The great dining hall glowed under tall chandeliers, golden flames scattering their light across marble floors and heavy velvet drapes. At the long table, the royal family gathered for their evening feast, servants moving quietly in the background.
Four dishes were placed before them: two from the hands of the seasoned royal chef, and two from his son, Ael. It was the first time the boy's cooking had been brought to the royal table.
The King sat at the head, his crown set aside but his authority heavy in the air. He tasted the roasted pheasant prepared by the chef and nodded with approval. But when he sipped Ael's light broth, he paused, his brows raised—not displeased, only surprised. "Strange," he murmured. "It carries a different strength."
The Queen (first wife) smiled faintly, taking more of the lamb stew. She preferred tradition and ignored the boy's food without a word.
The Queen (second wife), softer in manner, dipped bread into the broth. Her eyes widened in quiet delight, though she said little, careful not to draw the King's annoyance.
Kael's Brothers ate with ease, jesting about hunting and war. They barely noticed the new dishes, though one muttered, "This bread is softer than I've tasted before."
Kael sat quietly, tasting little. He picked lightly at the stew, then turned to the broth. His spoon lingered longer than it should have. He did not look up, yet something flickered in his eyes. When he tasted the bread, he swallowed slowly, as if memorizing it.
Conversation rose around him—laughter, small quarrels, talk of victories and lands. But Kael heard none of it. His thoughts circled only the boy in the kitchen, the hands that had made such unassuming food that carried such unexpected warmth.
He set down his spoon, excused himself with a word about duties, and left the hall. Behind his strong steps, the taste of Ael's food followed him like a whisper he could not silence.
Ael in the kitchen
While the royal family dined in the golden hall, Ael stood at the edge of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a cloth though they were already clean. His father moved with calm skill, directing the other cooks, but Ael's heart beat too fast. Tonight, for the first time, two of his dishes had gone to the royal table.
Every sound from the distant hall reached him like thunder—the clink of goblets, the laughter of nobles, the muffled echo of the King's voice. He tried to focus on slicing fruit, but his ears strained for any word of praise or complaint.
At last, a servant returned with empty trays. Ael looked up quickly, his breath caught. The man whispered to another, "The broth was lighter than any they've tasted. The King was surprised. The prince… he ate only that."
Ael froze. His chest warmed though he dared not smile. He had thought they might scorn his food, call it plain or strange. Yet someone—at least one—had noticed.
Quietly, he set down the knife. His hands trembled, but not from fear. "Maybe," he thought, "my place here is not so small after all."
After the Dinner Feast
The kitchen was noisy with the sound of clattering pans and cheerful voices when the royal feast ended. Servants carried back empty bowls and platters, and the air filled with the smell of spices and roasted meats.
Head Chef Eldrin—Ael's father—stood tall, his weathered face bright with pride. He gave his son a rare smile, his hand resting firmly on Ael's shoulder.
"Your dishes were praised tonight," he said in a low voice meant only for Ael, though pride burned in his eyes. "The King himself noticed the lightness of your hand. Tomorrow, we train you with new dishes. You will not stay in the shadows forever."
Ael's older sister, Lyra, clapped her hands together and laughed. "I told you! Even the King cannot resist my little brother's cooking. Soon he will take all the glory from Father." She teased, tugging his ear with affection.
Around them, the younger kitchen boys and maids cheered, calling Ael "Little Flame" for the way he handled fire at the stoves. To them, he was everyone's younger brother—shy, awkward in body, but so skillful with his hands that they could not help but admire him.
Ael lowered his gaze, cheeks hot. He was not used to praise, but his heart swelled quietly. In that moment, for the first time, he felt he truly belonged.
The tall windows of Kael's chamber were open, letting the cool night breeze carry the faint scent of rain. He had removed his heavy royal coat and sat in silence by the desk, a half-written letter forgotten in front of him. His mind refused to turn to the matters of war and trade.
He thought only of the taste that still lingered on his tongue.
Ael's dish.
It was nothing like the royal meals he had grown up with—too heavy, too rich, too forced. This dish was simple, but every bite carried warmth, honesty, and care. It unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
He leaned back, folding his arms, a frown tugging at his lips.
"What am I doing, thinking of a kitchen boy?" he whispered to himself. "Father would crush me if he knew."
Yet he could not help the truth—he wanted more. More of the food… and more of the boy who had made it.
Kael clenched his jaw and stared out at the dark palace gardens. No one would ever know the prince of Elarion longed for the hands of a kitchen boy.
The kitchens were finally quiet, the fires dimmed to glowing embers. Ael sat on the edge of his small wooden bed, his hands resting on his knees. His sister had already teased him twice before going to sleep—"Our little brother cooked like a master tonight!"—and the kitchen mates had ruffled his hair, calling him "the pride of the kitchens."
Yet Ael's mind was not at peace.
He remembered the way the prince had looked at him—just for a moment—before leaving the table. It was not a harsh glance, nor dismissive, but… curious. Intent.
"Did he even taste my dish properly?" Ael whispered to himself. "He hardly ate… maybe it wasn't good enough."
Still, deep down, he knew Kael had eaten enough to notice. Enough to make him leave with an unreadable expression.
Ael sighed, laying back on the thin blanket. The others saw him as a little brother, a cheerful hand in the kitchen—but in his own heart, there was a small stirring of something he couldn't yet name.
And it frightened him more than it thrilled him.