Morning came with the sound of gulls wheeling over the cove—and, mercifully, no rain. The sky was still wrapped in a gauzy veil of pale gray, but the worst of yesterday's mist had lifted. The air smelled of salt and baking bread from the royal kitchens, and Marron could almost believe her whispered prayers had worked.
Down in the courtyard, servants were already stringing garlands between the carved stone pillars, the bright silks rippling faintly in the breeze. A long row of tables was being set with plates of polished shell, cutlery gleaming like sunlight on water.
The Two Crowns' banner—gold and indigo—hung above the head table, its threads catching the morning light. Marron paused to take it in, the embroidery a perfect fusion of the Snake Queen's sigil and the Lord Jackal's crest.
Inside the royal kitchens, the energy was a low, controlled hum. The four sous chefs she'd trained moved with purpose, calling out to each other without hesitation now. Wolfkin and snakekin worked shoulder-to-shoulder at the same cutting boards, exchanging spice jars and tasting spoons.
When she passed Marina's station, the snakekin gave a small, confident nod. "The pastry layers are even this time, Chef."
"Beautiful work," Marron said, and meant it.
Still, the back of her neck prickled. She knew the hardest part of any event wasn't the prep—it was the timing. The synchronization of dozens of moving parts, each one needing to arrive at the table perfect, hot, and ready.
She turned toward the spice counter and nearly bumped into Mokko, who was carrying a small basket. "For you," he said simply. Inside were three still-warm rolls stuffed with spiced eggs and green herbs.
"Breakfast?"
"You skipped it again," Mokko said, not unkindly.
Lucy bobbed along behind him in her small travel jar, pressing herself against the glass like a child at a candy store window. "Hungry toooo."
Marron chuckled and split one of the rolls, offering Lucy a bite. The slime shivered in delight.
It was easy, in moments like this, to forget that this feast wasn't just food—it was politics. It was two leaders sitting at the same table, watched by dozens of eyes, their peoples looking for proof that unity was possible.
Marron swallowed the last bite of her roll and took a steadying breath. "Alright. Let's make this perfect."
A food stall owner leading a political dinner...who would've thought? I hope you can guide me through this, mom.
She would've given anything, at this moment, to see her mother again. She would know what to do.
But her mother wasn't here. Marron was, and all she had at her disposal was all of the cooking reality TV shows she used to binge-watch on Earth.
I really hope all of the Inferno Fine Dining marathons paid off...
+
Marron stepped into the center of the kitchen, clapping her hands once to draw all four sous chefs' attention.
"Alright, last time before we start," she said, scanning each face. "We've done the prep. We've tested the dishes. You all know your stations and your timing."
The wolfkin with the spice apron gave her a quick salute. The snakekin next to him tightened her hair wrap and nodded.
"But I'm going to say it again—talk to each other. If you see a problem, call it. Don't wait for me to notice. Don't wait for your partner to struggle." She let the words hang for a moment, eyes flicking between wolf and snake alike. "We've already proven we work better together. Today, we just… do it faster."
The corner of Marina's mouth curved. "Yes, Chef."
"And," Marron added, quieter now, "this is my first big service here. The Queen and the Lord Jackal will be at the same table for the first time in years. I can't do this without you. So I'm trusting you—completely."
The younger snakekin, the one who struggled a little with sautéing the sausage meat two days ago, straightened a little at that. "We won't let you down."
A wolfkin grinned, toothy and confident. "Besides, if anything goes wrong, we'll blame the weather."
That got a small laugh from the others, and Marron felt a bit of the pressure on her chest loosen.
"Alright," she said, clapping her hands again. "Stations. Let's get ready."
The kitchen fell back into motion, the rhythm quick but steady—steel on wood, the crack of eggs, the soft rush of oil hitting hot pans. Outside, the gray sky hadn't lightened, but the air was dry, and that was enough.
In the back of her mind, Marron thought of Mokko's creamy cinnamon drink from last night, the warmth of the kitchen then, the feeling of steady hands at her back. She carried that into the service like a talisman.
+
The scent of roasting sausage and citrus glaze filled the Queen's royal kitchen, curling into the hallways beyond. Marron could hear the muted thump of footsteps upstairs, the shuffle of servants preparing the dining hall.
By mid-afternoon, a steady stream of deliveries and final garnishes passed through the kitchen doors—fresh baskets of bread from the cove's baker, extra pitchers of the blueberry wine. Every clang of the door made her stomach tighten a little more.
"Chef," Marina called from her station, "last tray of rolls is in the oven."
"Good. Keep them warm but not soggy," Marron replied, passing by to check the citrus glaze, then the fish platters. All perfect. All ready.
Then the Queen's attendant stepped in, his posture ramrod straight. "The guests are arriving. You are to remain here until the Queen calls you for presentation."
Marron nodded, wiping her palms on her apron. "Understood."
The sous chefs exchanged glances, but the rhythm of prep didn't falter. Marron could tell they felt the weight of the moment too—the way the air had gone taut, as if the whole palace was holding its breath.
She drifted toward the kitchen's side door, peeking down the corridor. The muted clink of goblets and the low hum of formal conversation reached her ears.
And then—two distinct sets of footsteps.
The first to appear was the Queen, resplendent in a deep blue gown, gold-scaled tail sweeping the floor like a train. The crown on her head gleamed, the emeralds catching the candlelight.
The second was the Lord Jackal—tall, broad-shouldered, his dark violet eyes sharp even in the dim corridor, his crown sitting at a faint tilt that somehow looked deliberate.
They stopped only a few feet from each other.
The room did not go silent, but it felt silent. Marron caught the way the Queen's gaze lingered on him—assessing, almost wary. And the way his eyes softened, just slightly, when they met hers.
Neither spoke.
Marron's hand tightened around the doorframe and, with all the strength she had, pushed it closed.
It's going to be a long night.