Ox and Ember didn’t roar at midday. The lunch crowd came in waves, the kind that turned the common room into a steady hum instead of a full storm. Enough noise to feel alive. Not enough to drown out the kitchen.

  James stood behind the counter and watched his people move.

  Gisabelle had stopped hovering. She didn’t ask if she was allowed to touch the pan anymore. She just did the work, hands quick, eyes sharper than they’d been a month ago. When a plate went out wrong, she corrected it before anyone else noticed. When the rice threatened to clump, she rinsed it again without being told. Mira sat at their usual table with her back straight and her expression composed, but her foot tapped under the bench like her body didn’t believe in resting. Marty leaned into the chair like he’d been poured into it, talking to Gerrard about something that sounded suspiciously like a scam. Gerrard listened with the calm of a man who’d already decided how much of it he’d pretend to be surprised by. Vhara watched the room the way Vhara watched everything, like she was waiting for trouble to trip and fall into her lap. The innkeeper was polishing a mug he’d already polished twice. His grin kept slipping out when he thought no one was looking. A month of packed nights would do that to a man.

  James let his gaze drift across them, then toward the back door, then up the stairs. He cleared his throat.

  “I need to go somewhere,” he said.

  Every head turned at once. Not curiosity. The sharp attention of a group that had learned trouble tended to follow him like a loyal dog.

  Marty’s eyes lit up immediately. “Somewhere fun?”

  Gerrard didn’t move much, but his posture changed, subtle as a blade leaving a sheath.

  Mira’s eyes narrowed. “Where?”

  Vhara’s mouth twitched, just barely. “Who are we killing?”

  “We’re not killing anyone,” James said.

  Vhara looked disappointed in a way that felt personal.

  He lifted both hands. “It’s a quick trip. I’ll be back before dinner.”

  Marty leaned forward. “So we’re coming.”

  “No,” James said.

  There was no room in it.

  Mira blinked like she hadn’t heard him properly. “Excuse me?”

  “I said no,” James repeated. “This is one of those things that’s easier if I do it alone.”

  Vhara’s eyes sharpened. “Things are never easier when you do them alone.”

  “True,” James said. “But they’re often faster.”

  Marty opened his mouth to argue. James pointed at him without looking.

  “You,” he said, “are going to ruin it.”

  Marty put a hand to his chest, wounded. “I’m a stabilizing influence.”

  “You once tried to sell a guard his own boots,” Mira said.

  “They fit him. Also, c’mon, this is Min City. Everybody tries to scam everybody here,” Marty replied.

  James ignored them and turned toward the kitchen. Gisabelle was wiping down the counter, pretending very hard that she hadn’t been listening. Her shoulders were tight. He stepped closer and dropped his voice so the common room wouldn’t catch every word.

  “Tonight’s dinner,” he said, “is yours.”

  Her rag froze in her hand.

  She looked up. “Mine?”

  “In charge,” James said. “You run the kitchen. You call the orders. You tell the innkeeper to get out of your way. If I make it back in time, I’ll help. If I don’t…”

  He held her gaze.

  “…don’t make me regret trusting you,” he finished, and then softened it before it could land like a threat. “Don’t let the food go sad.”

  Gisabelle swallowed. For a heartbeat she looked like she might say no. Like she might hand the responsibility back with both hands and apologize for existing. Then she forced a breath through her nose.

  “I can do it,” she said, but her voice wavered at the edges.

  James nodded like he’d expected that answer all along.

  “You can,” he said. “And if you’re about to panic, you rinse rice until the water clears and the panic gets bored.”

  Her mouth twitched, uncertain but real.

  “Okay,” she said. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll do it.”

  “Good,” James said.

  He straightened, turned back toward the table. Mira was watching him like she was weighing whether to tie him to the chair. Vhara was watching him like she was deciding whether to follow anyway. Marty was watching him like he’d found a new hobby. Gerrard just watched him, calm and suspicious.

  James spread his hands.

  “I’ll see you later,” he said.

  Marty pointed at the front door. “That’s the exit.”

  Gerrard nodded. “The door is right there.”

  Mira’s brow furrowed. “James.”

  James smiled. Not wide. Just enough to be unsettling.

  “I know,” he said.

  Then he walked past the counter and up the stairs like nothing about the world was strange.

  Behind him, he heard Marty’s voice rise, incredulous.

  “Is he… is he going to hide in his room to avoid work?”

  “He’s never shirked a shift,” Gerrard said.

  “That’s not a shift,” Mira said sharply. “That’s James.”

  Vhara’s voice was flat. “If he’s lying, I’ll drag him back by the collar.”

  Marty chuckled. “If he’s not lying, we’re about to hear screaming.”

  James kept walking. He reached the top floor, stepped into his room, and shut the door behind him. The common room noise dulled. The world narrowed.

  And for the first time since the messengers had walked in, he let his expression fall into something more honest. He looked at the empty space beside the bed, where the wagons technically were, invisible and stored away.

  Eight days. A Count. A review. A system that had threatened to turn his name into a joke.

  He exhaled slowly and wiped his palm on his thigh.

  “Alright,” he murmured to the quiet room. “Let’s do this the smart way.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  He closed his eyes. And started deciding where to open a door without getting anyone killed. He had a skill that could open a door to places he’d already been, and a brain that had a talent for choosing the loudest, worst moment to test anything new.

  He needed somewhere in Wokzalcoatl where he wouldn’t draw eyes the second he arrived.

  The kitchen was the first thought.

  No. Too many hands. Too many noses. Too many knives. He’d appear and someone would scream, and then someone would stab him on instinct, and then he’d have to explain to a dragon why his favorite cook bled on the tiles.

  The room he’d stayed in before came next.

  Also no. A private room was private for a reason. Appearing in it unannounced felt like a good way to become a cautionary tale.

  Ruune. Yes.

  Ruune’s little office in the farming wing. Quiet. Practical. The kind of place where surprise showed up as paperwork, not weapons. If James arrived there, he could send word to Villen and Nyindnir. He could also slip Ruune a gift without making it a spectacle.

  He opened his eyes, then reached into himself for the other piece of the plan.

  Seed Maker.

  He didn’t have a lot of mana to waste, and he didn’t know yet what Service Door would cost. That was the point. Test it in a controlled way. He pulled up the skill in his mind and focused on what he wanted.

  Cashew.

  He’d missed it more than he wanted to admit. Not because he needed it, but because it was one of those flavors that made food feel complete. The nutty sweetness. The fat. The way it turned a sauce into something that stuck to the tongue instead of sliding off.

  One seed. Then another. Then three more. Five. Each one cost a sliver. A clean, measurable bite. Five seeds sat there, pale and curved like they didn’t belong in this world.

  He put the seeds into his inventory and stood. Then he drew a slow breath and reached for the new skill. Service Door. The air in front of him seemed to pause, like the room was listening.

  A prompt appeared.

  [Service Door: Please visualize your destination.]

  James closed his eyes and pictured Ruune’s office. The small desk. The shelves. The faint smell of soil and ink. The way the light fell from the high windows. He held the image steady.

  [Destination confirmed.]

  A rectangle of space in front of him shimmered, then opened. A doorway, clean-edged and wrong in a way that made his skin prickle.

  James waited for the mana hit. He felt nothing. He frowned. For a heartbeat, he wondered if the skill was broken. Or worse, if it was so expensive that it took the cost later. He stepped closer, peered into the doorway, and saw a familiar interior on the other side. Ruune’s office. Quiet. Empty.

  No mana cost? he thought, suspicious. That can’t be right.

  Then he shrugged, because caution was a virtue he admired in other people, and stepped through. The world turned sideways. James made it one step into Ruune’s office before his stomach snapped hard and ugly, like something inside him had been yanked by a rope. His vision blurred. He tried to inhale and got a mouthful of air that tasted wrong, thin and sharp. His knees buckled.

  He took another step, purely out of stubbornness, and the room spun so fast it became a smear of wood and light. His stomach heaved. He barely managed to turn before he vomited, the sound loud in the quiet office. He stumbled forward, palms slapping the floor, and the nausea kept coming like a wave that refused to break.

  When it finally eased, he tried to pull himself upright. He got as far as one elbow. Then his arms gave out and he dropped again, cheek pressing to the cold floor. The last thing he saw was the doorway behind him collapsing into nothing, leaving only Ruune’s office and the taste of bile and humiliation.

  His thoughts tried to line up.

  So it didn’t cost mana to open… it cost mana to cross.

  He didn’t finish the sentence. Darkness took him mid-breath.

  When James opened his eyes again, he wasn’t on a wooden office floor. He was on a bed. A familiar bed. The sheets were clean. The room smelled faintly of herbs and stone dust. Light fell in from a high window at an angle that made everything look calmer than it felt.

  Nyindnir stood near the foot of the bed with his arms folded, expression tight with irritation and concern in equal measure. Villen was beside him, posture relaxed, but his eyes sharp in that way that made James feel like a mouse who’d wandered into a lion’s parlor.

  For half a heartbeat, James didn’t understand. Then his memory caught up and he groaned.

  Villen leaned forward slightly. “James,” he said, voice curious instead of angry. “You appeared.”

  Nyindnir’s gaze flicked over James’ face. “And immediately tried to die on the floor,” he added.

  James swallowed. His throat tasted like acid.

  He pushed himself up on his elbows. “I… I’m fine.”

  “You were not fine,” Nyindnir said. “Mana deprivation. Severe enough that you lost motor control. You also vomited on Ruune’s floor.”

  James winced. “Wonderful.”

  Villen’s eyes gleamed. “Mana deprivation,” he repeated, almost pleased. “That means you used something you didn’t understand.”

  James stared at the ceiling for a second, then let out a breath through his nose.

  “Service Door,” he admitted.

  Nyindnir’s brow rose. “A gate skill.”

  “A gate skill,” James confirmed.

  Villen smiled, slow and delighted. “And you thought it would be free.”

  “I thought opening it would cost mana,” James said defensively. “It didn’t. Crossing did. Apparently. A lot.”

  Nyindnir nodded once, satisfied. “Opening is structure. Crossing is transfer. Transfer is expensive. You likely emptied yourself without realizing it.”

  James licked his lips. “So the skill didn’t lie. It just… delayed the bill.”

  Villen’s smile widened. “A very honest kind of cruelty.”

  James started to sit up fully, then froze. There, in the far corner of the room, half in shadow, stood Rennalinda. Arms crossed. Face unreadable. Presence heavy enough to make the air feel smaller.

  James’ embarrassment flared hot and immediate. He cleared his throat.

  “Uh,” he said. “Hello.”

  Rennalinda’s eyes didn’t soften. “Did you tell anyone about the dungeon?”

  James blinked. “What?”

  “The dungeon beneath this place,” Rennalinda said, each word clean. “Did you speak of it to anyone?”

  “No,” James said quickly. “No. I didn’t tell anyone. I swear.”

  She held his gaze for a beat longer, as if searching for a crack. Then she exhaled.

  “Good,” she said, and the word carried relief only in the sense that an execution had been postponed.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “Think next time,” Rennalinda continued, voice still controlled. “You are reckless in a way that would be charming if it didn’t endanger everyone who lives here.”

  James’ mouth opened. Nothing came out.

  Rennalinda studied him like he was a broken tool she didn’t want to throw away yet. Then she turned.

  “This once,” she said over her shoulder, “I will ignore the fact that you entered without permission.”

  She paused at the door.

  “And if you ever vomit in Ruune’s office again,” she added, “I will personally introduce you to consequences.”

  Then she left, the door closing behind her with a quiet finality.

  The room breathed again.

  James sat up, rubbing his face with both hands. Nyindnir looked vaguely satisfied. Villen looked amused.

  James lowered his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said, turning toward Villen. “I wasn’t trying to sneak in like a thief. I was trying to… surprise you.”

  Villen’s eyes softened by a fraction. “Do not apologize,” he said. “Rennalinda’s temperament is a storm that never runs out of rain. She worries in the only language she believes works.”

  James hesitated. “She hates me.”

  “She does not hate you,” Villen said. “She hates risk.”

  Nyindnir snorted. “And vomit.”

  James’ ears warmed. He reached into his inventory, then stopped, remembering the other reason he’d come.

  “I brought something,” he said.

  Villen’s head tilted. “You did.”

  “A gift,” James said, then winced at the word. “I was going to leave it with Ruune, quietly.”

  Nyindnir’s eyes sharpened. “What kind of gift?”

  James pulled out the five seeds and held them up.

  “Cashew,” he said.

  Villen stared at them like they were jewels. “A seed,” he murmured. “From your world.”

  “From my skill,” James corrected, then kept going before he could get embarrassed again. “If Ruune plants them, they’ll grow into trees. The fruit is good, but it spoils fast. Don’t try to store it. The real treasure is the seed inside the fruit. It’s poisonous when raw.”

  Nyindnir’s brow shot up. “Poisonous.”

  “Yeah,” James said. “But if you roast it, or steam it first, it becomes… incredible. Rich, creamy, nutty. Good in sauces. Good as garnish. Good as a base for things that need fat. I wanted to use it in a tikka masala once and didn’t have any.”

  Villen took the seeds carefully, as if they might shatter. “A tree that grows poison that becomes delicacy,” he said, almost delighted. “How fitting.”

  James tried to smile and succeeded halfway.

  Villen looked up. “Now,” he said, “if you are stable, may I ask you something?”

  James lifted a hand. “Only if I can ask you something first.”

  Villen spread one hand gracefully. “Ask.”

  James drew a breath. “The ingredients you gave me when I left,” he said. “They were the best quality I’ve ever worked with. I’m building something in Min City. A traveling kitchen. I need stock, and the city’s markets don’t have what I need. Can I buy supplies from you?”

  Nyindnir’s eyes narrowed in interest. Villen went still, thoughtful. For a moment, James worried he’d pushed too far. Dragons didn’t need coin, but they did need pride.

  Villen’s mouth curved.

  “I have a better idea,” he said.

  James’ shoulders eased. “Of course you do. What is it?”

  He crossed to the chair by the wall and sat, posture loose again, tail curling neatly around one leg. He tapped a claw lightly against the arm of the chair, almost playful. “I do not need your money, James. And I will not simply gift you things, because it would make a statement I do not wish to make. Trade is posture.”

  He tilted his head slightly. “And I did tell you there was something I meant to ask you. Last time you were here, you said some of the plants from the sea could be eaten. My hunters drag back all kinds of things from the beaches and dump them into my stores. Barrels of dried weed, ropes of salty leaves… they sit there because no one knows what to do with them. I have been curious what you would make of it.”

  James nodded slowly. “Okay.”

  “So,” Villen continued, eyes bright, “each time you come seeking supplies, you will cook.”

  Nyindnir’s lips twitched. “That is an excellent deal.”

  James stared at Villen for a beat. Then he laughed, a short burst that surprised him.

  “I have good news for you,” he said, sitting up straighter.

  Villen’s brow lifted. “Oh?”

  James’ grin turned sharp, the kind he wore when he smelled a challenge that might taste good.

  “Show me where you’ve been keeping that seaweed,” he said.

  Villen’s smile widened, delighted in a way that made James’ spine tingle.

  “Gladly,” the dragon said.

  And James knew, with the certainty of a man stepping toward a stove that was already too hot, that he had just agreed to something that would change his menu forever.