Building a Kingdom as a Kobold-Chapter 69: It Was Just Food, Why Are They Taking Notes?

Cinders was not, under any circumstances, trying to start a food-based diplomatic incident. That was important to note.

She was just cooking.

That’s what I kept telling myself as I watched her clean a pot with more precision than some people cleaned relics. Elbow deep in her traveling ration kit, eyes twitching slightly with every crunch of dried root, she was not panicking.

Except she was. Because I’d seen Cinders cook during a monster attack with blood on her apron and less tension in her shoulders than she had right now.

"Are you going to peel the heat-skin off that mossroot, or interrogate it until it confesses its crimes?" I asked gently.

She didn’t look up.

"Is this how it’s going to be now?" she muttered. "Every time I cook something, someone writes a report?"

I glanced sideways. Two half-elf aides were indeed hovering on the other side of the fire ring, holding slates. Whispering. Taking notes. They weren’t even subtle.

I offered a diplomatic wave.

They bowed back.

Cinders made a small noise that might’ve been a growl.

"Okay," I said, crouching down beside her, "deep breath. You’re not performing. You’re feeding people. Like always."

"They think it’s a ritual," she hissed. "They asked me if this was a sanctioned rite of nourishment. What does that even mean?"

"It means," I said, "that they’re confused by the fact that your food doesn’t taste like ash and sadness, and are trying to assign cultural significance to the miracle."

She didn’t laugh. Not even a snort.

"They said I should do a demo."

"Oh."

"Like a class. For their researchers."

"Oh no."

She stared at the mossroot in her hand. It wasn’t even peeled yet. Just a sad, shriveled lump, halfway between edible and guilt.

"I don’t want to do a demo," she said. "I want to make stew. And have people eat it. And not make it a thesis subject."

"Okay. Then say no."

"They’re watching."

"Then say yes. Quietly. Calmly. Minimal elven involvement. We keep it small. You cook how you cook. If they take notes, that’s their problem."

She didn’t answer right away.

Then she looked at her spoon, wrapped in a cloth at her hip like a sheathed weapon, and nodded once.

"Fine," she said. "But if anyone calls it sacred again, I’m hitting them with a turnip."

The plan was to keep it simple.

But Cinders doesn’t do simple when nervous.

Within the hour, she had triple-checked the broth base, sorted three separate herb batches into sealed jars, and scolded Relay for "hovering like a lost golem."

"I’m just offering to help," he said, arms raised in surrender.

"You’re vibrating," she snapped.

"I always vibrate!"

She turned away, muttering.

Glare, who had been sitting nearby polishing a rock for no apparent reason, offered his insight.

"You fear the weight of observation. But true heroes—"

"Don’t cook stew," Cinders said flatly. "Go brood somewhere else."

Even I wasn’t spared.

"Can we use the fire from the southern pit?" she asked me suddenly. "It burns hotter and steadier."

"Of course."

"And no one else touches the seasonings."

"No one."

"And if one more elf looks at my prep station like it’s about to sprout horns—"

"I’ll throw a cloak over it and call it private myth property."

She paused. Gave me a look that wasn’t quite gratitude.

"...Thanks."

Later, I found her sitting alone beside the pot, rubbing her thumb along the spoon’s edge.

It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t ceremonial. It wasn’t even clean, honestly.

But her hand rested on it like it held the memory of something heavier.

I sat down across the fire.

"You okay?"

She didn’t look up.

"She used to say," Cinders murmured, "that food is just fire that you can hold. That if it’s warm and someone else made it for you, that’s all it needs to be."

"Sounds smart."

"She also told me that if anyone asked for seconds and didn’t say thank you, I could throw a ladle at them."

"...Still smart."

She smiled, just a little. Then shook her head.

"I don’t want to be a symbol."

"You’re not," I said. "You’re dinner. And you’re very appreciated."

She exhaled slowly. Not a laugh. But lighter than before.

"Fine," she said. "But if they ask for a copy of the recipe, I’m faking a kitchen fire."

The elves brought chairs.

That was the first bad sign.

Low-backed, finely carved, with those stupid curved legs that dig into the dirt. A perfect signal that they were taking this seriously.

Cinders stared at the chairs like they’d insulted her broth.

"They brought seats for a stew demonstration," she muttered. "Do they think this is a play?"

"They think this is a cultural cross-pollination event," I said.

"They’re getting root soup."

"To them, that might be exotic."

Cinders grumbled. She didn’t say it, but I knew the shape of her thoughts. It wasn’t the cooking that rattled her. It was being watched while doing something that wasn’t supposed to matter. Something private, passed down, held.

She ran her thumb along the rim of the spoon again. Not for comfort. For grounding.

The spoon wasn’t anything special, if you didn’t know what to look for.

It had no jewels. No shine. One edge was pitted from overuse, the bowl slightly warped from repeated low-flame immersion. A faint ring of burn marks ran up the base of the handle like a memory stain.

She’d once told me it wasn’t even hers to begin with.

It had belonged to Emberback, one of the original kobolds to build fire in the early days—an older cook who’d taught Cinders how to keep the flame at half-heat so no one burned their tongue during panics. She died during the siege.

No system marked that. No line in the logs. Just another loss among many.

Except Cinders had taken the spoon.

Wrapped it in mosscloth.

Carried it ever since.

She didn’t talk about it. But she cleaned it with more care than most people cleaned weapons.

She didn’t speak as she started the meal.

Just unwrapped her ingredients. Lit the flame. Opened her satchel with the smooth, efficient movements of someone who had done this a hundred times and never wanted it to become a performance.

The elves watched.

Not mockingly. Not even with curiosity.

Just stillness. Like something important might happen and they didn’t want to interrupt it.

She boiled the bone-broth base. Added root shavings and grain. Nothing fancy. Just what we had.

She stirred in a loop pattern: three times clockwise, once counter. No words. No chant. Just the rhythm.

The spoon cut through the broth without resistance.

The only sound was the bubbling pot and the scrape of a fire-hook adjusting coals.

Glare sneezed. Flick got caught stealing raw root and was swatted. Relay started humming and was immediately shushed.

Cinders kept cooking.

One elf finally whispered, "She’s syncing the heat pattern."

Another said, "Root-to-marrow layering. She’s balancing it on instinct."

Someone behind them murmured, "Did she measure?"

I leaned forward and muttered, "She measured with rage."

They all wrote that down.

When she served the food, it wasn’t dramatic.

No ladle flourish. No declaration.

She just poured into bowls, handed them out, and sat down again. Her own portion sat cooling beside her, untouched.

The elves tasted it.

One blinked. Looked down at the bowl like it had asked him a question.

Another closed her eyes and didn’t speak for a full minute.

Then the third said, quietly, "It tastes like... early frost and stored warmth."

That was when I saw Cinders flinch.

Not visibly. Not dramatically.

Just a small, almost imperceptible shift in her jaw. Like something had cracked.

The oldest elf—probably some kind of scholar—set his bowl down and nodded once.

"When I was a scout, my brother saved food for me on the nights I didn’t return on time. It always tasted worse cold. But it reminded me that someone had waited. This tastes like that."

Cinders didn’t reply.

She stared at the fire.

Then quietly said, "It’s just soup."

But her claws were clenched around the spoon.

The system pinged.

Not for everyone. Just her.

She didn’t even blink.

But I saw it.

[Trait Refined: Flame Discipline +1]

[Class Condition: Stabilized – Ashring Cook]

No fanfare. No music. Just the acknowledgment that what she did mattered. Not in the grand myth-thread. Not in the world-saving way.

Just here. Just now.

That was enough.

Later, as we packed up, I asked her, "Do you want me to archive the recipe?"

She snorted. "It’s roots and marrow. And guilt."

"So that’s a no?"

"That’s a they can figure it out themselves."

Relay grinned. "Can I at least get seconds?"

She rolled her eyes. "Next time I’m charging."

But when she walked away, spoon tucked back at her hip, there was something different in her gait.

Not pride.

Not glory.

Just a little more weight, properly carried.

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