James woke to warm light on his face and a stubborn ache in his shoulders. For a few fuzzy seconds he lay still, staring at the slanted ceiling. The room was already bright. Not the soft grey of dawn. The kind of bright that meant he’d missed the part of the morning where responsible people did things. He groaned and rolled onto his side.

  Please tell me that’s sunrise. Please tell me I didn’t sleep through half the day.

  He squinted toward the small window. The sun sat comfortably above the rooftops of Min, not climbing but already on its way toward the idea of noon.

  “…Right,” he muttered. “So that’s a no.”

  His body felt heavy but not in the same way as last night. Less lead, more sore clay. The dungeon, the cooking, the jambalaya chant, all of it had finally worked its way out of his bones and left something like normal exhaustion behind. He sat up, swung his feet to the floor, and scrubbed his hands over his face.

  On the other hand, I did say I was going to squeeze as much rest out of this as possible. Consider it research into the effect of sleep on culinary performance.

  That sounded just convincing enough in his own head that he stood up without hating himself.

  The hallway outside his room was quiet. He stepped out, closed the door behind him and glanced at the one to his right. Vhara’s room. He hesitated, then raised a knuckle and knocked.

  “Vhara?”

  No answer.

  He waited, listening for any sign of movement. Nothing. No weight shifting on floorboards, no irritated orcish growl, no muttered complaint about humans who talked through doors.

  “She’s probably already up,” he told himself. “Because she’s a functional adult.”

  He turned and made his way toward the stairs. The sounds from the common room hit him halfway down. Cutlery on plates. Low voices. The occasional clatter from the kitchen. All normal. None of it carrying that particular lift he’d felt last night when the whole room had been shouting Whoop whoop in time with his ladle.

  He stepped into the common room and saw why. Mira, Gerrard, Vhara and Marty were at their usual table, each with a plate in front of them. None of the plates were empty. All of the faces looked like someone had just told them their favourite song was cancelled.

  Mira poked her food with her fork as if it might apologise. Gerrard chewed with the absent air of a man doing penance. Marty was half slumped over his plate. Vhara was eating, but without enthusiasm, like a soldier working through rations because that was what you did.

  James crossed the room and slid into the empty seat.

  “Morning,” he said.

  Four sets of eyes lifted toward him with varying degrees of accusation.

  “Good afternoon,” Gerrard said.

  “It’s not afternoon,” James said automatically.

  Mira glanced toward one of the small windows. “Give it a little while,” she said. “It’ll get there.”

  James opened his mouth to argue on principle. His stomach chose that moment to remind him that it was empty.

  He looked down at their plates, then over at the bar. The innkeeper was there. The man had been wiping the same section of counter for long enough that the wood might’ve started to complain. Their eyes met. The innkeeper straightened as if jerked by a string.

  “Ah, good morning, Chef James,” he said quickly. “I’ll bring your breakfast right away.”

  He vanished toward the kitchen with a speed that would’ve made a lesser man drop his dishcloth.

  James watched him go, then raised his voice just enough to carry.

  “Don’t forget. Twice as much.”

  A harried voice floated back from the doorway. “I remember, I remember. Once everyone finishes eating I’m running straight to the market, don’t worry.”

  Marty eyed James over his fork. “You picked a good day to sleep in,” he said. “You missed the first round.”

  James stole a look at Marty’s plate. Bread, eggs, something that might’ve wanted to be sausage if it had believed in itself a little harder. It didn’t look awful. It just looked tired.

  “How bad is it?” James asked. “On a scale of one to I’m revoking your eating privileges if you complain.”

  “Edible,” Mira said. “Mostly.”

  “It’s food,” Vhara said. “It fills the stomach.”

  “It tastes like disappointment,” Marty said.

  Gerrard dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin and sighed. “After last night, the contrast is simply unfortunate,” he said. “Nothing more.”

  James felt a small, guilty glow in his chest at that.

  You did this. You broke them.

  He pushed the thought aside and reached for the more pressing obsession currently bumping around in his head.

  “Speaking of unfortunate,” he said. “Mira, Vhara. Yesterday you went to a bathhouse, right?”

  Vhara paused with her cup halfway to her lips and looked at Mira.

  Mira nodded slowly. “Yes. We did. Why?”

  James leaned his elbows on the table. “Do they have something like that for men?” he said. “Because I’m pretty sure parts of me are still made of dungeon rubble.”

  Vhara kept looking at Mira, clearly not owning any knowledge of Min’s cleaner, more civilised establishments.

  Mira set her fork down. “They do,” she said. “Separate sections. If you want to go, we can take you after breakfast.”

  “That would be great,” James said at once. “I’m not saying I smell like Hollowback’s lower tunnels, but I don’t want to run the test.”

  Marty perked up. “Bathhouse,” he said. “I’m in. If you’re going to become a walking experience farm, you might as well be a clean one.”

  Gerrard adjusted his glasses. “I was planning to review my notes this morning,” he said, then winced as his shoulder crackled when he rolled it. “On second thought, I suppose it’ll be easier to concentrate if my spine isn’t trying to leave my body.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  The innkeeper reappeared, slightly breathless, with James’s breakfast balanced on a tray. The plate was a match for the others. The expression on the innkeeper’s face was not. It was nervous, hopeful and determined all at once.

  “Here you are,” he said, setting the plate down. “Eat, eat. Then I’ll go and buy twice as much of everything we talked about.”

  James gave him a small, tired smile. “Good,” he said. “Because tonight we’re going to make it worth it.”

  The innkeeper swallowed and nodded, then hurried off again.

  The breakfast tasted like the others. Not terrible. Not good. It filled the stomach and left his tongue searching for spices that weren’t there.

  This is what they were living on before, he thought.

  He finished the last of it out of sheer professional courtesy, then pushed his plate away.

  “All right,” he said. “Bathhouse first. Once I stop smelling like dungeon rubble, we can talk about fixing the taste problem.”

  Mira laughed. Vhara finished her drink and stood.

  They left the Ox and Ember together, stepping out into the late morning streets of Min. The air carried the smell of stone and people, the faint tang of coal smoke from somewhere farther in, and, mercifully, very little of dungeon.

  The bathhouse wasn’t far. Mira led the way, cutting through a lane James hadn’t used before, past a pair of laundry lines and a boy chasing a runaway bucket. The building itself was squat and solid, steam curling lazily from vents near the roof. A carved sign over the door showed stylised waves and a stack of stones.

  Inside, the air was warm and damp. There was a front room with benches and hooks, a counter where a bored attendant brightened at the sight of customers, and then separate doors branching off. Mira handled the conversation, dropping a couple of coins on the counter. The attendant slid small carved tokens toward them.

  “Men’s side that way,” she said, pointing. “Women’s there. Clean towels on the racks. Try not to drown.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Gerrard said.

  Mira and Vhara peeled off toward the women’s door. Mira glanced back over her shoulder.

  “We’ll wait in the front when we’re done,” she said. “Try not to get lost.”

  “I’m going to be in a big room of hot water,” James said. “If I get lost, that’s on the architect.”

  The men’s section was a series of changing alcoves and then a large chamber with pools at different temperatures. Steam fogged the air. The stone floor was warm underfoot. A few other patrons lounged in the water, too relaxed to be curious about newcomers.

  James sank into one of the medium hot pools with a sound that might’ve been a groan and might’ve been a prayer. The heat hit his muscles like a slow, careful hammer, knocking stiffness loose. He let his head tip back against the edge of the pool and closed his eyes.

  “This,” Marty said from the next pool over, “is the second-best decision I’ve ever made.”

  James cracked one eye open. “Please tell me the best one wasn’t ‘not going into the dungeon with us.’”

  “Of course not,” Marty said. “Best one was deciding not to walk past you that first day.”

  “I feel strangely complimented,” James said.

  Gerrard stretched his arms along the pool edge. “Personally, I remain conflicted,” he said. “On one hand, the dungeon was extremely dangerous and I’d prefer not to die. On the other, walking around with a portable experience multiplier is both fascinating and deeply unfair.”

  James snorted. “If you start dragging me along on every job just to boost your experience gain, I’m charging extra.”

  “Too late,” Marty said. “Mira already decided you’re a party asset. You belong to the group now.”

  “That is not how ownership works.”

  They stayed until the skin on James’s fingers had gone wrinkled and his bones felt less like they’d been used as drumsticks. Finally, with the reluctant sighs of people leaving heaven early, they climbed out, dried off and dressed.

  Mira and Vhara were waiting by the benches when they emerged, both looking considerably less grimy than they had after the dungeon run.

  “You look better,” Mira said, giving James a once-over.

  “I feel like someone scraped the dungeon off me and replaced it with a functioning spine,” James said. “Thank you.”

  “Good,” Vhara said. “You’ll need that spine when you’re carrying plates all evening.”

  They stepped back out into the street, the cool air a shock after the bathhouse warmth.

  “Market,” James said. “We should take a look around before heading back. If the innkeeper’s going to spend his savings on ingredients, I want to know what’s in season and what the street vendors are doing.”

  “You just want to eat more,” Marty said.

  “Yes,” James said. “Also that.”

  The market district of Min was already busy, stalls and carts lined along a broad street. Voices called out prices. The air was thick with smells. Roasting meat on skewers. Fresh bread. Something fried and sweet. A hint of herbs, sharp and green. They wandered through in no particular hurry. James stopped at a stall selling flatbreads stuffed with spiced vegetables, watching the vendor slap dough onto a hot stone and fold it over the filling.

  He bought one, bit into it and closed his eyes for a second as the heat and spice hit his tongue.

  “Okay,” he said. “That’s good.”

  Mira tried a bite and nodded. “Not as good as your bread,” she said. “But solid.”

  “Give me a week,” James said. “I’ll steal three ideas from this and make something that convinces people to start fights over the last piece.”

  They sampled a few more things. A cone of roasted nuts with a sugar glaze. A skewer of grilled meat with a tart dipping sauce. Gerrard bought a paper cup of something that claimed to be tea and spent the next five minutes complaining about how it wasn’t.

  By the time they turned back toward the Ox and Ember, James’s head was buzzing in a better way. Ideas slotted themselves into place. Flavours to borrow. Methods to adjust. Things to never do under any circumstances.

  They stepped back into the inn to find the common room quieter than usual. The lunch rush hadn’t started yet. The innkeeper was behind the bar again, mixing something in a jug.

  He looked up as they came in and hurried over.

  “You’re back,” he said. “Good. The market was, how do you say, brutal. I think one vendor tried to sell me the same sack of onions three times. But I got everything. Mostly everything. There was a woman who sold me something she swears is a pepper, I’m a little afraid to touch it.”

  James smiled. The tiredness was still there, but now it sat next to a steady, familiar excitement.

  “Excellent,” he said. “Because I’m rested, clean and out of excuses.”

  He glanced at the others.

  “Today,” he said, “we’re going full course. If the kitchen has what we need, we’re going to give these people a meal they won’t forget.”

  Marty brightened at once and headed for a table as if dragged by fate. Gerrard and Vhara followed, claiming seats with the air of people settling in for a show. Mira shook her head, smiling, and took her place with them.

  “So,” Marty called. “What’s on the menu, then?”

  Gerrard rested his chin on his hand. “Yesterday’s jambalaya was exceptional,” he said. “The chant was less so, but I’m not ungrateful.”

  “It was catchy,” Marty said.

  “It was loud,” Gerrard said.

  Vhara nodded once. “It was satisfying,” she said. “The food, I mean.”

  James considered them for a moment, then let the words line up the way they’d formed in his head on the walk back.

  “Today,” he said, “I’m thinking tomato soup with grated cheese to start. Then a tikka masala lasagna for the main. And some tiramisu to finish.”

  Marty blinked. “Tiramisu,” he repeated, tasting the unfamiliar syllables. “What’s that supposed to be?”

  “Do you remember the coffee?” James asked him.

  Gerrard made a small, reverent sound. “Oh, how could I forget,” he said. “I’m still not convinced that wasn’t a minor divine experience.”

  “Tiramisu is a dessert you make with coffee,” James said.

  There was a heartbeat of silence. Then Marty slapped both hands down on the table and half stood up.

  “What,” he said. “You can make dessert out of coffee? Go to the kitchen this instant. Immediately. I refuse to wait one second longer than necessary for this revelation.”

  James laughed. “It’s not even midday,” he said. “You’re going to have to be patient unless you want half-finished tiramisu slurry.”

  Marty sank back into his seat, grumbling. Behind James, Vhara’s voice drifted over the low murmur of the room.

  “What is coffee?” she asked.

  Gerrard and Marty both turned toward her at the same time and started talking over each other, one launching into a description of flavour profiles, the other going straight for hand gestures and superlatives.

  James left them to it, still smiling, and pushed through the door into the kitchen.

  He stopped just inside. Last night’s frantic rush had left the place looking battered. Now it was spotless. The counters shone. The floor had been scrubbed until it no longer told the story of every spilled sauce. Crates and sacks were stacked neatly along one wall. Baskets of vegetables. Bundles of herbs. Sacks of flour and grain. A row of new clay jars sat in the corner, their sealed tops promising oil, vinegar, things that might explode if handled poorly.

  The air smelled like clean wood, fresh produce and possibility. The innkeeper straightened up from where he’d been unpacking a crate of onions. He looked tired in a different way now. Stretched, but satisfied.

  “You weren’t kidding,” James said quietly. “You really did buy twice as much of everything.”

  The innkeeper wiped his hands on his apron and gave a half embarrassed shrug.

  “I had some savings,” he said. “And the last few days, the way people have been coming in, I thought maybe it was time to stop being afraid of spending them. If this keeps up, Ox and Ember could be more than just a place people settle for.”

  James felt his grin stretch wide and sharp.

  “Good,” he said. “Because today’s going to be a feast. Let’s make sure your investment tastes like the best decision you ever made.”

  He set his hands on the counter, rolled his shoulders once, and reached for the Mishlin Sage bowls and pans.

  Time to cook.