Chapter 9: A Recipe for Panic

INSIDE THE KITCHEN

Cael sat in the middle of the palace kitchen, elbows on the counter, his face buried in his hands.

Around him, imp chefs scrambled in controlled chaos: dicing, boiling, flambéing, occasionally screaming when something tried to bite them back.

Cael would eventually need to choose three to accompany him into the cooking competition, but that wasn’t what weighed on him.

He lifted his head and stared at the parchment in front of him: the official mechanics of the Royal Cooking Showdown, hosted on the final day of the Great Trade Fair.

Rules: Create any dish you like. However, your submission must include two demon cuisine entries: one appetizer or dessert, and one main course.

Cael whispered, “I’m going to die.”

One of the imps looked up from stirring something suspiciously purple. “You called, master chef?”

“No. I was just… slowly disintegrating.”

He glanced over at a nearby imp who was grinding bones and eyeballs into a paste, excitedly calling it “a traditional romantic breakfast stew.”

Another one suggested boiling spider hearts in bloodwine. A third one held up something that hissed and bit his glove.

Cael muttered, “Ashara’s going to reduce me to ash if I serve that.”

He opened the cookbook the imps had kindly handed him. Chapter One: Five Hundred Ways to Cook a Screaming Root Without Dying. Chapter Two: Liver, But With More Screaming.

Another sigh. “Nope.”

Just then, the kitchen door creaked open and a figure entered: a tall, skeletal woman in a robe stitched from expired library cards.

Her horns were ink-stained, her eyes glowed a deep violet, and she carried a large leather-bound volume under one arm and a battered lunch tray under the other.

“Is there any food left?” she asked in a voice that echoed like turning pages.

Cael blinked. “Um… stew, ramen, and I think a few blueberry scones.”

She nodded approvingly. “Bless you, chef. The cookbooks have tried to eat me twice today.”

“Wait…you’re the librarian, right?”

“Indeed. Archcurator Seraphael of the Infinite Index.”

She plucked a scone and sniffed it. “Ooh. Cinnamon. What troubles you, human?”

Cael told her everything: the demon dish requirement, the horrifying cookbooks, Ashara’s expectations, and his general state of impending doom.

Seraphael chewed thoughtfully, then said, “Perhaps... you need a different cookbook.”

He looked up hopefully. “There’s another?”

She nodded. “Follow me after lunch. We’ll visit the Restricted Section.”

THE INFINITE INDEX LIBRARY

The Infinite Index was somehow larger on the inside. Cael stepped inside and was immediately greeted by a flying dictionary shrieking in Abyssal.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

A history book tried to bite a guard’s leg. One tome exploded into glitter and screamed about taxes.

Cael side-stepped a rolling cookbook and muttered, “I’m getting used to this. That’s not good.”

Seraphael appeared beside him, wielding a broom like a legendary relic. She bonked the flying book out of the air and swept it into a bin labeled Angry Volumes.

“This way. Stay near me unless you want your soul analyzed by a cursed thesaurus.”

She led him to a quiet, ring-protected corner and set a dusty tome on the desk. The leather cover was etched with unfamiliar glyphs. The title read:

“The Harmony Flame: Fusion Recipes from the Fred of the Skillet”

“Who was this?” Cael asked, intrigued.

“Fred is the first human chef,” Seraphael said solemnly.

“…Fred?”

She nodded. “Fred of the Skillet. Abducted by a dragon centuries ago. He fell near Ashenfall while fleeing said dragon, still clutching a pot of beef stew.

King Rhogar, the previous Demon King, was so enchanted by the smell, he brought Fred to the palace as his chef.”

Cael stared. “That’s… honestly kind of amazing.”

“Fred discovered a rare art: blending human cuisine with demonic ingredients. His recipes became legendary.

But alas, humans are terribly mortal, and Fred did not last more than fifty years.”

“What happened to his kitchen staff?”

“They were… not as enthusiastic about hygiene. Many exploded.”

Cael gingerly opened the book. The first page showed a beautifully sketched dish of Chili-Spiced Batwing Ravioli in Creamed Moonroot Sauce. “This actually looks… doable?”

“You’ll still need to substitute ingredients carefully. Demon stomachs are more durable, but your own is made of sadness and bread.”

“I’ll take it.”

Seraphael beamed. “Fred would’ve liked you. He once tried to serve ghost pepper cookies to the high court just to watch their reactions.”

“I like him already.”

Cael spent the next four hours buried in the cookbook, flipping pages, taking notes, and occasionally dodging a flirtatious necromancy scroll.

By the end of it, he had ideas. Real ideas. Dishes that might not kill anyone. He was… excited?

Unfortunately, just as he was about to begin sketching a test menu, a familiar voice cut through the air like thunder through tea.

“Cael,” Ashara purred sweetly from the library entrance. “You’ve studied long enough.”

He turned, alarmed. “Wait…wait, I just figured out...”

“We’re going back to our chambers,” she said, yanking him by the collar.

“Why?!”

“I’ve decided to try that potion the elves sent. You remember the one they said might make you last longer?”

“I don’t like where this is going...!”

“Too late.”

As Cael was dragged away, Seraphael waved. “Good luck, Cael! And don’t forget, Fred’s Ghost Pepper Sorbet is technically legal!”

FIVE HOURS LATER…

Ashara lay on her side, draped in silk sheets, purring like a sunbathing predator. Her eyes shimmered with pride as she traced lazy circles on Cael’s chest.

“You did well,” she whispered, voice smug and satisfied. “Much better than last time. That potion was... very promising.”

Cael didn’t respond.

Because Cael was dead.

Not actually, but he looked it.

His hair stuck up in all directions. His eyes were glassy. His lips were dry. He stared blankly at the ceiling like a man who’d seen things.

His soul had clearly left his body and was waiting for permission to return.

Ashara leaned over him, curious. “Are you breathing?”

“…Mostly.”

He coughed once, weakly raising a hand. “For the record, the potion worked. Technically. I did last longer. But...”

Another dry cough. “It didn’t enhance stamina. Just… duration. My legs gave out somewhere around round three. I think I lost control of my left eye by round five. By the time we reached dessert, I was running on sheer trauma and instinct.”

Ashara kissed his cheek. “You’ll recover. Eventually.”

Cael didn’t move. “I need soup. Or a priest. Or both.”

He turned his head slightly, just enough to whisper toward the far wall.

“Fred... wherever you are… how did you survive for 50 years in this kingdom?”

A faint breeze passed through the curtains.

It might have been a ghostly chuckle.