Cedric pushed through the kitchen door loaded down with packages.
Ron’s eyes lit up the second he saw him.
Morning traffic was light.
Ron had already slipped into the kitchen under the thin excuse of “checking whether the kid needed a hand.” Everyone in the building knew what that really meant.
He was hoping to steal a technique or two.
Cedric didn’t even look up.
“Stare all you want.
Without Hand of the Artisan—the kind of talent that actually comes from somewhere useful—you can watch until your eyes fall out and it still won’t help.”
He set the dragon-liver jars and the dark, sealed pouch of seedlings aside, pulled a wide washing basin free, tore open the cloth bag, and dumped the entire contents in with a dry rattle.
The Biting Cabbage seedlings erupted into a chaotic chorus of squeaks and clicks.
Rows of tiny, needle-sharp teeth snapped at empty air.
The sound alone made the hair on Ron’s arms stand up.
Taken one at a time they almost looked cute—little green spheres the size of pigeon eggs.
Packed together and thrashing, they became something else entirely.
Goosebumps raced across Ron’s skin.
Cedric didn’t flinch.
He reached bare-handed into the writhing mass, plucked one free, and let his fingers dance past the teeth that lunged for the web of his thumb.
The small knife flashed once.
A soft, wet sound followed.
Roots and flesh were scooped clean; the cabbage was split open and left hanging by a thin hinge of skin, then laid neatly on a tray.
One down.
That was only the start.
His hands accelerated.
After the recent upgrades to Constitution and Neural Reflex, the knife moved fast enough to leave faint afterimages.
Ron’s eyes glazed over trying to follow.
His brain simply surrendered.
In minutes the entire tray held fifty cleaned seedlings.
Cedric glanced at the pile, grabbed a second basin, poured in a heavy handful of sugar, dissolved it with water, and tipped every processed cabbage into the sweet soak.
The method was nothing like yesterday’s roast.
Ron had been biting his tongue for too long.
“What are you doing differently today?
That’s not the same process.”
“Yesterday’s version still wasn’t right,” Cedric said without looking up.
“And today’s ingredients aren’t the same either.” He paused, turned, and met Ron’s eyes.
“When that crowd shows up later, pass a message for me.
Tell them not to fight the cook for food.”
“Huh?” Ron blinked, brain lagging a full step behind.
He was an old hand at the automatic kitchen charms and had enough self-awareness to know his own limits.
He loved whatever came out of Cedric’s hands and would never dream of hoarding the ingredients himself.
The warning therefore made no sense to him.
The seedlings floated in the sugar water.
Cedric left them there and stopped moving.
Outside the kitchen a customer’s voice rose, ordering a drink.
Ron hurried out.
He almost called a cheerful greeting—then saw the thick layer of gauze wrapped around the man’s hand.
“Good grief, Hawke.
What happened to you?”
Hawke offered an awkward half-smile.
“Chewed on by a Biting Cabbage.”
Ron stared at the regular’s greenish, still-pained face.
“You… tried to eat one?”
“Tried to cook one,” Hawke corrected, temper flaring.
“I even bought a book on kitchen magic and followed the instructions.
Completely useless.
Nothing tasted good, and the damn thing still bit me.
You said those cabbages were outrageously delicious.
How are you planning to make this right?”
“Don’t pin that on me.” Ron spread his hands.
“I said the Biting Cabbage Mr.
Grey makes is delicious.
Not whatever you tried.”
“I don’t care.
You’re giving me an extra portion of whatever he cooks today.” Hawke’s grin turned shameless.
“In your dreams.” Ron jerked his chin past Hawke’s shoulder.
“Look behind you.”
Hawke turned.
The wizards queued at the bar were all nursing injuries of varying severity—bandaged fingers, wrapped wrists, one poor soul with a fresh dressing right on the tip of his nose, as if a cabbage had nearly taken it clean off.
Every single one of them had been in the crowd the night before, listening to Ron sell the legend of Cedric’s roast.
Ron looked at the collection of walking casualties and didn’t know whether to laugh or groan.
“Mr.
Grey already left a message,” he called out.
“He doesn’t want to see this again.
And he doesn’t want anyone competing with him for ingredients.”
A chorus of rapid head-shakes answered him.
“We won’t.
We won’t.”
Cooking was personal.
After tasting the bitterness for themselves, none of them felt like hunting trouble a second time.
Message delivered, Ron mixed their drinks, traded a few more words, and slipped back into the kitchen the moment he could.
Timing was perfect.
Cedric was lifting the sugar-soaked seedlings one by one onto a clean baking sheet to drain.
“Starting already?
What’s the plan today?”
Cedric considered for a second, then answered flatly.
“Something sweet.
Candied Biting Cabbage.”