

  “Everything,” James said. He tapped the bones. “These are flavor.” He lifted the leeks. “These are perfume.” He held up the eggs like trophies. “And these are how we convince the gods to smile before noon.”

  Willem appeared at the doorway, leaning his hoe against the jamb. “Will it be edible?”

  “If it is not,” James said, “I will eat the pot in shame.”

  Bree’s mouth almost twitched. Almost.

  “Right,” James clapped softly. “We are making breakfast that hugs from the inside. Hot broth. Hand-cut barley noodles. Poached eggs. Herb oil. Crispy bread crumbs. If that does not wake the village, nothing will.”

  Bree blinked at the unfamiliar words. “Oil?”

  “Fat,” James translated. “The kind you scrape from meat. The useful kind.”

  He got to work. First came the bones. He unwrapped them and dropped them into the pot. A splash of water followed, then the pot went straight onto the hottest coals. The bones clicked, hissed, and sent up a thin veil of scent that quickly thickened.

  “Roast the bones a little,” he told the pot. “Brown means flavor. Flavor means depth.”

  As the bones browned, he chopped an onion with quick, steady rhythm. The knife was village-dull, but he adjusted, rocking instead of slicing, pressing instead of gliding. Onion in. Carrots in, cut on an angle because even the poor deserved presentation. Turnips followed, then the pale green tops of the leeks, rinsed clean and sliced thin.

  “Salt now,” he said. He pinched a bit and lifted his hand high, wrist cocked like some culinary rockstar. Then he remembered yesterday: fighting goblins naked, the villagers’ faces burned into memory, enough shame for a lifetime. Maybe no more public humiliation today. He lowered his hand and sprinkled the salt plain. “Just enough to show I’m paying attention.”

  He crushed a few peppercorns under the knife’s heel and flicked in dried thyme. The pot answered with a soft sizzle. He added water, not too much, just enough to give the bones a place to dream. He let it simmer, not boil, and skimmed with a wooden spoon, lifting quiet scum like gossip better left unsaid.

  Bree watched without comment, which in Bree-voice was practically applause.

  “While the broth learns manners,” James said, “we make noodles.”

  He cleared a patch of table, dusted it with barley flour, then scooped a mound and pressed a well into the center. A little mixed grain for strength, a pinch of salt, a splash of water. He stirred with two fingers, pulling flour inward until it became a shaggy pond. Then he gathered, pressed, and kneaded until the dough shifted from grumpy to agreeable.

  Bree edged closer. “You will bake?”

  “Not bake. Slice. These are noodles.” He spread his hands like unveiling treasure. “Strings of happiness, thin enough to slurp.”

  The dough resisted, then smoothed under his palms. He set it to rest beneath a cloth. Behind him, the broth whispered. The hut filled with goat, leek, and the sweetness of onion turning soft. Outside, the village creaked awake. Boots thudded, chickens argued, a child laughed and then tried to swallow it back.

  James grabbed a hunk of the ancient bread, dropped it in a mortar, and addressed it like an old rival. “You tried to break my teeth last night. Now we make peace.”

  He pounded. The bread gave up in a storm of crumbs. In a small pan he melted fat from a goat scrap until it shone, then tossed the crumbs with salt and sage. They drank the fat, turned golden, and pretended they had always mattered.

  He set the crumbs aside and reached for the herbs. Dried thyme and sage would carry the broth, but he wanted something bright for the finish. Fresh herbs were rare, so he shaved leek greens thin and pounded a clove of garlic with salt. A spoon of goat fat hit the pan with a pinch of pepper, then swirled over the greens until they turned glossy and alive.

  Bree tilted her head. “You put butter on leaves?”

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  “I wake them up,” James said. “Like slapping cheeks, but kindly.”

  He rolled the rested dough thin with a worn wooden pin, dusted it with flour, folded it like a letter, and cut narrow strips with the knife’s tip. Each strand unfurled between his floury fingers. Even Bree let out a small sound at the sight.

  “James,” Willem said, voice soft, surprised. “They look like ribbons.”

  “They are,” James said. “Ribbons you can chew.”

  He tasted the broth with a wooden spoon, letting it rest on his tongue. It had gone from water to soup. The goat bones had done their job, the vegetables had given what they could. He added a touch more salt, a hint of pepper, and squeezed juice from chopped cabbage for sweetness and body. Then he strained it through a coarse sieve into a clean pot, pressing the vegetables just enough without turning it muddy.

  He brought the broth back to a simmer. The surface trembled. He slid the noodles in a few at a time, stirring so they wouldn’t stick together in panic. They softened to tender with just a little bite, the way noodles should.

  “Eggs,” he said.

  He cracked the first into a small bowl, stirred a gentle whirlpool in the pot, and slid it into the center. The white curled around the yolk and held. One by one, he poached them, lifting each with care to a warm plate. Bree leaned closer without meaning to. Willem didn’t bother hiding the smile creeping across his face.

  The door creaked. A boy peered in, then two more, then a woman with tired arms and curious eyes. The smell from the pot had slipped under the door and drifted down the lane like gossip, and gossip always draws a crowd.

  “Close the door,” Bree said, not unkindly. “Or come in.”

  They sat, filling the edges of the room and pretending they had business near the hearth at breakfast. James tasted, adjusted, breathed. When the noodles were ready, he lifted them into wooden bowls and ladled broth over, steam blooming. He placed a poached egg in each bowl, then finished with warm herb fat spiraling green and a sprinkle of crisped bread crumbs for crunch and courage.

  “Bree,” he said quietly. “Taste the first bowl?”

  Her palms were rough as she took it. She didn’t bother blowing on the spoon. She lifted a tangle of noodles, broth glistening, a shard of green clinging. She ate.

  For a heartbeat, nothing. Then her shoulders eased, the lines at her mouth loosened, and her eyes softened despite themselves.

  “Not bad,” she said. In Bree-language, that meant excellent.

  “Willem.” James handed him the second bowl. “Chef’s table.”

  Willem inhaled first, letting the steam wash his face. He slurped, blinked twice, then stilled.

  “It tastes like the beer after the best harvest we had two winters ago,” he said. His voice carried the weight of memory, and for a moment, everyone in the room understood.

  James handed out bowls to the villagers drawn by the smell. Soon the narrow hut was filled with the sound of spoons and quiet sighs. Someone laughed into their bowl, relief wearing the mask of humor.

  A small girl looked up, nose shiny, and whispered, “It’s like a story the tinkerer told us last time he visited.”

  James took the last bowl for himself and ate standing up. The broth gave him back something he thought he had lost. Not the city. Not the stars. But the reason he had wanted them. If food could make a morning bearable, maybe the rest of today could be better too.

  He ground a little pepper over the egg and broke the yolk with his spoon. The golden center spilled into the broth, painting the noodles before he ate.

  The room didn’t erupt, it lifted. People stared at their empty bowls like they’d lost a friend. The boy with the broom from yesterday stood holding his bowl in both hands, speechless. Bree took it and refilled him with a steady ladle.

  Around the room, reactions took shape. A wiry man closed his eyes, nodding as if his back had finally eased. A woman pressed her fingers to her lips, whispering that soup should not taste like a feast, yet it did. The broom boy blurted, “It’s like being the hero who saves the kingdom,” then turned red when he realized he had said something silly and true.

  Willem set his empty bowl down with the care usually saved for miracles. “Bree,” he said quietly. “This is a thing.”

  Bree was already moving, topping off bowls without a word, her eyes brighter than the steam. “Do not crowd the pot,” she said, wearing a smile that pretended not to be there and lost the act anyway.

  James leaned on the table, breathing the same steam, the same morning as everyone else. This, he thought, was why he wanted stars. Not for the shine. For the faces.

  The golden panel blinked into view, no longer shy.

  [Quest Completed: Master Chef]

  Objective: Cook the finest dish tomorrow. Earn a ★★★★★ review.

  Status: Success.

  Reward: ★ x 1

  A small star flared across the panel, then slid neatly into place beside his class title.

  [Class Updated: Mishlin Sage ★☆☆☆☆ (1/5)]

  James didn’t cheer. He just watched the glow fix itself on the panel beside his class title. Still, he felt it sink into him, steady as a heartbeat. His stomach did a little flip anyway.

  The panel pulsed again.

  [★ Reward Unlocked]

  +1 Skill Level

  +10 Stat Points

  Mishlin Sage Set [Special Equipment]

  “So every star comes with a surprise box?” James muttered. “Perfect. Collect stars, collect prizes.”

  The skill notification hovered.

  [Knife Precision: Lv. 2 → Lv. 3]

  James picked up the dull village knife, ran a thumb along the edge, then smirked. “Level three. No more finger cuts, right? Finally, a perk that keeps me intact.”

  The stat panel unfolded next, columns and numbers he hadn’t seen for a while.

  [+10 Stat Points]

  Strength, Dexterity, Endurance, Intelligence, Charisma, Luck

  “Oh no,” James groaned. “Homework.” He jabbed the panel closed. “Later. Stats can wait. I need to think before I spend the precious points.”

  Then came the last one. The text gleamed like it knew it was important.

  [Mishlin Sage Set Acquired]

  Location: Inventory

  James blinked. “Set? As in clothes? You’re giving me loot boxes now?”

  He pulled up the inventory, and there it was: a folded bundle of deep red cloth edged with gold. A coat, long and dramatic. A vest and shirt. Gloves. Even boots. It was exactly the sort of thing that said either genius or lunatic, depending on how good the food was.

  He reached for it…

  And froze.

  Outside, voices. The scrape of boots. A murmur swelling like water at a dam.

  Willem straightened at the door and stepped outside. A moment later he leaned back in, eyebrows up. “They smelled it,” he said. “The whole lane. They’ve come.”

  As if to prove it, a child’s voice called from beyond the threshold: “Cook! Do you have more?”

  Another voice: “We brought bowls!”

  Another: laughter, awkward but hopeful.

  James snapped the inventory shut. “Of course,” he said to the panel. “Of course you’d drop new clothes and then send me customers.”

  The panel chimed in his ear.

  [New Quest Added: Feed Them All – Buffet Chef]

  Objective: Prepare a meal large enough for everyone who comes.

  Reward: ???

  James stared. “Buffet Chef? That’s not a quest, that’s community service.”

  Willem’s mouth twitched, halfway between pity and amusement. “What now?”

  James rubbed his temples. “Now I cook for an army with no army rations. Perfect.” He exhaled and squared his shoulders. “Fine. Let them come. Breakfast round two. Or… brunch. But tell them to bring ingredients. I don’t have any, and whatever’s left in this house won’t feed all of them.”

  For a beat the crowd outside went quiet. Then came a ripple of voices, agreement spilling like water over stone. Boots thudded, and in a blink half the lane had scattered back to their homes, eager to return with whatever they could find.

  Inside, Bree was already clearing the table, her movements sharp but certain. Willem pulled benches aside to make space. The air thickened with purpose.

  Bree’s eyes narrowed, though a spark lit beneath the steel. “Bigger pot,” she said.

  James grinned despite himself. “Yeah. Much bigger pot.”

  The chime rang again, smug as ever. The star glowed faintly at his chest. And James realized this was only the beginning.