The stars blinked quietly in the crisp, cool sky above the village, the moon casting silver shadows across cobbled paths and thatched rooftops. Most homes had gone dark, families turning in early for what was sure to be a long, lively festival day.
But in one small house on the edge of the square, a warm amber glow still flickered.
Ken sat alone by the hearth, gently rotating skewers over the low flames—not to cook, but to test charcoal consistency and timing. His apron was streaked with flour, ash, and herbs, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled to his elbows, showing the marks of a day's hard work.
On the nearby table were labeled bundles—herbs for the sausage, glazed roots wrapped in reedcloth, the fragile clay pots for desserts tucked safely into padded baskets.
He had everything ready.
And yet, he couldn't sleep.
---
His parents had gone to bed hours ago after reminding him—several times—to get some rest.
But Ken's mind swirled with thoughts:
> What if people hate the food? What if I run out too early? What if they laugh at me for pretending to be something more than a kid with a knife and a fire pit?
But then he thought of the days spent practicing. The villagers who lined up for his cooking. The council who approved him without hesitation.
He touched the knife at his waist, its wooden handle worn smooth from use.
> No, he thought. This is who I am now. I've worked too hard to doubt myself now.
The fire crackled softly. A breeze moved through the window.
Ken closed his eyes and whispered:
> "Tomorrow, I show them what flavor means."
---
Meanwhile, across the village...
At a modest roadside inn, the only one with a second floor and shuttered windows, three strangers sat in a small rented room.
The girl called Reya, disguised in a coarse green tunic, tossed her boots off and plopped onto the straw-stuffed bed.
"I heard three different people mention that a 'boy cook' is going to be the biggest draw tomorrow," she said, smirking. "Apparently, he makes honey treats that 'taste like royalty' and fish skewers that can turn your week around."
Elira, now with her hair tied in a loose braid, leaned against the window ledge. "That has to be him. They said he's only a few years older than me, and already feeding half the town."
The knight, hunched over a table and drinking lukewarm cider from a chipped mug, shook his head. "You realize this 'festival trip' of yours has turned into a full-on investigation."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," Elira replied. "I've never been this excited for something... this ordinary."
Reya sat up, curious. "So what's the plan?"
"We go early," Elira said. "Blend in. Try his food. See who he really is."
"And if he recognizes you?"
Elira's eyes sparkled. "Then I hope he's brave enough to talk to me."
The knight grumbled. "I'll bring my sword… just in case bravery turns into trouble."
---
Outside their window, the village dozed under starlight, unaware that tomorrow's festival would be more than just food, dancing, and celebration.
It would be the beginning of a story no one expected—especially not the boy behind the fire pit.
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