Dinner that night carried a mouthwatering aroma that spread through the entire manor.
When Melody lifted the silver cover from the serving tray, a faint shimmer of golden light rose from the steam — the energy of the Mandearoz meat.
The roasted cuts glistened with juices, paired with baked root vegetables and a creamy herb sauce. The scent was rich, earthy, and faintly sweet — unlike anything I'd ever smelled before.
Mother smiled as the chef presented the first plate. "Mandearoz venison," she explained. "Our Captain Selene provided the beasts today. It's a rare treat."
I took a bite carefully. The flavor was… incredible. Tender and deep, almost humming with energy. As it touched my tongue, a faint warmth spread through my body — not heat, exactly, but a gentle pulse of mana.
"This… this meat has mana in it," I said in awe.
Mother chuckled. "Of course it does. Magical beasts live and breathe mana. When properly prepared, the essence lingers, strengthening the body."
As I chewed, a memory flickered through my mind — flavors from another life. Spices, sauces, grilled dishes from a world far away. Recipes I'd once made myself. I remembered holding a ladle, tasting broth, the feeling of joy when someone smiled after eating my food.
That spark of memory lit a new thought.
"Mother," I said suddenly, setting down my fork. "Could I… learn to cook?"
Her eyes widened slightly. "Cook?"
"Yes," I said, leaning forward eagerly. "I've been learning magic, history, and arithmetic — but food feels like another kind of craft, doesn't it? Something that nourishes others. I want to understand that, too."
Melody nearly dropped her serving spoon. "Young master, that's hardly—"
But Mother raised a hand, smiling gently. "No, Melody. If he wishes to learn, I see no harm in it." She looked at me warmly. "You've been so dedicated to your lessons lately, Baker. Perhaps a new skill — something with warmth — will do you good."
Her eyes softened, a touch of playful excitement in them. "And who knows? Maybe someday you'll cook for your mother."
I grinned wide. "I'd like that!"
When the meal ended, I went straight to the kitchens, where the head chef was cleaning up. The big man turned, wiping his hands on a towel. "Hmm? Master Baker, what brings you down here?"
"I'd like to learn how to cook," I said earnestly. "Mother gave permission."
The chef's brows shot up, then a slow smile spread across his face. "Well, I'll be. Didn't expect that. Most young masters stay far away from kitchens unless they're raiding the pantry."
He crossed his arms, studying me for a moment. "Cooking's not all slicing and seasoning, lad. It's patience, balance, and timing — same as magic, if you think about it."
"I understand," I said, nodding eagerly. "I want to start properly."
The chef chuckled. "All right then. I'll fetch you some reading first. You can study before you touch a single pot." He lumbered to a shelf near the wall and pulled down a few thick tomes, setting them on the counter.
The Fundamentals of Hearth-Craft,
Season and Flame: An Introduction to Culinary Arts,
and Mana in Meals — A Beginner's Guide.
"These'll keep you busy for a few days," he said with a grin. "Study 'em, and we'll see how serious you are. Then maybe I'll let you boil some water."
I accepted the books with both hands, my heart beating fast with excitement. "Thank you, Chef. I'll study them carefully."
As I returned to my room later, arms full of cooking manuals, Mother watched from the corridor, hiding a small smile behind her teacup.
"Cooking now, is it?" she murmured softly to herself. "How delightful…"
---
That night, as I sat under the lamplight, I opened the first of the books.
The act of cooking, it began, is the art of transformation — taking the ordinary and turning it into comfort, joy, and strength.
I smiled as I read on, a quiet warmth blooming in my chest.
Knowledge, magic, and now — flavor.
Everything can be learned, I thought. Everything can become a kind of magic.
The next morning, after breakfast and lessons, I made my way to the kitchen again — my arms full of notes and recipes I'd copied from the cooking books the chef had given me.
The head chef was already there, sleeves rolled up, his thick arms moving with practiced ease as he stirred a pot of stew that smelled heavenly. When he saw me enter, he gave a rumbling chuckle.
"Well, well. You actually showed up," he said. "Guess you really are serious about this."
I smiled. "Good morning, Chef."
He wiped his hands on his apron. "Name's Harven. None of this 'Chef' nonsense when it's just us. Call me Harven."
"Harven," I repeated respectfully. "Thank you for teaching me."
He grinned, showing a line of even, white teeth. "Heh. Polite, too. All right, let's see what you've got. We'll start simple — eggs. If you can't handle eggs, you've no business near a stove."
He led me to a long counter lined with ingredients. The eggs were large, pale golden, faintly speckled — laid by Suncrest Hens, a breed raised on grain infused with light mana.
He handed me one. "Let's see an over-easy egg. Crack it gently, don't break the yolk."
I took a deep breath, cracked the shell cleanly against the pan's rim, and poured the egg in. The yolk shimmered faintly with a golden sheen — even raw, it looked rich and full of mana.
The pan hissed softly as I cooked it just long enough for the whites to set. I flipped it carefully — and to my relief, it landed perfectly.
Harven nodded, impressed. "Not bad, lad. Got good hands. Most burn it black or pop the yolk their first try."
I smiled, feeling a swell of pride. "Thank you. But… could I try something different?"
His brow rose. "Different? Like what?"
"I want to make something called an omelet," I said.
"Omelet?" He frowned, tilting his head. "Never heard of it. Some kind of soup?"
I stifled a laugh. "No, no — it's… an egg dish. Folded over with fillings inside. Soft, warm, and flavorful."
Harven looked skeptical but intrigued. "Fillings inside the egg? Huh. And where'd you pick this up, boy?"
I hesitated a moment, then smiled lightly. "A traveling merchant once told me about it — from a distant kingdom across the southern sea. He said it was a comfort dish there."
Harven scratched his beard. "A southern dish, eh? All right, color me curious. Show me."
He stepped back, arms crossed. "Pan's yours."
I took three of the glowing golden eggs, cracked them into a bowl, and whisked them quickly. Then I added a pinch of salt and some crushed black peppercorns. On a nearby shelf, I noticed a wedge of orange, crumbly cheese — labeled Flarehorn Curd.
"What's this?" I asked.
"Flarehorn," Harven said. "Beast milk cheese. Sharp flavor, melts like butter. Good for stews."
I grinned. Perfect. Fantasy cheddar.
I grated a small amount, then poured the beaten eggs into the warm pan, letting them cook just until soft. Carefully, I sprinkled in the cheese and a bit more pepper, folding the egg gently over itself with a spatula.
The aroma that filled the kitchen was heavenly — creamy, rich, and spiced with the faint smokiness of the Flarehorn cheese.
When I slid the finished omelet onto a plate, Harven's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Well, it looks good, I'll give you that."
He took a forkful and chewed thoughtfully. His eyes widened.
"…By the gods," he muttered. "That's… that's good. Creamy, warm, with a bite from the cheese. Never had eggs taste like this before."
I smiled, a little shyly. "I'm glad you like it."
He swallowed another bite, then barked out a laugh. "Ha! You've just invented something, boy. We'll call it a southern egg fold until I remember how to say that fancy name."
"Omelet," I said, grinning.
"Right, that," he said, nodding. "Omelet. Hells, maybe I'll put it on the menu for the staff. Could feed a whole squad with this."
As I cleaned up the pan, Harven clapped me on the shoulder. "You've got talent, lad. Real hands for cooking — steady, curious, and bold. Don't lose that."
I smiled, heart full. "Thank you, Harven. I… really enjoyed this."
He chuckled, turning back to his stew. "Good. Come by tomorrow, we'll see if your fancy southern dish still tastes as good when you're tired."
---
That evening at dinner, when Mother tasted Harven's "southern egg fold," her eyes sparkled.
"This is delightful," she said, turning to me knowingly. "You had a hand in this, didn't you, Baker?"
I smiled sheepishly. "Maybe a little." I replied to mother a bit proudly.
She laughed, the sound warm and proud. "Then next time, you'll make one for me yourself."
I nodded eagerly. "I'd like that,mother".
---
That night, as he lay in bed, Baker thought about the taste, the heat of the pan, and the joy of creating something new — something born from memory, given life in another world.
"Cooking… it really is its own kind of magic, he thought", smiling softly as he drifted into dreams scented faintly with eggs, cheese, and the warmth of home.