Chapter 3 Chapter 3: The First Spark of Magic

“This one is assigned to the western scullery.”

The voice was a low, dangerous rumble, the kind that carried absolute authority. The man attached to it was carved from granite and shadow. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with short-cropped black hair and eyes the color of a winter sky grey, hard, and utterly devoid of emotion. He wore the polished silver armor of the Imperial Guard, the crest of the Lunar Fang, a snarling wolf’s head emblazoned on his chestplate. This was no common soldier. This was the Commander. I knew it with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, a fact downloaded with the rest of this body’s miserable data.

Commander Cassian.

He completely ignored Boris, whose blustering rage had instantly deflated into a simpering, pathetic whimper. Cassian’s gaze was fixed on me, his grey eyes scanning my face, my bruised body, the bleeding welts on my back where the whip had torn through the cloth. He saw everything, and he felt nothing. He was a machine in a man’s skin, and I was a malfunctioning part.

“The Head Steward requires her,” Cassian continued, his voice flat. “The Emperor’s taster has fallen ill.”

Boris puffed out his chest, a pathetic attempt to regain his composure. “The scullery? Commander, with respect, this omega is a lazy, useless wretch. She can’t even peel a turnip correctly. I’ll have her whipped into shape by sundown. A little discipline goes a long way.”

Cassian’s eyes finally left mine and flickered to Boris. The temperature in the room seemed to drop by ten degrees. The air grew thick and heavy. “You will not touch her,” he said, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a quiet threat that was far more terrifying than a shout. “She is now under the direct protection of the Imperial House. The Emperor’s health is paramount. His food and drink must be prepared by uncontaminated hands. Do you understand, Chef?”

The way he said “Chef” was an insult. Boris paled, the sweat on his brow turning cold. He nodded frantically, his jowls wobbling. “Yes, Commander. Of course, Commander. My apologies for the delay.”

Cassian didn’t bother to reply. He released my arm, but the pressure of his grip lingered on my skin like a brand. “Come,” he commanded, turning on his heel with military precision.

I scrambled to follow, my legs weak and uncooperative. The other slaves watched with a mixture of fear and envy in their eyes. I was leaving the frying pan, but I had no idea if I was heading for the fire.

As I was led out of the stifling kitchen and down a narrow, damp corridor, I heard a faint, wracking cough from a darkened alcove beneath a winding staircase. Tucked away on a thin pallet of filthy straw was a young girl, no older than sixteen. She was painfully thin, her skin sallow and clammy, her breaths coming in shallow, painful gasps. She was one of us. A slave, abandoned to die when she was no longer useful. Her name, I somehow knew, was Lira.

My heart clenched. In my old life, I would have been on the phone with the best doctors, arranging for a private room and round-the-clock care. Here, she was just another piece of trash to be discarded, her life worth less than the turnip I had dropped.

But I was a chef. My entire life had been about nourishing people, about healing with food. It was an instinct deeper than my own survival, a core part of my soul.

Cassian was a few feet ahead, his rigid back to me. He hadn’t noticed Lira. This was my only chance.

I broke away from the wall and knelt beside the girl, the rough stone digging into my knees. Her eyes were closed, her face pinched with pain. I pressed a hand to her forehead. It was burning up, a dry, dangerous heat. She was burning alive from the inside out.

“What are you doing?” Cassian’s voice was sharp as a whip crack. He was standing over me, his hand on the hilt of his sword, the gesture a clear, unspoken threat.

“She’s sick,” I said, my voice trembling with a fear that was rapidly being replaced by a surge of reckless defiance. “She’s dying.”

“She is an omega. If she cannot work, she is a drain on the resources of the Pack. It is the way of things,” he stated, as if discussing the weather. There was no cruelty in his tone, only a chilling, pragmatic finality that was somehow worse.

“But… there must be something,” I pleaded, looking up at him, meeting his cold grey eyes. “A broth. A simple restorative broth. It won’t cost anything.”

He stared at me, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, the only sound was Lira’s ragged breathing and the distant clang of pots from the kitchen. I was challenging him. Defying him. I could see the calculation in his eyes. He could kill me now, or he could see what this strange, defiant omega was up to.

“You have five minutes,” he said, his voice flat. “Then we go. And you will answer for the delay.”

He didn’t move. He was watching me, a hawk watching a mouse that might hold the key to a secret. But he had given me an opening. A tiny, sliver of a chance.

I didn’t hesitate. I ran back towards the main kitchen, my mind racing. I couldn’t use the good ingredients; Boris would have my hide, Commander or no Commander. But I knew what I needed. Water. A few wilting herbs from a forgotten corner of the pantry—some thyme, a sprig of rosemary. A single carrot, overlooked and covered in dirt. A bone, perhaps, from the scraps destined for the hounds.

I found a small, dented pot, filled it with water from a grimy rain barrel, and built a tiny, smokeless fire in a forgotten alcove behind a stack of empty wine barrels. I tossed in the ingredients, my hands moving with a practiced grace that this body didn’t possess but my soul remembered. As the water began to heat, I did something I had never done before, something my rational, chef-trained mind would have scoffed at. I closed my eyes and I poured everything I had into that pot.

My fear. My desperation. My rage at Daniel and Chloe’s betrayal. My pity for this dying girl. My own fierce, unyielding will to live. I will not be erased. I will not be forgotten. I didn’t know if it would do anything. It was a mad, desperate prayer from a chef to the gods of the kitchen, the only gods I had ever known.

The broth began to simmer, and a strange, wonderful aroma filled the air. It smelled of more than just carrot and water and wilting herbs. It smelled of sunshine and rain, of earth and hope, of defiance and comfort. It smelled like life.

I poured the steaming liquid into a wooden bowl and ran back to the girl, my heart pounding against my ribs like a drum. Cassian watched, his grey eyes narrowed with suspicion, his hand never straying far from his sword.

I knelt and gently lifted Lira’s head, cradling it in my lap. “Here,” I whispered. “Drink this. It will help.”

I tipped the bowl to her cracked, dry lips. The hot liquid trickled into her mouth. She didn’t swallow at first. She choked, her body convulsing violently, a spray of the broth landing on my tunic.

I pulled back, my own breath catching in my throat. Had I been wrong? Had I just drowned her? Had my mad attempt at magic done nothing but hasten her end?

Lira took a shuddering, final breath.

And then, she went completely still.