Chapter 2 The Inheritance Of Hunger

• The knife felt wrong in my hand.
• Not because it was bad steel. The blade was sharp enough, well-maintained despite the rust spots near the handle. No, it felt wrong because this hand did not know how to hold it. The fingers were too thin. The grip too weak. When I tried to adjust my hold, the muscles trembled like a newborn foal learning to stand.
• But I knew this knife. Not this specific one, but the weight of it. The promise of it. A tool. A weapon. A lifeline.
• The man watched me from across the room. He had not introduced himself. He just stood there, leaning on his crutch, his storm-cloud eyes tracking my every movement.
• "You know how to use that?" he asked.
• I nodded.
• He snorted. "We'll see. The last girl didn't know how to boil water without burning it."
• I wanted to snap back at him. I wanted to tell him that I had spent ten years in professional kitchens, that I had trained under chefs who would make his head spin, that I could break down a whole tuna faster than he could tie his boots. But when I opened my mouth, nothing came out.
• Right. No voice.
• The man's expression shifted. Something flickered in his eyes—annoyance, maybe, or the faintest spark of curiosity.
• "You're mute," he said flatly. "The slaver mentioned that. Said you'd been that way since you were a child. Some sickness, he said. Took your voice and half your wits."
• I glared at him. Half my wits? That slaver clearly never met a woman who could fillet a fish blindfolded.
• The man limped toward a rough wooden table in the corner. He pulled out a stool and sat heavily, his good leg stretched out in front of him. The crutch clattered against the floor.
• "Name's Kaelen," he said. "Kaelen Hashley. I own this place." He gestured vaguely at the walls. "If you can call it ownership. Bought it with the last of my coin three years ago. Thought it would be a quiet place to die."
• I stared at him. What a cheerful introduction.
• He didn't seem to notice my expression. He was too busy staring at the cold fireplace. "Used to be a knight. Sword of the Crown. Served the Empire for twenty years." His voice went flat. "Then a friend left me to die in the mountains, and the Frost Wyrm took my leg as a souvenir."
• The fire crackled weakly. Embers glowed orange in the hearth, but the room was still cold. The cold seemed to live in the walls, in the stone floor, in the cracks in the window frames.
• I pulled the ragged wool dress tighter around my body. My skin was still numb from the snow. My fingers burned as feeling slowly returned.
• Kaelen reached for a jug on the table. He poured himself a cup of something dark and thick. "Ale," he said. "Brewed by the village herbalist. Tastes like horse piss, but it keeps the cold out."
• He took a long drink and grimaced. "Barely."
• I looked around the room. It was worse than my first impression. The ceiling sagged in one corner. A bucket sat under a leak, catching slow drips. The tables were rough and splintered. The benches looked like they would collapse if a man sat on them too hard. And the smell—God, the smell. Old grease. Mold. Rotting vegetables. Something dead in the walls.
• This was not a restaurant. This was a tomb with tables.
• Kaelen must have seen the look on my face. He laughed, a short and bitter sound. "You think it's a dump. You're not wrong. But it's my dump." He pointed his cup at me. "And now it's yours too, girl. So unless you want to go back to freezing in the snow, I suggest you find a way to make yourself useful."
• I wanted to ask him a hundred questions. Where exactly was I? What kingdom? What war? What year? Who was this body I was trapped in? What happened to her? Why was she sold? Was there a family? A sister?
• But I could not ask any of that. Not with my voice gone. Not with only my hands and my eyes and whatever I could scratch into the dirt.
• I looked around for something to write with. Nothing. The floor was packed earth, swept clean in some places, stained black in others. I spotted a piece of charred wood near the fireplace. I picked it up and found a patch of smooth stone near the door.
• I wrote: I can cook.
• Kaelen squinted at the marks. He leaned forward, his good leg shifting. "What's that supposed to say?"
• I wrote it again, slower. Bigger.
• I CAN COOK.
• He stared at the words. Then he stared at me. Then he laughed again, but this time it was different. Not bitter. Surprised.
• "You can write?" he said. "The slaver said you were a simple farm girl. Didn't mention letters."
• I shrugged. I didn't know what to tell him. The truth was impossible. No one would believe that a Michelin-starred chef from another world was standing in this frozen wasteland, wearing a dead peasant girl's body like a borrowed coat.
• Kaelen shook his head slowly. "Doesn't matter. Writing won't save this place. The last cook ran off two weeks ago. Said the kitchen was cursed." He paused. "Said he saw the ghost of the previous owner standing over the stove at night."
• A ghost. Great. Because this situation needed more complications.
• I wrote: I'm not afraid of ghosts.
• Kaelen raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you should be. This inn sits on old land. The Frostpass has been here for centuries. Lots of people have died in these mountains. Soldiers. Travelers. Merchants." He took another drink of his terrible ale. "Sometimes they don't stay dead."
• I didn't know what to make of that. Back in Shanghai, I never believed in ghosts. But then again, back in Shanghai, I also never believed I would die in a fire and wake up in another world.
• So maybe I should keep an open mind.
• I wrote: Let me see the kitchen.
• Kaelen sighed. He looked at me for a long moment, then pushed himself up with his crutch. "Fine. But don't blame me if the ghost eats you."
• He led me through a narrow doorway at the back of the main room. The kitchen was small and dark and filthy. A stone hearth dominated one wall, blackened with old soot. A wooden table stood in the center, covered in scraps and stains. Shelves lined the walls, mostly empty except for a few clay pots and bundles of withered herbs.
• I saw three pots. A dented pan. A ladle that had seen better days. And something scurrying in the corner—a rat, probably, judging by the size of the shadow.
• This was not a kitchen. This was a crime scene.
• But it was a kitchen. And kitchens, no matter how broken, were my territory.
• I walked toward the hearth. The stones were cold, but there was still a small pile of dry wood stacked nearby. I reached out and touched the surface of the stove. Soot came away on my fingers. I rubbed it between them. Fine and dark. Good wood, burned hot.
• I turned back to Kaelen. I pointed at the hearth. Then at myself. Then I gave him a thumbs up.
• He blinked. "What?"
• I picked up the charred stick again and wrote on the wall, right above the stove.
• I can work with this.
• Kaelen stared at the words. Then he stared at the dirt on my fingers. Then he stared at the cold hearth, the empty pots, the rat still watching us from the corner.
• "You're either brave," he said quietly, "or insane."
• I didn't correct him. Both were probably true.
• He turned and limped toward the door. "There's venison in the cold storage out back. Hard bread in the larder. Turnips. Cabbage. A sack of coarse flour. If you can make something edible from that, maybe I won't throw you back into the snow."
• I nodded.
• He stopped at the doorway and looked over his shoulder. His expression was unreadable. "I bought you because I was too soft to watch another body freeze to death. But don't mistake my pity for patience. If you can't cook, you're useless to me."
• I met his eyes. I wanted to say something powerful. Something that would make him understand who he was dealing with. But all I had was a charred stick and a patch of stone.
• So I wrote one more word.
• Watch.
• Kaelen's eye twitched. Then he shook his head and left.
• I stood alone in the kitchen, surrounded by filth and cold and the faint smell of death. My body was weak. My hands were shaking. My stomach was so empty it had stopped growling hours ago.
• But I was alive. I had a knife. I had fire. And I had the one thing no one could take from me.
• I had my craft.
• I rolled up the sleeves of my ragged dress and got to work.