The final embers of the festival glowed low in the pits dotting the village square. Most stalls had been packed away, laughter faded into sleepy murmurs, and only a handful of villagers lingered—those unwilling to let go of such a magical day.
Ken sat at the edge of the fountain, arms resting on his knees, apron dusted with flour and smoke, his body aching in the best way possible. He stared at the stars, letting the cool breeze brush through his sweat-matted hair.
> That was... incredible.
He'd sold out of every dish by nightfall. Customers had lined up again and again, some asking if he'd open a permanent stall, others begging for custom orders. He'd heard compliments from the mayor, the council, traveling merchants, and even distant townsfolk he didn't recognize.
> I did it, he thought. I really did it.
But even amid the joy, his mind circled back to one thing: the three strangers. Especially the girl with the observant eyes. She hadn't just come for food—he could tell.
---
As he stood to stretch, Ken heard voices not far off—whispers carried on the breeze from behind the corner of the inn.
"...he's definitely not an ordinary village boy."
"I agree," a soft, refined voice responded. "And I saw how he looked at us. He's suspicious."
Ken froze.
Another voice—rougher, deeper—grunted. "If he's who you think he is, we need to report it. Quietly."
Ken leaned closer, brow furrowed.
"Tomorrow," the girl said. "Let's talk to him. No disguises. He deserves that much."
Ken stepped back, startled, but accidentally knocked a loose cobble, sending a clatter through the night air.
The voices went silent.
He didn't stick around. He turned and walked briskly away, his thoughts racing.
> Not just visitors… they know something about me.
---
The next morning dawned bright and clear. Ken barely had time to finish restocking his cooking supplies before he heard light footsteps approaching from the path.
"Good morning," said a familiar voice.
Ken turned to see the girl again—Elira—but without her hood. Her clothes were still plain, but she carried herself with unmistakable grace. Behind her were the knight and the other girl, who offered a lazy salute.
"I figured we'd drop the act," Elira said, stopping a few feet from his stall. "I'm Elira. This is Sir Damon, and that's Reya. I just wanted to thank you... properly. Your cooking was unforgettable."
Ken stayed silent for a moment, arms crossed. "You're not from around here."
Reya chuckled. "That obvious, huh?"
Ken glanced at the knight. "And you don't move like a common traveler."
Damon smirked slightly. "You're observant."
Elira stepped closer. "You're not ordinary either. No boy your age should have skill like yours. And I saw the way you handled yourself—quiet, precise, always watching."
Ken said nothing, tension slowly rising.
"I'm not here to expose you," she added quickly. "I just wanted to know... are you hiding something? Or are you trying to become something?"
Ken hesitated. Then he replied, "I'm trying to build something. Something real. With flavor, and effort, and a little bit of magic."
There was silence for a moment.
Then Elira smiled.
"Good," she said. "Because I think your story is just beginning."
------
That evening, as the village lights dimmed behind them and the cart gently rocked along the dirt road out of town, Elira leaned back on a folded wool blanket, arms crossed, eyes watching the darkening horizon.
Reya sat beside her, munching on a leftover root crisp Ken had packed for their journey.
"You've been quiet ever since we left," Reya said between bites. "Still thinking about the boy?"
Elira didn't answer immediately. She finally exhaled. "He's... fascinating. Talented. And brave. I think if we leave him here, his talent will stagnateand die off, and that would be too much of a shame."
Reya tilted her head. "You think he has what it takes to cook in the palace?"
Elira shook her head slightly. "Not yet. His dishes are bold and comforting, full of flavor and heart—but they're not refined. Not layered like court cuisine. And he lacks polish."
"But that's nothing time and training can't fix," Reya offered.
Elira's lips curled into a small smile. "Exactly. Which is why I don't want to leave him to rot in a place like this. He's got something. I just… don't know where to send him yet."
Reya flicked a crumb from her sleeve. "What about the Silver Hearth? You know that's my favorite spot in the city. Lady Marrow owns it, and she's always complaining no one under thirty knows how to season properly."
Elira arched a brow. "You'd trust a rising village cook with Lady Marrow's kitchen?"
Reya grinned. "I'd trust her judgment more than yours. She's got an eye for raw talent—and she doesn't care about titles."
The cart bumped over a rut in the road. Elira looked up at the stars.
"Alright," she said. "Ask her. If she thinks he has talent and helps refine him, I'll have him escorted to the city."
Reya nudged her. "You mean convince him. I don't think he'll leave easily."
Elira smirked. "Then I guess we'll have to make him an offer even a stubborn village cook can't refuse."
The cart continued under the moonlight, carrying two young nobles back toward a city Ken didn't even know existed—yet.
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