I wake with a start to the sight of cleavage—soft mounds of brown skin glowy as sand dunes at sunset, framed in peacock blue.

The warm-toned flesh of an uplander. The fine silks of a royal.

That creamy-spiced-mango vitei.

Chiara.

Jerking upright, I clutch the blankets around my naked torso. Glare at her as she rises from her kneeling position at my bedside, reaching out towards a stray lock of hair that falls before my face.

I bat her hand away.

"What the high hells are you doing in my room?"

I'm too freshly awake, too startled to worry about my tone. To pay heed to the memory of my father's warnings.

"I was going to wake you with a gentle caress of your honeyed locks," she says, a spark of amusement in her eye.

"And I'm going to need you to learn some boundaries immediately or else I'm going to try to murder you, fail, get executed, and then you're going to have to marry that Battisti asshole. You don't touch me without my permission. And you don't let yourself into my room when I'm asleep, unless it's on fire or something. Understood?"

She rolls her eyes, fingers tapping her upper arm rhythmically. "Yes, yes. Understood."

"And you don't use your Blessing to manipulate me without my permission, either."

"A lot of it I can't even fully help, you know. It's just secon—"

"No," I say, tone firm. "You are a master Bard. You can control yourself."

A heavy sigh. A pause. And then—"Yes, alright. Fine." She unfolds her arms to make a dismissive gesture before turning from me.

"In any case, I just wanted to give you a moment to gather yourself before the stylist, Perfumer, and Shields all arrive. As for something to eat, I thought you'd prefer to cook your own meal right before a challenge. I've had a Gourmand's studio set up and stocked for you."

"You thought right," I say grudgingly. "Wait, Shields?"

"Of course. You're consort to the Heir Premier, now. Royalty. I've selected your two already."

Royalty. The word grates my bones, tastes of bile.

"May I at least offer you one boon, to boost your chances?"

I narrow my eyes at her, but I don't taste deceit or trickery behind her words.

"Fine," I grate, narrowing my eyes as she breaks into a beatific smile. Lightly, she steps up to me, brushes her lips to my ears, and whispers in a voice like threads of hand-spun gold.

"You're going to come out on top of this."

Stars dance before my vision. A shiver races down my spine.

"You're my champion."

I nearly sag into her arms as an unbearably radiant glow suffuses my essence, my blood, my bones—but catch myself at the last moment and narrow my eyes to scowl at her instead.

Then she whirls and leaves me to myself, skirts flowing around her and gilded hair flashing in the dim lantern light.

~~~

The subtle aromas of creamy coco, clove and spruce cling to my skin as two of my four new Shields accompany me to my personal Gourmand's studio. I've had to admit to myself that I rather like the Perfumer Chiara imposed on me. At first, I'd outright refused his services like I had the Masseur's, but again—I'd been worn down and agreed to meet with him.

Rajvid, A man with hair and beard the color of evergreen trees and eyes the color of brass, who smelled of freedom. Of flying on owl's wings over forested mountain peaks, an endless ocean glimmering in the distance and a sea of stars overhead.

One shallow breath of his aroma and I'd given in. I don't regret it. He'd assured me that his work wouldn't interfere with mine—that the cologne he'd concoct specifically for me and specifically for tonight wouldn't interfere with the aroma or flavors of my cooking. It had been my main objection to his services, and the reason I've never before seen or sought out a Perfumer. But he told me it wouldn't be a problem, and I believed him.

The scent bolsters my spirit, my confidence. Fills me with energy, with an aura of rightness. I won't be eliminated in this first, most brutal round, or any other—no. I'm going to win this. And then...

My hands clench into fists, nails biting into my palms. I don't even realize there's a wicked smile twisting my lips until one of my Shields, Frederico, gives me an odd look, and I see it reflected in his eyes. Then we're there, and the other one—Adares—opens the door for me.

The moment I step inside, I know this is no standard-issue Royal Gourmand's studio. I remember this space as the Grand Royal Gourmand's experimental kitchen. They've probably built a whole new one since then and abandoned this one, I tell myself—praying to Lutra and all her children that Chiara didn't requisition it straight from the current GRG himself.

While Frederico stands guard outside, Adares steps in with me and shuts the door behind him...doing his bulky, bristling best to fade into the background, bless him.

I stride straight up to the windows first, positioned over the row of glossy ceramic sinks with their animal-head faucet fixtures. Throwing them open, I breathe deep of the fresh, rain-rich evening air. Allowing myself to enjoy the knowledge that for the next few months, I won't have to worry about flashes of teal lightning. Won't have to double and triple-check my pockets for earplugs every morning when I get dressed, or go to sleep with them jammed in my ears at night.

This is what the Offering buys us. A reprieve from Aijur's wrath, as precious as it is temporary. The more we give, the longer it is...but Aijur's appetite grows by the year.

With my lungs full of fresh air, I turn to take everything in. To my right, spinning racks of jarred and labeled spices are set into the walls. A myriad of etched drawers and cupboards store dry ingredients. Bundles of dried herbs hang from bars along the ceiling in an array of dusty colors and potent fragrances. There are baskets of chicken, quail, and kingfowl eggs. An icebox contains a selection of meats and cheeses, and a storage space sunk into the cool packed-clay floor contains a bounty of root vegetables. Yet another yields fresh mushrooms. Between the window and sinks, herbs grow in vivid abundance from glazed pots.

A long work surface dominates the central floor, half hard wood and half stone-topped, with storage for utensils below and pots and pans hanging above. The other end of the room contains the actual cooking space—a massive, old-fashioned stone oven, an equally huge hearth, and a modern cast-iron stove with oven compartments, several futuristic-looking Artisan-made contraptions that I don't recognize, and even an enormous smoker that takes up the entire outer corner of the room.

"Wow," I mouth, unable to repress the child in me who dreamt of cooking in this very kitchen the way others might moon over someone beautiful but out-of-reach. It's been updated since last I saw it, and—in throwing open the cupboards and drawers—I find it incredibly well-stocked, too. A tiny spark of grudging gratitude warms my core as I set to work.

Bypassing the fancy cast-iron stove and other contraptions, I go straight to the grilling grate in the hearth. As with everything else, I have an abundance of options when it comes to woods to use. The mixture of pimento and cherrywood I opt for crackles away, filling the space with spicy-sweet fragrance of it—though the chimney whisks away most of the actual smoke. I won't be grilling or smoking my food, so the wood's flavor won't suffuse it in the same way. But even I, with my aversion to Perfumers, understand the power of a scent in both cooking and eating.

Digging to the very back of the icebox, I find half a dozen squab carcasses—already plucked and cleaned. They're younger than the ones he used, and far better quality—but they'll have to do.

I catch myself smiling as I set to work, memories of my father flashing bright before my mind's eye. Of the dish he made me every single year for my birthday, using that lowliest of peasant meats—adult pigeon.

"Where there is skill, food fit for the gods can be made even from ingredients humans deem beneath them. Everything in nature is a gift. The wealth I have to give you, my littling, is the knowledge of how best to appreciate it."

I cook the birds the way he did, by simmering them first in a broth of herbs, coconut wine and green onions before coating them in a spiced honey mixture and frying them up in oil over the fire. I serve them with fluffy coconut rice and a sticky sauce made from more honey and leftover braising broth and share them with both my Shields, the aromas and flavors bringing me back to golden evenings spent with my few favorite people on that one day of all the year we celebrated me. Just me.

By eating it, I mark today as another sort of a birthday. The birth of a new version of myself, the one who'll avenge the old one. The one who'll save her. I think of the person I intend to be as I dine, savor the nuances of my own brilliant—if simple—cooking.

A me who's intimidated by nothing. A me who never backs down. A me who never, ever loses.

The nostalgia of it is powerful enough as it is. But woven amongst the familiar flavors are new ones—spices touched by my Blessing to sharpen my mind and broaden my thoughts, steady my hand.

I'm still finishing up when there's a knock at the door. Frederico.

"It's time," he says in his surprisingly soft voice, opening the door partially and leaning in.

The chef's robes and matching eyepatch Ellrys dresses me in are teal, peacock blue, and gold—Chiara's colors. As if that wasn't enough, she's had her crest embroidered on my back as well—a rampant fox bearing a chalice before a rose in full bloom. But I have to admit the colors and lines of it suit me beautifully, and I find myself carrying my back straighter and tilting my chin high without even thinking about it until I catch sight of my reflection in a mirrored wall.

Chef's robes or no, I carry myself like a queen.

A shudder runs down my spine, but I quell it as we step out onto the main grounds and I start turning towards the Gourmand's pavilion.

"Ah, Your Highness," calls Frederico from just behind my right flank. "The arena is this way."

I slow. "I have to submit myself as a contestant first, though," I say, confused.

"It's already done. Chia—"

I wave a hand, cutting him off before he can say the rest of her name. "Ah, alright. Yes. That way, then. And please don't call me that. It's just Juniper, or Ms. Savine if you absolutely must." His eyes boggle, but he nods in ascent. I hope I'm not ordering anything that'll get him in trouble. We follow the main path leading in the opposite direction, skirting around labyrinth and palace alike and heading for the far southern portion of the grounds where the arena perches, carved and built out from the mountain's face with nothing but ocean and sky for its backdrop.

Four concentric rings of cooking stations circle the outer portions of the sunken stage, but a large space at the center is left clear. I join the line of other Royal Gourmands, scanning the competition. Of the fifty-something competitors, only three that I can pick out are new initiates like myself. Beside us, another line grows—this one of people built and equipped to fight. People with all the signs of being soldiers, guards, and even assassins. Their viteis mingle together into a heady cloud that tastes of woodsmoke and charred meat, cedar, peppercorns and fruits ripe to bursting. And at the very outer edge of it—something citrus and sweet and distinctly poisonous.

Up ahead, there's a signal, and our twin lines—with my Shields awkwardly trailing to my side—march forward. A roar erupts from the close-packed crowd of spectators as we appear at the main stair, and our descent into the arena begins.

I don't see the royal gallery until I find myself positioned at a cooking station in the second-to-outermost ring, one of the fighters from the other line hovering at my side. A small woman with a lithe, athletic build and dark, darting eyes. Chiara waves enthusiastically from the box just below and to the left of the king's, a peacock blue handkerchief trailing from her fingers.

Moments after the last Gourmand takes up his station, a rich voice booms out across the arena. The King's Voice, his chosen Bard—the one who speaks for him in public settings. He's had the same one for almost three decades now.

"Welcome, good people of Palace Amoranti and citizens of Aijur! Here you bare witness to the first of the King's Chef Trials, in which our Gourmands shall compete for the sacred honor of serving as our beloved and most high sovereign's Head Chef."

I don't even wince at the explosive response of the crowd. My confidence and resolve holds, so heady and thick it forms a sort of buffer between myself and the outer world.

"Today, twenty-six Gourmands will move on to further trials, and twenty-six shall consign themselves to the next Offering. What's more, twenty-six new fighters shall be initiated into the ranks of the King's Arms, and twenty-six sacrificed—consigned to Offering."

There's a lot of excited murmuring and more cheering at that—enough that a small, sour pit of disgust twists in my stomach even now, in my enhanced and shielded state.

"Each Gourmand contestant shall assess their assigned warrior, determine their most vital attributes and weaknesses, and enhance and correct them as they may with the ingredients available. Then, their fighter shall be paired in battle against another. Losing fighters will be joined by their chefs in Offering." The Voice pauses briefly to allow crowd and contestants alike to process this before carrying on.

"While Gourmands may not leave the arena in the two hours' cooking time they are allotted, their fighters may—under supervision. Each will be allowed to hunt and bring back one form of small game and two items of forage from the wild parts of the grounds. If, however, they touch or consume any other substance while away, or raid any of the cultivated areas—they will immediately be disqualified and Offered along with their chef."

There's the briefest pause and then—

"Time starts now!"

I turn to eye the tiny woman standing beside me with her bandolier of little throwing daggers, and then the others with their broadswords and pole-arms and tower shields—and for half a heartbeat, my confidence wavers. An image comes to mind, too vivid to banish, of a little gray house cat surrounded by tigers.

It's not far off.

But she holds herself like she's made of stone when she's still, moves like water when she's not. And the look in her eyes is sharp as the daggers strapped across her chest.

Turning from her, I kneel beside my cooking station's dry ingredients trunk. Its only ingredients trunk. Flinging it open, I find it half-full.

Of field rations.

I sigh, then draw in a long breath—taking a hit of my own scent. And just like that, an uncanny grin pinches my cheeks, narrows my eyes. The woman frowns at me, as if she can tell what I'm thinking.

Finally, a proper challenge.