CHAPTER 6
KENRON
The smell of scorched pepper and molten spice hits my nostrils before the sun’s even dared to crawl over the skyline. I’ve been at it for hours. The kitchen breathes like a beast around me—steam wheezing from vents, flames licking up beneath pans, blades flashing in rhythm against the cutting board. This ain’t just any prep day.
Dood Radman’s coming.
The Dood Radman. Fratvoyan food prophet, holonet king, and the only being alive who can make or break a family kitchen with a single smirk into the camera.
I’m not nervous. Not exactly. But I sure as hell ain’t calm either.
Every tray’s been checked three times. Every marinade timed down to the breath. The feast I’m laying out today isn’t just food. It’s history. Blood and pride and survival seared into every cut, every brush of fermented oil across the rib-spines. Vakutan warrior feast. A spread once reserved for victory rites and funerary fires. I plate it with hands that know war and sauce with the same reverence.
“Slow with that,” I bark at the youngling slicing tri-root too fast. “You bruise it, you ruin it.”
He nods fast, all eyes and no lips.
There’s energy in the air—tense, vibrating. Staff running tighter, backs straighter. Even the lights seem to hum a little different today.
But me? I keep finding my eyes drifting toward the door.
She’s not due. Not promised. Not even mentioned. But my gaze won’t stop flicking that way like my gut’s got its own damn compass.
“You watchin’ ghosts again?” my father grumbles as he walks past, wiping his claws on a towel older than some of the pans.
I smirk. “Just thinking.”
“Hm.” He drops the rag and eyes me sidelong. “Humans bring ruin.”
I don’t flinch.
He’s not being cruel. Just Vakutan. Matter-of-fact and world-weary.
“They touch things, and the things break.”
I lift a plate, turn it so the glazed bone edge catches the light just right. “Sometimes they make things better first.”
He doesn’t reply. Doesn’t need to. He just stares at me a long moment, eyes the color of old copper, and then grunts.
That’s warning enough.
Still, I change the subject. Start listing plating orders, redistribute spice levels, throw myself into the momentum of the prep. It’s easier to move than sit still with thoughts I can’t shake. Like the way Kristi’s eyes softened over the nectar. Like how her laugh caught in her throat like it wasn’t used to being there.
And I’ve got no room for it today.
Dood Radman arrives with a frizz of limbs and charisma so thick it might as well be a fog. His crew—three Fratvoyans, a tall Myrrali with a hover-cam, and a human assistant who keeps fumbling with translation chips—swarm the restaurant like bees to hot honey.
“Chef Kenron!” Dood booms, eyes glittering. “I’ve heard stories of your flame. Let’s see if the legend tastes as sweet as it smells!”
We shake. His grip’s light, but there’s weight behind it. I’ve seen this man flay subpar dishes with a laugh and a wink that left reputations in cinders.
No pressure.
“Today’s dish,” I say, leading him toward the gleaming counter we’ve staged for the shoot, “is called Kharat’Mok. A traditional feast offered to honored kin and fallen warriors.”
He leans close. Sniffs the air.
“My oh my. That scent—bold. Bold and a little tragic. I like it.”
