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.”
I grin. “It’s meant to make you feel.”
His eyes crinkle. “Let’s make the audience feel too.”
The filming starts. It’s chaos. Controlled, flashing, fragrant chaos. I narrate the dish in clipped, precise Vakutan while my human sous translates. The cameras pan in on meat blistering under open flame, on sauces poured with practiced flourish, on steam rising like prayers.
And the whole time, I feel that pull.
Toward the door.
Toward her.
I don’t look. Not really. But every second she doesn’t walk in feels like another notch scraped into my nerves. I’m ridiculous. I know it. But knowing doesn’t slow the beat thudding in my chest like war drums from a memory I can’t forget.
“It’s the human, this ghost of yours?” my father murmurs when the cameras swing toward the sizzling ribs.
I don’t answer.
He huffs. “Careful, son. Even steel burns when held too close to flame.”
I want to laugh. But I don’t.
Because I know exactly what he means.
The second Kristi crosses the threshold, I feel it.
The energy shifts. Even the heat from the broilers seems to warp toward her like metal pulled to magnet.
Dood Radman doesn’t miss it either. His camera crew tracks her entrance like it's scripted. But it’s not.
Not for her. And sure as hell not for me.
Still, I don’t hesitate.
“Perfect timing!” I shout over the sizzle of flame and the whir of hover-cams. “You’re just in time to help plate the legacy roast.”
Kristi freezes. I see it—the micro-tension in her shoulders, the flash of wariness behind her eyes. But she doesn’t bolt.
Yet.
I grab a spare apron and slap it into her hands. “You’re my surprise sous-chef now.”
“What? No.” She looks from the apron to me, incredulous. “Kenron, I don’t cook. I barely boil.”
I step in close enough to keep her from escaping. “It’s fine. You just need to look pretty and not set anything on fire.”
She glares. “Sexist much?”
“Accurate,” I say with a grin, “and I meant the food.”
Dood claps his hands, delighted. “Oh, this is gold! Keep it rolling! Chef Kenron’s mystery human—what a twist!”
Kristi mutters something under her breath, but the apron’s already over her head. I guide her to the prep station with one hand at her back—light, but steady. Her hair smells like citrus and stubbornness.
“Here,” I say, putting a bowl of spiced seed-pods in front of her. “Sprinkle these over the ribs. Just don’t clump. Delicate touch.”
“I have delicate touch,” she snaps.
I chuckle. “Sure you do, soldier.”
“I’m not a—ugh, give me that.”
We work side-by-side, hip to hip, hands brushing and shoulders bumping. The cameras soak it in like it’s nectar. And maybe it is. She tries to pretend she’s annoyed, but I see the corner of her mouth twitching up more than once.
“You’re doing it wrong,” she says when I sprinkle crushed redleaf over the flatbread with too much flair.
“You wound me,” I say.
“Your ego deserves it.”
The tension’s still there, but it’s bending, melting. Her fingers move more confidently with every motion. Her laughter comes easier. And me? I’ve never felt this kind of buzz—not from war, not from food, not from the kind of attention that comes with holonet cameras.
It’s her.
It’s her and me and this tiny, flickering thing we’ve built in the middle of spice and spectacle.
When Dood finally calls cut, the applause that follows is real. His eyes gleam.
“Chef Kenron,” he says, still laughing, “I came for the food, but I’m staying for the drama. That was art. Real, spicy, flame-tongued art.”
Kristi’s face is flushed—whether from heat or attention, I can’t tell.
Probably both.
The crew starts packing up, and the kitchen buzz dims. I lean in, reaching to brush a loose strand of her hair back from her cheek. It’s soft. Softer than I imagined.
“You taste like wildfire,” I murmur.
She looks up at me, lips parted. Doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t have to.
I know she heard it.
I know she felt it.
And I know I’m already in too deep.