Gideon Sanza set his empty wine glass down on the nearest table and clapped his hands together, the sound cutting through the murmurs of the growing crowd inside The Rusty Gull.

  “Two hours.”

  Wallace blinked. “What?”

  Gideon smiled like a man who had just made a bet he knew he wouldn’t lose. “You heard me. Two hours. You’ll each prepare your best dish, and I’ll judge them—” he gestured broadly, “not here, but in Puddlebrook’s central park.”

  That caught Finn off guard. He had expected Gideon to want the competition here, in The Rusty Gull, with the tavern’s patrons watching. But the critic wasn’t looking at Wallace or Finn. He was looking at the crowd.

  Finn exhaled through his nose. Of course.

  Gideon wasn’t just judging a dish—he was judging an event.

  Wallace scratched at his thick beard. “Why the park?”

  Gideon chuckled. “Because I want a proper setting. Somewhere neutral. Somewhere open, where anyone in town can come and watch.” He tilted his head slightly. “Unless, of course, you’d rather keep this in the shadows?”

  Wallace bristled. “I don’t hide from competition.”

  Gideon nodded approvingly. “Good. Then spread the word. Bring a crowd.”

  Finn smirked. Gideon was stirring the pot before they had even started cooking. The central park wasn’t just a pretty location—it was one of the busiest spots in Puddlebrook. Well-maintained, lined with beautiful golden-leafed trees, colorful wildflowers, and well-kept tables and benches.

  Wallace folded his arms, studying Gideon. “And what’s the criteria?”

  Gideon shrugged, adjusting the cuffs of his fine coat. “Simple. I want to be impressed. The dish should showcase what your tavern does best. Same with the drink pairing. Best overall combination wins.”

  Finn’s smirk widened. “Fair enough.”

  Wallace gave him a sideways glance. “Hope you brought your best, Tumblepot.”

  Finn shrugged. “Hope you have any.”

  That got a few chuckles from the crowd. Wallace’s jaw ticked.

  Gideon sighed dramatically. “Save it for the cooking, gentlemen. Two hours. I expect to be well-fed.”

  With that, the event was set.

  People were already talking, whispering about who would come out on top.

  Wallace turned to his staff, barking orders. “Get the kitchen ready. We’re making the best godsdamned meal this town has ever seen.”

  Finn turned on his heel and strode for the door.

  #

  The moment they were inside, Finn moved fast.

  Marla shut the door behind them, her eyes sharp. “Two hours? That’s not a lot of time.”

  “It’s plenty.” Finn pulled off his coat, tossing it onto the nearest chair as he strode toward the kitchen. “We just have to make it count.”

  Grog rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck. “What’s the plan?”

  Finn’s mind had already been working on it. He needed something bold, something that stood out, something that would remind people why they came here in the first place.

  Then it hit him.

  “We’re making Blackfire Boar with Ember-Spiced Glaze.”

  Marla whistled. “Damn. Going all in?”

  Finn nodded. “Damn right I am.”

  Blackfire Boar was one of his signature dishes, but he rarely made it because it took time. It was slow-roasted, using smoked salt and charred peppers to create a deep, smoky heat. The glaze was what set it apart—sweet, spicy, and rich, made from a reduction of firefruit, honey, and dark ale.

  If he could pull it off in time, it would win them the competition.

  Marla cracked her knuckles. “Alright. Let’s get moving.”

  Finn nodded. “I’ll handle the boar. Grog, I need you on the glaze—get the firefruit crushed and the reduction going.”

  Grog grunted. “On it.”

  “Marla, we need a drink pairing. Something strong, something that cuts through the spice but doesn’t drown it.”

  Marla thought for a second, then snapped her fingers. “Dwarven Frost Mead.”

  Finn grinned. “Perfect.”

  Frost Mead was light but strong, slightly chilled, with a crispness that balanced well against rich, bold flavors. It would cool the heat of the dish without taking away from it.

  “Let’s move,” Finn said, already pulling out a massive cut of boar meat.

  Finn worked fast.

  The boar went onto the iron spit over the fire, sizzling as he rubbed the outside with smoked salt, cracked pepper, and crushed ember-spice. The heat unlocked the oils in the seasoning, filling the kitchen with a rich, fiery aroma.

  Grog had the firefruit glaze going in a heavy pot, stirring it with slow, deliberate movements. The fruit broke down, turning thick and syrupy, the honey caramelizing, the ale reducing to a deep, golden sheen.

  Marla, meanwhile, had pulled out two bottles of Frost Mead, setting them into a shallow ice bath to keep them chilled without dulling the taste.

  The whole kitchen smelled incredible.

  Finn rotated the spit, watching the meat crisp and darken, the outer layer forming a perfect crust while the inside stayed tender.

  Time was ticking down.

  “Grog, how’s the glaze?”

  The half-orc lifted the spoon, letting the thick liquid drip slowly back into the pot. It coated the spoon perfectly—smooth, sticky, rich.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Ready.”

  Finn nodded. “Baste it.”

  Grog grabbed a thick brush and swept the glaze over the roasting boar, the firefruit reduction hissing against the heat of the meat.

  Marla leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Damn, Finn. This might be the best thing you’ve ever made.”

  Finn smirked. “Not might.”

  Marla chuckled. “Cocky bastard.”

  “Always.”

  As the clock neared the two-hour mark, Finn pulled the boar from the spit, slicing thick, glistening portions onto a wooden serving board. The glaze had set perfectly, the rich, dark sauce pooling slightly at the base, seeping into the carved edges.

  Marla wrapped the Frost Mead bottles in a cloth, keeping them chilled for transport.

  Grog packed up the plates.

  Finn grabbed the serving board and exhaled.

  This was it.

  He strode toward the door, his crew at his side.

  “Let’s go win this thing.”

  The weather couldn’t have been more perfect for a spectacle.

  The sun hung high, casting warm golden light through the towering maple trees that lined Puddlebrook’s central park. A soft, cool breeze rustled through the autumn-colored foliage, keeping the air crisp but comfortable. The scent of damp earth mingled with the perfume of blooming wildflowers, and the entire scene felt like something out of a festival.

  And the crowd?

  The crowd was massive.

  Word had spread fast. By the time Finn, Marla, and Grog arrived at the park’s open pavilion, over a hundred people had already gathered. Farmers, merchants, travelers, dockhands—all of them here for the same reason. The competition.

  Tables had been set up beneath a beautifully carved wooden canopy, and at the very center stood Gideon Sanza, looking smug and pleased as he adjusted his coat.

  Across from Finn, Wallace and his crew were already setting up, placing their meal onto an ornate silver tray.

  Finn didn’t even glance at Wallace. He knew his dish was good. Instead, he focused on presentation.

  Marla set out two bottles of Dwarven Frost Mead, the glass still cool to the touch, beads of condensation sliding down the sides. Grog carefully arranged the thick, glistening cuts of Blackfire Boar on a polished wooden serving board, the firefruit glaze shimmering beneath the sunlight. The rich aroma hit the crowd instantly—spiced, smoky, with just enough sweetness to make mouths water.

  A few spectators whispered amongst themselves. People were already drawn to Finn’s dish.

  Wallace, standing across from him, noticed.

  Finn didn’t need to look directly at him to feel the irritation radiating off of him.

  But Wallace had his own tricks.

  He stepped forward dramatically, clapping his hands together. “Ladies and gentlemen!” His voice boomed, forcing attention his way. “What I bring to you today is a meal fit for royalty!”

  Finn resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

  Wallace lifted the silver lid from his tray, revealing his dish:

  Seafarer’s Treasure Pie.

  A deep golden-brown pastry crust, flaking at the edges, with steam rising from the freshly baked interior. It was a seafood dish—rich, heavy, and bold, filled with chunks of lobster, scallops, and buttered potatoes. A safe, classic tavern dish, but a good one.

  Finn had to admit—it looked impressive.

  But looks weren’t enough.

  Gideon stepped forward, rubbing his hands together. “Alright then,” he said, voice loud enough for the crowd to hear. “Wallace, Finn—your dishes have been presented.”

  He turned toward Wallace first. “I’ll start with yours.”

  Wallace grinned as Gideon took a seat at the table, picking up his fork. He cut into the pie, breaking the crust, revealing the steaming seafood filling inside. The scent of butter and fresh herbs drifted through the air, drawing a few appreciative murmurs from the crowd.

  Gideon lifted a bite to his mouth, chewing slowly.

  Finn watched him closely.

  Gideon was good at hiding his thoughts, but Finn caught the smallest flicker of hesitation. A slight narrowing of his eyes, a brief pause between bites. Wallace saw it too.

  Still, the critic swallowed and nodded. “A well-balanced dish. Rich, flavorful. Crust is well-made, seafood is cooked properly.”

  Wallace beamed.

  Then Gideon lifted a finger. “But.”

  Wallace’s smile stiffened.

  “The filling is slightly too heavy. The butter is overpowering the seasoning, making it rich but not as complex as it could be. And—” Gideon tapped his fork against the plate. “It’s good, but it’s also something I’ve had a dozen times before.”

  Wallace’s jaw clenched. “You’re saying it’s unoriginal?”

  Gideon shrugged. “I’m saying it’s safe.” He lifted a whiskey glass with Puddlebrook’s own Brook Bourbon. The rim on the glass was coated with sugar, a cherry inside the drink gave it a simplistic view, yet sophisticated.

  Gideon took a nice sip of the bourbon, licking his lips as the sugar attached itself to him. His eyebrows raised and he gave a nod of approval. Again, it was safe.

  Wallace’s lips pressed into a thin line.

  Gideon set his fork down and turned toward Finn. “Now, let’s see what The Velvet Ladle has prepared.”

  Finn stepped forward, carefully setting a thick-cut slice of Blackfire Boar onto a ceramic plate. He grabbed one of the chilled bottles of Dwarven Frost Mead, pouring the crisp, golden liquid into a glass.

  Gideon lifted the fork, slicing through the perfectly glazed boar, the crust of charred spice giving way to tender, juicy meat.

  The moment he took a bite, his expression changed.

  His posture relaxed. His eyebrows lifted just slightly.

  Then he picked up the Frost Mead and took a sip.

  There was a beat of silence.

  Then, Gideon let out a satisfied hum.

  “Now that… is something special.”

  The crowd leaned in.

  Gideon set his utensils down and gestured toward Finn’s dish. “The spice is bold, but not overwhelming. The glaze? Perfect balance of heat and sweetness. The meat is tender, full of depth. And the drink pairing?” He held up the Frost Mead. “This was brilliant. It cleanses the palate, cools the heat, but lets the flavors linger.”

  Finn kept his expression measured. But inside?

  He knew he’d already won.

  Gideon exhaled and leaned back. “Alright, gentlemen. I’ve made my decision.”

  The crowd held its breath.

  Gideon gestured toward Finn.

  “The Velvet Ladle wins.”

  The crowd erupted. Cheers, applause, even a few whistles. Excited chatter filled the park.

  Finn allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk.

  But Wallace?

  Wallace looked like he had been stabbed in the gut.

  His face went red, his fists clenched. His own staff looked away, clearly embarrassed.

  Wallace’s gaze snapped toward Finn, burning with anger, resentment.

  Finn knew that look. He had seen it before.

  And then—

  Wallace moved.

  Fast. Too fast.

  Finn’s instincts screamed at him as Wallace lunged toward the table, grabbing a butcher’s knife from his serving tray.

  Marla shouted. Grog stepped forward.

  But Wallace had already whipped around, swinging the knife toward Finn.

  Finn ducked, twisting just as the blade sliced through the air where his neck had been.

  The crowd gasped.

  Guards were already moving.

  Before Wallace could swing again, a pair of strong hands grabbed him from behind.

  Murdock.

  The bounty hunter had appeared out of nowhere, gripping Wallace by the wrist and twisting sharply.

  The knife clattered to the ground.

  Wallace yelled, struggling, but it was no use. Murdock was too strong.

  “That’s enough, idiot.” Murdock’s voice was bored, but firm.

  A second later, the town guards descended.

  Two of them wrestled Wallace into restraints, shoving him forward.

  One of the guards turned toward Finn. “You alright?”

  Finn dusted himself off, nodding. “I’m fine.”

  Wallace snarled. “You set me up!”

  Finn tilted his head. “You’re the one who grabbed a knife, Wallace.”

  The guards hauled Wallace toward the street.

  The crowd whispered, murmured. The reputation of The Rusty Gull had just been destroyed.

  Murdock clapped Finn on the back, grinning. “You make enemies fast, Tumblepot.”

  Finn sighed. “Yeah, well. I make better food.”

  Murdock laughed.

  Gideon, still sipping his Frost Mead, shook his head in amusement. “Well, Finn,” he said. “I’d say you won twice today.”

  Finn exhaled slowly, watching as the guards dragged Wallace away.

  Yeah.

  He’d say so too.