James surfaced from sleep like someone swimming up through cold soup.

  His tongue felt thick and dry. His mouth tasted faintly of garlic, chili oil and cheap wine. His head did not exactly hurt, but there was a dull heaviness behind his eyes, like someone had stuffed cotton into his skull and then sat on it.

  He stared at the unfamiliar wooden ceiling for a few seconds while his brain rebooted.

  Right. Ox and Ember.

  Dumplings. Salad. Too much ale.

  Friends.

  The last word still felt new. Not unpleasant. Just strange. Like a flavor he was not used to but could see himself craving again.

  He rolled onto his side and hissed as muscles in his back complained.

  “Okay,” he muttered. “Note to self. Tavern benches are not ergonomic.”

  The room smelled of last night’s food and stale alcohol. Sunlight slipped in through the shutters, painting pale lines across the floor. Outside, somewhere, a cart rattled over cobbles and a vendor shouted about something fresh and probably overpriced.

  James sat up, scrubbed his face with both hands and swung his legs out of bed. Habit had him moving before his brain caught up. Years of pre-dawn prep shifts did not vanish just because the world had changed.

  He pulled on his boots, raked fingers through his hair and reached for the door.

  “Coffee,” he muttered. “My coffee. Then food. Then plans.”

  He opened his door and stepped into the hallway, then blinked at the wrong door out of pure morning autopilot.

  Right. Vhara’s room was next to his.

  He lifted a hand and knocked lightly.

  Out of habit, he pushed the door open before waiting for a reply.

  And froze.

  Vhara stood in the center of her room, bare feet on the floorboards, arms raised above her head in a long, slow stretch. Her hair was loose, falling over her shoulders in a dark spill. A strip of cloth covered her chest, and short training trousers left most of her legs bare.

  Muscle shifted under sun-browned skin as she leaned into the stretch. Not bulky. Not soft. Just… efficient. Every line of her looked like it had a purpose, like someone had cut away anything that did not serve movement or power.

  James made a choking sound.

  Vhara’s head turned. Their eyes met.

  For one frozen heartbeat nobody moved. Then slowly, very slowly, Vhara lowered her arms.

  “You live,” she said.

  “I… yes. Alive. Absolutely alive.” His voice climbed a little higher than he would have preferred. “Sorry. I thought, door, hallway, breakfast, not… this.”

  He flung a hand vaguely at her, then immediately regretted it, because that meant acknowledging he had in fact seen any of this.

  “You knocked,” Vhara said, amused. “Barely.”

  James winced. “In my defense, I’m operating on three hours of sleep and residual salad magic.”

  Her mouth twitched.

  “A warrior’s quarters are private,” she said. “One knocks, states their name, and waits to be acknowledged. Only a chosen sparring partner or a mate enters without that ritual.”

  His brain hiccupped.

  “Sparring partner. Right. Yes. Obviously.”

  “Or mate,” she repeated calmly.

  He stared at her for half a heartbeat longer, then stepped back into the corridor and pulled the door shut as quietly as humanly possible.

  He pressed his forehead against the wood and exhaled.

  “Very smooth, Gordon. Ten out of ten. Truly the hero the restaurant industry deserves.”

  Behind the door, Vhara’s amused voice followed him.

  “Next time knock properly. Or choose.”

  “I am choosing breakfast,” he muttered.

  He stayed there a moment, letting his pulse settle, then glanced left and right down the hall like a man checking for witnesses to a crime.

  All clear.

  He inhaled once more, straightened, and padded down the corridor toward the stairs, moving with the cautious reverence of someone navigating an active minefield.

  Most of the tables were empty this early. One man snored into his arms near the hearth. Someone had dragged a mop and bucket into the middle of the floor and then apparently forgotten them there.

  The innkeeper stood behind the counter, turning something in a large pan. His apron had seen better days. So had the pan.

  He looked up as James approached.

  “Morning,” James said.

  “Is it?” The innkeeper studied him for a moment. “You are the one who used my kitchen last night.”

  “Borrowed,” James corrected automatically. “And I tried not to leave a mess.”

  The innkeeper snorted. “My wife says the pots have never shone like that. Probably because I scrubbed them myself after tasting your food.”

  James lifted his eyebrows. “Fair trade, I hope.”

  “That it was,” the man said. “Sit. I’ll bring food.”

  James dropped onto a bench near the window. A minute later a plate arrived: two fried eggs with the edges crisped a little too hard, a heap of something that might once have been greens, and a wedge of bread with a tired look about it.

  He picked up his fork like a man approaching negotiations and cut a piece of egg.

  First bite: oil heavy on the tongue. The whites cooked solid, the yolk mostly firm. Salt somewhere between too little and none at all. The greens had been boiled into submission. The bread was dense and just beginning to stale.

  He chewed, swallowed and set the fork down slowly.

  “Honest opinion?” he asked.

  The innkeeper’s shoulders slumped before James even finished the sentence.

  “That bad.”

  “It is food,” James said. “It will not kill anyone. But it also will not make them happy to pay you again tomorrow.”

  The man huffed out a breath and sat opposite him, rubbing at his jaw.

  “The girl who cooked left two weeks ago,” he said. “Ran off with a caravan. Since then my wife has been doing what she can, but… the regulars notice. Travelers notice. Fewer come back. And then last night I smell whatever you were cooking and think, ‘Ah. This is what food is meant to be.’”

  Guilt pricked at James, even though he had done nothing wrong beyond knowing what he was doing.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “I did go a bit overboard,” he admitted. “Old habit.”

  The innkeeper looked at him very seriously.

  “What would it cost to make that habit mine?”

  James blinked.

  “Sorry?”

  “I want to hire you,” the man said. “As cook. Full time. Meals and a room, and thirty silver a week. Thirty-five if you swear to stay at least a month. I cannot watch my inn slide downhill because I serve sad eggs.”

  Thirty-five silver.

  James did quick mental math. Four weeks of that would be one hundred and forty silver. Ten weeks, three hundred and fifty. A year, well over a gold and a half.

  Not bad. Not nearly enough for what he had in mind, but a solid base.

  He stared at his plate, then back at the innkeeper.

  “It is a generous offer,” he said honestly. “I need to think about it. I have other obligations. People to find.”

  That was as close as he would come to saying he was technically searching for a missing farm girl and trying to figure out how to afford a cooking wagon before breakfast.

  The man nodded.

  “I did not expect an answer on the spot. Think on it. Breakfast is on the house.”

  “Then I will insult it less,” James promised, and took another bite.

  It was still sad. But free did soften the blow.

  At least his stomach now believed he was awake, even if his brain still refused.

  The others drifted down in stages.

  He was halfway through the disappointing eggs when heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  Gerrard and Marty appeared together, moving with the unified suffering of men who had made the same bad decisions at the same time. Marty clutched the railing like it was the only thing keeping him upright; Gerrard leaned slightly toward him, as if steadying him… or using him for support.

  “My head,” Gerrard groaned. “Someone replaced it with a smaller, angrier head in the night.”

  Marty squinted at the room with betrayal. “I told you to stop after the third mug.”

  “You said that after your fourth,” Gerrard shot back.

  “Good morning to you too,” James said.

  They both dropped onto the bench with the synchronized misery of wounded soldiers.

  “Was it the wine?” Gerrard asked the wood.

  The front door creaked open.

  Mira stepped inside, staff tucked under one arm, the other hand supporting the side of her face. She looked like she had lost a duel with sleep itself, dark circles smudging the skin under her eyes.

  “It wasn’t the wine,” she rasped as she approached the table. “It was the salad. No salad should taste that good. There was clearly magic involved. Now there is a price.”

  She collapsed onto the bench with a defeated sigh.

  James squinted at her.

  “I am not responsible for your lack of hydration.”

  “You put something in it,” she insisted. “Some kind of… flavor curse.”

  Vhara came last, carrying her gear and moving with the relaxed ease of someone whose body did not believe in consequences. She looked annoyingly awake.

  “It was most certainly the salad,” she agreed as she sat. “The meat and dumplings were honest challenges. The salad was treacherous.”

  James spread his hands.

  “It was a bowl of vegetables.”

  “With sauce that made my soul sit up,” Vhara said. “I could taste colors.”

  Gerrard raised his head just far enough to squint at James.

  “If you open a place here, I am blaming you personally for the ruin of our livers.”

  “That is not how livers work,” James said. “Also, speaking of opening places—”

  He trailed off as the innkeeper returned with more plates, setting down additional eggs and bread with an apologetic expression. Mira stared at her portion like it was a personal attack.

  James waited until the man retreated, then cleared his throat.

  “I asked about work,” he said. “He wants to hire me as the cook. Thirty silver a week, room and board. Thirty-five if I promise to stay for a month.”

  Gerrard whistled softly.

  “That is good money. Better than most guard work.”

  “Could be worse,” Mira agreed. “You would have a kitchen. A base.”

  Vhara chewed her bread, thoughtful.

  “But not a wagon,” she said.

  James met her eyes.

  “Exactly.”

  He pushed his plate away and rose from the bench.

  “Which brings me to the next stop. I need to see how much my dream costs before I decide how long I am willing to be owned by someone else’s frying pan.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Alright. Time to see what bankruptcy looks like.”

  Chairs scraped as the others stood to follow him. Vhara paused only long enough to spear the last two pieces of bread from her plate and pop them into her mouth before falling in line.

  They stepped out into the street’s early bustle. Vendors shouted, carts rattled, and somewhere a hammer was already testing James’s patience.

  They followed the noise straight toward the artisan district.

  The artisan district woke early.

  By the time they reached it, the streets already rang with hammer blows and shouted orders. The air smelled of sawdust, hot metal and the faint sweetness of freshly cut planks.

  James slowed as they turned down a side street. Workshop fronts opened onto the road, each displaying a different specialty: wheels stacked in neat columns, iron hardware, carved furniture. There, tucked between two larger buildings, he saw exactly what he needed.

  Two wagon frames stood side by side in an open-fronted shed. A sign above the door showed a simple line drawing of a carriage wheel.

  “Here,” he said.

  Inside, a broad-shouldered man with grey in his beard was examining the axle of one of the frames. He glanced up as James and the others approached.

  “Looking for transport?” he asked.

  “In a sense,” James said. “I want a wagon. Maybe two. But not like these.”

  The man grunted.

  “Everyone wants something different. Describe it.”

  Words suddenly felt clumsy. James looked around, spotted a scrap of thin board and a piece of charcoal and held them up questioningly. The craftsman nodded.

  Crouching, James began to sketch.

  “Here,” he said. “Base frame, a little shorter than this one. High enough for someone to stand and work. Window on this side that can open upward to serve customers. Inside, fixed counter here and here. Space for a stove in the corner, with a chimney leading out the top.”

  He added quick arrows and notes as he spoke, the lines coming more easily than the explanation. The others leaned over his shoulder.

  “And behind it,” he continued, “a second wagon. Plainer. Sleeping space, storage. Hooked in tandem so they move as one.”

  He finished, sat back on his heels and turned the board.

  The craftsman took it, squinting. For a long moment he said nothing. Then he tapped the front wagon with a thick finger.

  “You want to cook in it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Over fire.”

  “Yes.”

  “While moving.”

  “Preferably not,” James said. “Mostly while parked. But it needs to survive the road.”

  The man snorted softly.

  “At least you are not completely mad.”

  He set the board on a bench, considering.

  “Base wagon, reinforced. Cut-out window, shutters, counters. Special fittings for a stove. Second wagon lighter, mostly wood and canvas. Link between them. All that is work. Materials are not cheap.”

  “I know,” James said quietly. “How much?”

  The craftsman named a number.

  “Four gold for both, without fancy paint,” he said. “If you want carved trim or gilding, closer to five. Half up front. Work begins when I see metal.”

  Four gold.

  It hit harder when someone else said it out loud.

  He had technically held more money once before, but that had been Villen being Villen.

  This was the first time he understood the price of things.

  And the pain of paying for them.

  He swallowed. Dreams had tax brackets now.

  His throat felt a little tight.

  “And if I only wanted one wagon now,” he asked, “and a second later?”

  “Then two gold and a half for the first,” the man said. “But you will pay more in total. It is cheaper to plan for two from the start.”

  Of course it was.

  James nodded slowly.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I need to… figure out how ambitious I am allowed to be.”

  “Ambition is free,” the craftsman said. “It is the lumber and iron that cost you. Come back when you have coin and a final design. I will still be here.”

  Outside, the street felt louder.

  Gerrard let out a low whistle.

  “Four gold,” he said. “That is… a lot of dumplings.”

  “Now you see why I hesitated with the inn job,” James replied.

  Mira hugged her staff to her chest.

  “You could still take it,” she said. “At least for a while. Build up some money. Then quests on top.”

  “I might have to,” James admitted. “But if we want that wagon before we are old and wise, we also need higher-paying opportunities.”

  Vhara smiled, almost feral.

  “Quests,” she said.

  Before they could move, Marty frowned.

  “Wait. Didn’t Villen give you a whole pouch of coins? Did you already burn through all that?”

  James blinked. “No. I used a little for the inn. That’s it.”

  Gerrard looked genuinely confused.

  “Then why not pay from that? There were enough coins in there to drown a mule.”

  James blew out a slow breath.

  “Because if I start spending that pouch like an idiot, one day I’m going to need it, really need it, and it won’t be there. And then what? I can’t work every day. I can’t cook my way out of every disaster. If I get sick, or injured, or stuck somewhere, that pouch is the difference between ‘I survived’ and ‘I didn’t.’”

  Marty stared at him.

  “So… emergency fund?”

  “Yes.” James pointed at him like he’d scored a point. “Exactly. Emergency fund. Rule one of not dying poor.”

  Gerrard scratched his chin.

  “Huh. Never thought of money that way.”

  “Of course you haven’t,” James said. “You spend it the moment it jingles.”

  Gerrard opened his mouth to argue, then paused.

  “...Okay that’s fair.”

  They walked in companionable silence until the noise of the market began to fade and the broad steps of the Adventurer’s Guild hall came into view.

  The stone building looked much the same as yesterday, solid and imposing, its banners stirring faintly in the early breeze. But the crowd was different: early risers this time, armored figures shaking sleep from their shoulders, robed casters yawning their way through spell components, and groups in mismatched gear gathering for contracts.

  James stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked up.

  Somewhere behind those walls were jobs that paid well and tried to kill you in equal measure. Ingredients with teeth. Money with teeth. Risk.

  His mind flicked, unhelpfully, to Villen’s pouch. He still had most of it. He could use that instead. No danger, no broken bones, no questionable contracts.

  But the thought left a sour taste. If he leaned on that money every time things got hard, what would he do when it ran out? When real trouble came? Better to learn how to stand on his own feet now, while he still had a safety net. If the guild turned out to be too dangerous, he could always walk away.

  He thought of the sketch in the craftsman’s hands. Of a wagon gleaming under the sun, window open, steam curling into the air as a line of people waited for food they had never tasted before.

  He thought of Gisabelle. He’d promised her parents he would visit her in Min City, even bring her the things they’d packed for her. And then, like a complete idiot, he had left the village without asking where she lived, what district she worked in, or even how to find her in a city that size.

  The guilt gnawed at him now, sharper than any monster in the guild hall ever could.

  Carpe diem, he told himself.

  But with a plan this time.

  Gerrard bumped his shoulder lightly.

  “Still in?” he asked.

  James exhaled, long and slow, feeling the morning settle over him like a clean apron.

  “In,” he said.

  Mira nodded once, eyes set.

  Vhara rolled her shoulders as if heading into a familiar kind of fight.

  James put his foot on the first step.

  “Let’s go earn ourselves a kitchen on wheels,” he said.

  Then he climbed, the others at his back, and pushed open the guild hall doors.

  Author’s Note

  Overcooked Book 1 is now complete on Patreon.

  If you’d like to support me and read 7 chapters ahead, you can find the advance chapters here: