The kitchen of *The Anchor's End* is a nightmare of congealed fat and rust.
I shove a stack of blackened copper pans onto the floor. They hit the wood with a discordant clatter that silences the murmuring sailors in the common room. I don't care about the noise. I care about the surface tension of my work table.
"Finn, get the lye and a scrub brush," I snap, pulling a bucket of gray water toward me. "If this counter isn't gleaming in ten minutes, nobody eats."
"On it, Boss!" Finn is already scraping a layer of mystery soot from the hearth.
Dorian stands in the doorway between the kitchen and the bar. He's shed his heavy cloak, revealing the midnight-blue steel of his chest piece. His hand is perpetually near the hilt of his sword. He isn't watching the room for customers; he's watching the man in the silver bone mask.
"The shadow in the corner," Dorian says, his voice a low vibration. "He hasn't moved. He's not breathing like a man who's here to drink."
"Then he's here to watch," I say, pouring a jar of boiling water over my knives. "Let him. If he's Inquisition, he would've called for the guards already. If he's a King's man, he's waiting to see if the rumors are true."
I look out at the sailors. They're restless. The big man with the hook-hand—the one they call Iron-Grog—is staring at me with a mix of hunger and suspicion.
I reach into my bag. My Earth-salt supply is low, but I have a full bag of dried chili flakes and a bottle of high-quality soy sauce I managed to smuggle through. It's time to show them what actual flavor looks like.
***
*Food Item 1: Searing Mist-Cod with Red Mountain Glaze. Scent: Intense, toasted soy sauce and sharp, biting capsaicin. Appearance: White, flaky fish flesh charred black at the edges, glistening with a deep crimson oil. Texture: A crisp, salt-crusted skin that shatters to reveal buttery, steaming meat.*
The first pan hits the iron stove. The heat in this world is different—it burns blue and steady, fed by charcoal infused with Fire-Mote dust.
I sear the local Mist-Cod—a pale, translucent fish that tastes like ozone. The second the Earth-side soy sauce hits the hot metal, a cloud of savory, fermented smoke fills the tavern.
It's an aggressive smell. It cuts through the stench of rotted kelp and stale ale like a physical punch.
The sailor, Iron-Grog, stands up. His chair screeches against the floorboards. "What is that?"
"Seat your ass down and wait," I yell from the back. "Price is one silver. If you can't pay, keep your nose out of my steam."
One silver is high. Most meals here are five copper. But the smell does the marketing for me. I see hands reaching into pouches. I hear the clink of real coin.
*Food Item 2: Stabilized Silver-Grain Congee. Process: Simmering the Bone-Flower grains with dashi-base and dried shiitake mushrooms from my Earth-pantry. Appearance: A thick, silky porridge that doesn't vibrate; it glows with a soft, steady gold light. Taste: Umami-heavy, savory, and incredibly grounding.*
"First order up!" I shout, sliding the first plate onto the counter.
Dorian takes it. He doesn't look like a waiter, but the sailors give him a wide berth as he carries the fish through the room.
Iron-Grog takes a bite. His entire body goes rigid. He drops his hook onto the table with a *thud*. He doesn't say a word for three full minutes. He just eats, his eyes wide, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead from the chilies.
"I can... I can feel my toes," the big man gasps. He's been suffering from early-stage Blight—the gray-skin petrification that starts at the extremities. He stares at his hands, where the dull gray tint is being replaced by a healthy, flushing pink.
"The Salt-Witch cures the rot!" someone screams.
The rush starts.
***
I'm in the zone. This is the dinner rush from hell, and I love every second of it.
I'm dicing ginger, flipping cod, and monitoring the congealed porridge simultaneously. My hands move with a precision I thought I'd lost in the burnout. *Clack-clack-clack.* The cleaver is an extension of my arm.
Finn is running plates, his small face red with exertion and excitement. Marcus Vale stands in the shadows of the stairs, a calculating smile on his face. He sees the pile of silver coins growing on the bar.
I look at the man in the silver bone mask. He's still there. A plate of my congee is sitting in front of him, untouched.
I wipe my hands on a towel and walk out into the common room. The heat from the kitchen follows me, a humid cloud of chili and salt.
"Not hungry?" I ask, stopping at his table.
Dorian moves closer, his shadow falling across the man's broken royal summons.
The man in the mask looks up. Behind the white bone of the mask, his eyes are a startling, vivid violet. High-noble blood. Only the royalty of the Valdris lineage has eyes that color.
"It is... elegant," the man says. His voice is a refined whisper, cultured and hollow. "I have tasted the finest dishes of the Northern Peaks and the Southern Islets. They all lack this. They lack the *anchor*."
"The anchor?"
"The piece of the world that isn't magic," he says, his gloved hand reaching for the royal summons. He slides it across the table toward me.
*Property: The parchment is cold to the touch. The seal is a phoenix rising from a bed of wheat—the personal crest of the Crown Prince.*
"The King is dying of the Stone-Lung," the man whispers. "The Inquisitors say only the White Grain can keep him alive, but every loaf they bake makes him more like a statue. He needs a chef who can cook for a god, without making him a slave to the temple."
I look at the summons. *By Royal Command: Bring the girl of Salt and Flame to the Palace.*
"Millie, don't," Dorian warns. "If you go to the Palace, you're in a gilded cage. You'll never see the West again."
I look at the masked man. "And if I say no?"
"Then the Inquisition's 'State of Emergency' becomes a declaration of war on the Shadow Market," the man says. "Marcus Vale cannot protect you from a dragon-mounted army, Chef."
Suddenly, the front door of the tavern is kicked open.
Rain-slicked men in bone-white armor—the Purifiers—flood the room. They aren't the common guards from the Dregs. These are mages, their staves glowing with an angry, pulsating white light.
"By order of High Inquisitor Thorne!" the lead guard bellows. "This establishment is seized! The heretic is to be taken in chains!"
The sailors scramble for their weapons. Iron-Grog stands, his massive hook glistening in the mage-light.
"Not on our docks, you don't!" the sailor roars.
The tavern explodes into violence.
Dorian's sword is out. He moves like a blur of steel, parrying the first staff-thrust. A blast of white energy shatters a nearby table. I dive behind the bar, grabbing my backpack and dragging Finn down with me.
"Marcus!" I shout. "Where's that tunnel you promised?"
Marcus Vale is already gone. The coward has slipped through a panel in the wall.
I look back at the man in the bone mask. He's standing in the middle of the chaos, perfectly calm. He picks up the spoon, takes a single bite of the congee, and nods.
"Excellent," he says.
He raises his hand. A wall of violet flames erupts from the floorboards, separating the Inquisitors from the kitchen. The heat is intense, the smell of ozone so strong it makes my hair stand on end.
"The palace is no longer a choice, Millie Chen," the masked man says, his eyes fixing on mine through the fire. "It's your only kitchen left."
"Finn, the back exit!" I grab the boy's collar and haul him toward the pantry.
Dorian is right behind us, his armor sparking from a redirected spell. We burst through the rear door into the wet, freezing air of the docks.
The harbor is alive with torches. Boats are being boarded. The Shadow Market is under siege.
"Dorian, the portal," I gasp, my lungs burning from the smoke. "I have to get back. I need more supplies. If I'm going to a palace, I need more than salt."
"You can't," Dorian says, shoving us behind a stack of tarred ropes. "They've blocked the forest clearing. The mages detected your 'origin' trail. The portal site is crawling with Inquisitors."
My heart freezes. My only way out. My home. My shitty Shanghai apartment that suddenly feels like paradise.
"I'm trapped," I breathe. "Actually trapped."
A dragon-shriek pierces the sky. Overhead, a massive winged beast with white scales circles the docks. A Rider in red robes stands on its back.
"The High Inquisitor," Finn whimpers.
Ravenna Thorne has come to dinner. And I'm the main course.
I look at my hands. They're covered in soot, fish scales, and the remnants of Earth-salt. I look at Dorian, whose sword is notched, and Finn, whose face is wet with tears.
"Okay," I say, my voice going cold and hard. "If she wants a chef, she's going to get the best one in both worlds."
I reach into my bag and pull out a single, tiny, red chili. The last of the intense ones.
"Finn, get the carriage. Dorian, find the man in the mask."
"What are you doing?" Dorian asks.
"I'm accepting the invitation," I say, looking up at the dragon. "But they're going to find out that I don't follow recipes. I write them."
I bite into the chili. The heat is a violent explosion, grounding me, sharpening my mind into a single, needle-thin point of focus.
If the world wants a Salt-Witch, I'll give them one they can't swallow.
As the dragon begins its descent, the man in the silver mask steps out from the burning tavern. He holds out a hand, and for a second, the violet flame in his palm matches the intensity in Millie's eyes. "A wise decision, Chef. The King is very, very hungry."