My cubes turned golden at the edges. The smell deepened, and the bitterness mellowed into something almost nutty.
I added a splash of white wine letting it reduce, then stirred in cream, stock, and a tiny spoonful of the filtered magic essence to keep it potent without dangerous.
The sauce thickened into a glossy, pale violet. I tasted a droplet on my tongue. Warm, rich, strange but not unpleasant. My vision did not split. My hands did not start singing. Good sign.
I worked faster.
Thin slices of the remaining drakroot went into a separate pan with oil and spice—a quick fry for texture.
Drakroot crisp, drakroot velouté, a few charred greens and toasted seeds for crunch. If I was going down, I was going down dramatically plated.
One by one, other stations fell apart.
"Chef?" a boy asked, voice trembling. "What does it mean if my sauce is… glowing?"
Maeve didn't even turn around. "It means you're not feeding it to anyone. Turn off the flame. Slowly."
