Chapter 66: Late Queen’s Recipe
~Kingdom of Warstone~
Night had fallen over the royal palace. The city outside was still recovering from the devastation of Heaven’s Spear, but inside the royal estate, silence reigned.
King Thema sat alone in his private dining quarters, surrounded by thick stone walls and grand tapestries, his mind weighed down by heavy thoughts — the threat of the Sinners, the missing noble Niel, the growing instability spreading across the continent.
A quiet knock sounded at the door, and a young palace maid stepped in, carrying a silver tray with a steaming bowl of thick, spiced stew and freshly baked bread.
"Your Majesty," the maid murmured, eyes lowered as she set the tray down. "Your evening meal."
King Thema didn’t look at her, waving a hand in dismissal. "Leave it."
She bowed deep and backed out, pulling the heavy wooden door shut behind her.
The king let out a tired breath, rubbing his face with calloused hands. He pulled the bowl closer, dipped his spoon into the rich broth, brought it to his lips, and swallowed.
Halfway through the second bite, his eyes snapped wide open.
The spoon slipped from his fingers, clattering against the tray. A strange, suffocating shock surged through his chest, his heart slamming against his ribs. The flavor on his tongue — the subtle blend of rare herbs, the exact density of the broth, the faint bitter trace of crushed moon-root—
It was an exact, unmistakable taste. One he hadn’t known in over fifteen years.
"Guard!" the king roared, voice tearing off the stone walls.
The door burst open, and the same maid rushed back in, trembling. "Y-Your Majesty! What’s wrong?!"
Thema shot to his feet so fast his heavy chair crashed backward onto the floor. He pointed a shaking finger at the bowl, face pale, breath coming in ragged pulls.
"Who prepared this meal?" he demanded, his voice carrying a raw, desperate edge that terrified her. "Tell me. Who cooked this?"
"I-It was the new royal chef, Sire!" she stammered, bowing frantically. "Brought into the kitchens three weeks ago, to replace the head cook!"
Thema stared at her, chest heaving, forcing his breathing to slow, clawing back a shred of composure.
"Get out," he whispered tightly. "Leave me."
"Y-Yes, Your Grace!" She scrambled up and fled, slamming the door behind her.
Alone again in the quiet chamber, Thema walked slowly back to the table. His hand trembled as he picked up the spoon and took another small bite, letting the flavor settle fully on his tongue.
The exact seasoning. The exact technique. A preparation never once written down in any recipe book in the kingdom.
It shouldn’t have been possible. Nothing about it made sense.
He stared down at the bowl in muted horror, his mind spinning into a dark, chaotic vortex around a single, haunting thought.
This tastes like my late wife’s cooking.
The silver spoon felt impossibly heavy in his trembling hand. As the lingering taste of crushed moon-root and roasted ash-thistle coated his tongue, the present dissolved, bleeding away into the quiet warmth of a dead memory.
It had been the night after their wedding — a lavish, exhausting affair that had bound two kingdoms together.
Thema had retired to his private study late that evening, buried beneath piles of territorial maps and state reports, shoulders rigid under the sudden weight of the crown. He hadn’t expected the heavy oak doors to creak open, hadn’t expected his bride to step into the dim candlelight carrying a simple wooden tray with two steaming bowls of dark broth.
She still wore her delicate silk gown, fiery red hair spilling down her back like a waterfall of ember light.
"You should be resting," Thema had said, already on his feet, moving to take the tray from her hands, brow furrowed with genuine concern. "The feast ran until dawn, and you spent the whole day receiving foreign delegates. You shouldn’t be doing servant’s work, my lady."
She’d laughed softly, dodging his hands with practiced ease to set the tray on his desk herself.
"It isn’t servant’s work if it’s my own choice, Thema," she replied gently, amber eyes crinkling as she looked up at him. She ladled a generous portion into a stone bowl and pressed a spoon into his hand. "Besides — a king can’t rule an empire on an empty stomach."
Thema had looked down at the simple meal, then at her pristine, unblemished hands, and taken a hesitant bite. The moment the flavor settled — rich, complex, wild herbs woven through perfectly seared game with a cooling touch of moon-root beneath it — his eyes had gone wide with genuine shock.
He swallowed, staring at her with fresh astonishment. "This — this is extraordinary." Another bite, shaking his head. "How does a princess, raised in luxury, surrounded by royal chefs her whole life, learn to cook like this?"
She’d leaned against the desk’s edge, expression softening into something nostalgic as she tucked a stray lock of red hair behind her ear.
"My father hated it," she confessed, playfulness glinting in her eyes. "Thought a princess had far too many diplomatic duties, statecraft lessons, and etiquette rehearsals to ever set foot in a greasy castle kitchen. Banned me from the pantries entirely." She’d laughed, leaning closer to whisper it. "So I used to sneak down to the servant quarters in the dead of night. The old head chef took pity on me, taught me his secret recipes."
She’d reached out, resting cool fingers over his calloused hand.
"I know my duties to the crown," she whispered, voice warm with something overwhelming and tender. "But in this room, behind these locked doors, we’re just us. So — I promise to make you this meal, once in a while, for the rest of our lives."
The memory shattered like thin glass.
Thema stood frozen in the cold, silent reality of his chamber, dim candlelight flickering against the stone walls, casting long, warped shadows across the untouched tray.
He stared down at the bowl for a long, suffocating moment. Steam curled up off the broth like a phantom reaching for him. His vision blurred, that quiet evening from fifteen years past burning bright against the dark backdrop of his mind.
He remembered her smile. The soft warmth of her skin. The vibrant, fiery hair that had once filled these halls with life, before illness — or whatever cursed twist of fate — had taken her from him.
A cold bead of sweat rolled down his temple. His hand, still hovering near the spoon, trembled violently as he grasped for the fragile remnants of the past.
"What — what was her name again?" he muttered, voice a hollow, raspy whisper swallowed by the cold stone around him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, breath growing shallow and ragged as he dug through the dark, fogged corridors of his own fading memory. Her face stayed vivid, the red hair burning clear — but the name kept slipping through his fingers like sand. He pressed two fingers to his temple, the silence pressing heavier with every passing second.
He drew a slow breath, opened his eyes, and looked back down into the bowl.
"...Luna," he whispered into the empty room. "It was Luna."