A countdown clock starts.
I bolt for the kitchen. Korgan follows, moving with that predatory grace that still makes my stomach flip.
"Okay." I scan the ingredients. "I'm thinking bread base, but we need something that reads as orc?—"
"Spiced meat. Ember-roasted." He's already lighting the forge. "My grandmother's recipe."
"You have a grandmother?"
"Had. She taught me to cook over campaign fires." He pulls out a selection of brutal-looking spices. "Can you make flatbread fast?"
"Can I—yes. Obviously yes." I grab flour, water, oil. "Talk me through the spice profile."
We fall into rhythm. Me kneading dough with quick, practiced motions. Him seasoning meat with careful precision, hands surprisingly gentle for someone who could snap a bone without effort.
The audience is weirdly quiet. Watching.
"They're waiting for us to fight," I mutter.
"Disappointed?"
"Probably." I roll out the first flatbread. "Pass me that oil."
He does. Our fingers brush. The camera zooms in, I can see it on the monitor.
Vultures.
But also, it's kind of nice? Working together like this. No producers whispering manipulation. Just us, cooking, figuring it out.
The meat smells incredible. Smoky and complex, nothing like the bland protein I grew up with.
"Taste," Korgan orders, holding out a piece.
I take it. The spice hits first, sharp, almost overwhelming, then mellows into something earthy and warm.Oh.
"That's amazing."
"Grandmother's secret was the ember ash. Burns the tongue, then soothes it."
"Romantic and a metaphor. You're getting good at this."
He snorts. But his ears darken slightly. Still bashful about compliments.
I plate the flatbreads, he arranges the meat. We work in tandem, adjusting, tasting, stealing glances.
Timer hits zero.
Claudia appears with a judging panel of two food critics and Borgat.
The critics taste first. Thoughtful chewing. Murmured consultation.
"Surprisingly cohesive," the first one says. "The flatbread's buttery richness balances the aggressive spice profile. Technique is solid."
"Plating could use work," the second adds. "But the flavor story is clear. Cultural fusion without gimmick."
Borgat takes a piece. Chews slowly.
The entire audience holds its breath.
