The moment the final dish was placed on the table, the entire hall seemed to breathe in unison.
Steam rose lazily from porcelain bowls and lacquered platters, carrying with it a fragrance so rich and layered that even the seasoned palace servants paused unconsciously. The scent of roasted duck skin, crisp and faintly sweet, mingled with the warmth of freshly pan-fried dumplings. The fried rice shimmered with oil and egg, grains separate and golden, while the noodles glistened beneath dark sauce, dotted with vegetables cut with meticulous precision.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Then Prince Liang laughed.
A real laugh—unrestrained, surprised, almost boyish.
"So this is what everyone's been whispering about," he said, picking up his chopsticks eagerly. "If I had known, I would've begged you to cook sooner."
Princess Zhi smiled softly beside him. "You're exaggerating again."
