Finn had spent years perfecting the art of controlling a kitchen. He knew every trick, every subtle movement that made a dish go from passable to unforgettable. A real chef understood that cooking wasn’t just about taste. It was about presentation, timing, the perfect balance of heat and patience. It was about instincts.
Right now, his instincts were screaming.
The Royal Feast Challenge was the most prestigious culinary event in the kingdom, and here he was—standing in the middle of it, knowing full well it was a trap. He had spent the entire night thinking, planning, running through every possible way Silk Renna had set him up to fail. And in the end?
It didn’t matter.
Because there was no way out.
Silk had made sure of that.
Now, Finn’s only option was to play the game—and win.
The grand hall of the competition was already alive with movement. The royal kitchen was sprawling, a masterpiece of engineering, designed for the finest chefs in the land. Massive brick ovens lined the walls, alongside enchanted stoves that kept an unwavering level of heat. Long tables were set up in the center, each station designed for a competing chef.
Finn had never seen so many ingredients in one place. Every rare spice, every fresh-cut vegetable, every meat known to the kingdom had been laid out in perfect, glistening rows.
And right at the front of the hall, seated on a grand, elevated dais, was the high council of Laudendale.
And the king himself.
The judges of the competition were a collection of noblemen, high-ranking merchants, and culinary experts. Some Finn recognized from books, others from whispered stories about their cutthroat nature. But all of them had one thing in common.
They would decide his fate.
At the center of the judges’ table sat King Aldric Crestwell. He was an older man, his hair streaked with silver, but his posture was straight, commanding. He wore no crown, only a dark navy coat lined with gold embroidery. A king who preferred action over opulence.
His eyes swept over the contestants, unreadable. “Today,” the king announced, his voice smooth but carrying across the entire hall, “you will compete for the honor of being named Royal Culinary Champion.”
The crowd in the balconies above cheered.
Finn barely heard them.
His eyes flicked to Silk Renna, who sat among the nobles, smiling serenely.
Watching. Waiting.
Enjoying herself.
A herald stepped forward. “The challenge will be simple: Each of you will craft a dish of your choosing, something that represents the best of your abilities. You may use any ingredients provided. You will have two hours.”
The herald’s gaze swept over the room. “And most importantly—the king’s dish must be flawless.”
Finn’s fingers twitched.
Because he already knew which ingredients had been tampered with.
And if he didn’t find a way to work around Silk’s trap, then in two hours, the king wouldn’t just be judging his cooking.
He’d be choking on it.
The moment the competition began, chaos erupted.
Chefs from across the kingdom sprang into action, knives flashing, flames roaring to life, spices flying from shelves. The kitchen filled with the aroma of seared meats, roasted vegetables, rich sauces thickening in copper pots.
Finn moved with purpose.
He had spent all night planning, and he wasn’t about to let Silk’s little poison trick be the end of him. The key was to control his own supply.
Marla and Grog had slipped in among the kitchen attendants, blending in with the other hired hands. They wouldn’t be able to help him directly, but they would make sure no one tampered with his station again.
Silk was watching him closely.
He didn’t look at her.
Didn’t acknowledge her.
Instead, he focused on the dish.
The one thing he could control.
Finn took a slow breath, letting himself fall into rhythm.
He had decided on a dish that couldn’t be tampered with.
One where the primary flavors didn’t come from spices alone—but from the preparation itself. Something timeless. Something unforgiving if done wrong.
Stormcaller’s Seafood Stew.
A dish favored by sailors, captains, and merchants who had braved rough seas and cold nights. It was a test of technique, balance, and patience.
And most importantly?
It was made from scratch.
No pre-prepared spices. No enchanted grains from the pantry. No easy substitutions.
Everything had to be cut fresh. Simmered perfectly. Balanced with layers of flavor from the sea itself.
Finn reached for a fresh-caught trout, his knife moving in clean, precise strokes. He worked quickly, filleting the fish, slicing it into perfect, even cuts. He grabbed a handful of herbs—ones he had personally selected from the untouched shelves. Fresh fennel. Thyme. A sprig of wild sage that carried just enough bitterness to balance the richness of the broth.
The base of the stew came together quickly. A deep stock, simmered from shellfish and whitefish bones, slow-cooked with onions, garlic, and charred peppers. Finn adjusted the heat, letting the flavors meld, deepen, become something greater than the sum of its parts.
His hands moved on instinct.
This wasn’t just about cooking.
This was about survival.
And he refused to lose.
As Finn worked, he noticed movement at the edge of the kitchen.
One of the competition officials was walking toward the supply tables—toward the section where Finn had carefully avoided taking ingredients.
Then, casually, the official poured a handful of something into the general spice bowl.
Finn’s breath hitched.
Silk wasn’t done.
She was still stacking the deck against him.
And if another chef grabbed those spices, the poison would still make its way into the feast.
Which meant Finn wasn’t just trying to save himself anymore.
He had to stop an assassination.
Without drawing any suspicion.
Without revealing what he knew.
Finn kept his expression neutral, but his mind raced. He had minutes—maybe seconds—before someone used those poisoned ingredients.
And if he didn’t act now…
Then the real feast wouldn’t be food.
It would be death.
The kitchen was alive with movement. Chefs rushed between stations, the clatter of knives on cutting boards blending with the roaring flames of enchanted stoves. The scent of roasting meats, simmering stocks, and sharp herbs filled the air like a battlefield thick with smoke.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, Finn was running out of time.
He didn’t let his knife falter as he sliced through the delicate flesh of a freshly caught trout, but his mind was elsewhere. The competition official had just poisoned the shared spice table. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but Finn had been watching closely.
This wasn’t just about him anymore.
If another chef grabbed those tainted ingredients, they’d unknowingly serve poisoned food to the king and the high council.
Finn needed to act.
But he couldn’t just march over and knock the spice rack onto the floor. That would be too suspicious. Too direct. Silk was watching him. The competition officials were watching everyone.
Think, Tumblepot.
Finn adjusted the simmering broth of his Stormcaller’s Seafood Stew, tasting it with the tip of a wooden spoon. Perfect balance. The brininess of the shellfish stock mixed seamlessly with the warmth of the roasted fennel, thyme, and sage. The flavors were deep, layered, honest.
He exhaled.
He’d have to improvise.
Finn wiped his hands on a linen cloth and stepped back from his station, scanning the kitchen. His eyes landed on a nervous-looking apprentice chef near the spice table, struggling to reach a heavy pot of stock on the top shelf.
Perfect.
Finn moved quickly, adjusting his posture to look as casual as possible. He sidled up next to the apprentice, pretending to inspect the neatly arranged selection of imported saffron and powdered fire-pepper.
"Need a hand?" Finn asked smoothly.
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The apprentice, a young half-elf with a mop of unruly brown curls, blinked down at him. “Ah—yes, please!” He pointed at the heavy stockpot. “I didn’t think it’d be this high up.”
Finn grinned. “Happens to the best of us.”
He quickly found and set up a stepping stool, reached for the pot, making a deliberate show of struggling just slightly. He braced his foot against the lower shelf for support—then, with a well-timed motion, he shifted his grip.
The pot slipped.
And crashed.
The liquid splashed across the spice table, knocking over bottles and scattering powders, salts, and dried herbs into a messy, unusable heap.
The apprentice yelped, stumbling backward.
“Godsdamn it!” one of the competition officials barked, rushing over. “What in the hells happened?”
Finn lifted his hands in mock regret. “Ah, that’s my fault,” he said, voice perfectly apologetic. “The shelf was a bit higher than I thought. I’ll help clean up.”
The official scowled but waved a hand. “Forget it. That whole batch is ruined—someone get fresh supplies from the secondary pantry!”
Finn let out a slow breath.
Crisis averted.
The poisoned spices were now nothing more than a mess on the floor.
And if Silk had noticed?
She hadn’t reacted.
Yet.
Finn turned back to his station, rolling his shoulders. His stew was nearly finished. The broth had reduced into something rich and smooth, the flavors melding beautifully into something that tasted like the sea itself.
Now, all he had to do was—
“Well, well.”
Finn didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.
Silk Renna.
Her voice was a slow, dangerous drawl, just loud enough for him to hear, but quiet enough that the other chefs remained focused on their own work.
Finn kept his expression neutral. “Lady Renna,” he said, not bothering to look at her. “Shouldn’t you be in the audience?”
Silk glided into his peripheral vision, her sapphire-blue robes flowing elegantly as she folded her hands behind her back. “Oh, but I had to see you in action,” she mused. “After all, we both know how much is at stake here.”
Finn stirred his stew slowly. “Yes, we do.”
Silk leaned in slightly. “I must say, that little accident with the spice rack was quite the unfortunate mishap.”
Finn didn’t rise to the bait.
He lifted a spoonful of his broth, blowing on it gently before tasting it. Perfect.
Silk watched him, her smile curling. “But you do realize, don’t you?” she murmured. “That was just one piece of the puzzle.”
Finn’s grip on his spoon tightened slightly.
Silk tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “Do you think I’d only prepare one trap?”
His stomach dropped.
She was too calm. Too pleased.
Which meant she still had another play.
Finn carefully set his spoon down. “Well, then,” he murmured. “Guess I’d better start looking for the next one.”
Silk chuckled. “Oh, you won’t have to look far.”
Then, with a graceful turn, she disappeared back into the crowd of nobles, leaving Finn with a sinking feeling in his chest.
Finn quickly glanced over his station, scanning every ingredient he’d touched. Everything had been under his watch. The fish, the herbs, the broth—none of it had been tampered with.
Which meant Silk had set up something else.
Something he hadn’t accounted for.
And then—
His eyes landed on the presentation table.
Where the completed dishes would be arranged for final judging.
Finn felt his breath catch.
Silk wasn’t targeting his ingredients.
She was targeting the final moment of the competition.
And the only way to know what she had done was to play along.
To finish his dish.
To step up to that table.
And to be ready for whatever she had waiting.
The two-hour timer was nearly up.
Around the kitchen, the other chefs were plating their dishes with hurried precision, adding final garnishes, sauces, and finishing touches.
Finn took a deep breath as minutes passed.
He carefully ladled his Stormcaller’s Seafood Stew into an elegant, wide-rimmed bowl, letting the broth settle perfectly around the delicate slices of trout and shellfish. He placed a crispy herbed biscuit beside it—a traditional addition for sailors, meant for soaking up the broth.
He wiped the edges of the bowl clean.
No distractions.
No imperfections.
Then, slowly, he lifted the dish and stepped toward the presentation table.
The crowd quieted as the chefs began lining up, setting their final creations in front of the judges’ panel.
The king sat at the center, watching with an unreadable expression.
Finn placed his dish down carefully, deliberately.
And as he did—he saw it.
A faint shimmer on the rim of the plate next to his.
Not his dish.
But another contestant’s.
Finn’s mind raced.
Silk hadn’t poisoned the ingredients.
She hadn’t needed to.
Because she had poisoned one of the finished dishes.
And Finn had a sinking feeling he knew exactly which judge was supposed to eat it.
The king.
His stomach dropped.
Silk hadn’t just set him up to fail.
She had set him up to take the fall for an assassination.
And now?
Now, he had seconds to stop it.
Finn’s breath was steady, but his mind raced.
The poison wasn’t in his dish. It wasn’t in the ingredients. It was already plated.
And it was going to the king.
He couldn’t react too fast. Couldn’t make it obvious. The moment he did, Silk would win.
Because that was the beauty of her plan, wasn’t it?
If Finn caused a scene—**if he tried to stop the competition, if he so much as hesitated—**he would be seen as the problem. And if the king fell over dead after tasting a meal?
Finnrick Tumblepot would be the only name tied to it.
He had seconds to act.
Seconds to keep everything from crumbling.
So, Finn did what he did best.
He improvised.
The final dishes were carefully arranged on the long presentation table, each one a masterpiece of technique, color, and flavor. The head competition official stood at the front, parchment in hand, prepared to announce the judging order.
Finn glanced at the king, seated at the center of the high table.
King Aldric Crestwell was an imposing man, despite his years. His sharp features were set in an expression of quiet curiosity, and Finn could tell that the man took his food very seriously.
The poisoned dish sat three places down from Finn’s. Close enough that he could reach it.
Too far to make a move without drawing suspicion.
He needed an opportunity. A distraction.
Finn exhaled slowly.
Guess I’ll make one.
The competition official stepped forward. “We will now begin the tasting. First—”
Finn moved before he could finish.
With deliberate, calculated clumsiness, he turned toward one of the attending servants—and ‘accidentally’ knocked over a small tray of golden utensils.
The loud clang of silverware hitting the stone floor immediately stole the room’s attention.
Finn winced, hunching his shoulders.
“Ah, damn,” he muttered, bending down slowly to help pick them up.
No one was looking at the table.
No one was looking at the plates.
So Finn’s hand shot out, quick as lightning, and swapped the poisoned dish with another from the opposite end.
By the time the head official turned back, Finn was already standing, brushing his hands off.
“Apologies,” Finn said smoothly. “Slippery hands.”
The official sighed. “Be more careful.”
Finn smiled innocently. “Of course.”
The tension in his chest didn’t ease.
Because now?
Now he had no idea who was about to eat that poisoned dish.
The head official lifted his parchment again.
“The first dish to be tasted will be—” He paused, glancing over the plates. “—Lady Silk Renna’s personal selection.”
Finn’s stomach dropped.
Oh.
Oh, this was better than he could have planned.
Because Silk herself had insisted on selecting one of the dishes for the royal court.
And thanks to Finn’s quick swap, she had just chosen the poisoned one.
Finn kept his face blank.
Across the hall, Silk Renna sat with perfect poise, smiling as she gestured toward the plate in front of her.
Finn had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.
Poetic justice.
The head official turned toward the king. “Your Majesty, if you would do us the honor of beginning the tasting?”
The king gave a small nod, lifting his spoon.
The moment stretched forever.
Finn held his breath.
And then—
“Wait.”
Silk Renna’s voice rang smooth and sharp through the hall.
All eyes turned to her.
The noblewoman’s calm demeanor hadn’t changed, but Finn saw the way her fingers curled slightly against the table.
A flicker of unease.
Like a predator who had just realized the trap was already sprung.
“On second thought,” Silk said sweetly, her gaze flicking to Finn, “I’d love to hear what our newest contestant has prepared first.”
Finn almost laughed.
Coward.
She wouldn’t eat the dish. She knew something was off.
Finn gave her the most charming smile he could muster.
“Well,” he said, stepping forward, “I certainly wouldn’t want to keep the king waiting.”
Silk’s smile tightened.
Finn set his dish before the king—a wide-rimmed bowl of Stormcaller’s Seafood Stew, rich with shellfish stock, freshly filleted trout, and a perfectly balanced blend of wild fennel, thyme, and sage. Beside it sat a crispy, golden herbed biscuit, just as the tradition dictated.
King Aldric regarded the dish with a raised brow. “Stormcaller’s Stew,” he murmured. “A dish from the northern coast.”
Finn nodded. “A favorite of sailors. Hearty, simple, and honest.”
The king picked up his spoon.
Finn didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
The first sip of the broth was small, testing.
Then another.
And another.
The king set his spoon down slowly.
The room held its breath.
Then, Aldric Crestwell leaned back in his chair and gave a single nod.
“Acceptable.”
Finn almost collapsed.
He knew enough about royal etiquette to know that this was high praise. The nobility didn’t openly praise a dish unless it truly astounded them. And for a first impression, ‘acceptable’ meant Finn had just officially stepped into the big leagues.
The applause that followed was polite, measured.
But Finn wasn’t paying attention to it.
He was watching Silk.
Her face was calm, unreadable.
But her hand?
Her hand was clenched into a fist beneath the table.
Finn smirked.
The rest of the competition went by in a blur.
More dishes were tasted. More chefs were judged. Finn stood at his station, arms crossed, watching with careful interest.
And when the poisoned dish was finally tasted?
It didn’t go to a noble.
It didn’t go to the king.
It went to a minor official from the outer provinces.
Not enough to cause a political crisis.
But enough to cause a scandal.
The moment the man took a bite, his face twisted.
Seconds later, he collapsed.
The room erupted into chaos.
Guards rushed forward. Healers pushed through the crowd. People shouted. The competition officials demanded answers.
And Silk?
For the first time that night, Silk Renna lost her composure.
Because the moment people started demanding where the poisoned dish came from…
Finn was already slipping away.
Marla and Grog were waiting outside the competition hall.
When Finn stepped through the doors, Marla lifted a brow. “That took longer than I thought.”
Finn grinned. “Had to put on a good show.”
Grog grunted. “We leave now?”
Finn exhaled. “Yeah.” He turned toward the city streets. “Before they figure out what happened.”
Marla smirked. “So, who’s getting executed for treason tonight?”
Finn smiled. “Not me. You two go now, I’ll wait a minute or so.”
And with that, they disappeared into the streets of Laudendale—giving Finn a more solo approach to his escape.
Leaving Silk Renna to deal with her own poison. However, it seemed that some guards took notice of Finn, and began to follow.
