Several hours later. Dinner happened the way all dangerous things do. With hesitation. The grilled kraken sat over the fire, cut into thick, steaming slabs, edges charred just right, salt and herbs clinging to the surface. The smell was—gods—divine. Smoky. Briny. Comforting in a way that made my stomach ache with hunger.
And yet. No one moved. The knights stood there, bowls in hand, staring at it like it might suddenly stand back up and drag them into the sea again. Coffi leaned toward Latte and whispered, "Is it… safe to eat?"
Latte squinted. "It was trying to kill us few hours ago."
"That's what cooking is for," I snapped, already annoyed.
They all looked at me. Every single one of them. I looked back. Slowly. One by one. Almost thirty battle-hardened men and women who had faced death, monsters, forbidden magic—and were now scared of seafood.
