Morning.
Dew on the grass. Birds chirping. Fire crackling. My stomach growling loud enough to scare off wildlife.
And him. Hovering. Looming. Judging.
The dragon sat coiled like a scaly monument to culinary perfectionism, watching me butcher breakfast with all the patience of a man waiting for a goat to recite poetry.
"You're doing it wrong," he said again.
I stirred the porridge harder. Not because it needed it. Just to annoy him. "I'm stirring."
"You're whipping it. Clockwise. Not counterclockwise. You're agitating the starch."
I didn't even know starch could be agitated. I gave him a look. "It's mush in a pot. Calm your tail."
He made a noise like an exasperated volcano. "Use the wooden spoon. Not the pine stick. Pine taints. The flavor will be sappy."
I threw the stick behind me and grabbed the spoon. Whatever. I'd already ruined it, apparently.
"Now," he said, leaning in like some ancient porridge priest, "gently. Lift. Caress. You coax it like a song."
"I'm not making love to it."
"Clearly," he muttered.
I dumped in the rest of the oats with the flair of a tavern wench flinging beer.
"Too fast!" he barked. "You buried the base. That's an avalanche! You treat porridge like an enemy charge."
I gave him a big grin. "It is charging. Up my nose."
He puffed smoke in my direction. "Why do I bother."
"Because without me, you'd eat charred squirrels and cry."
He didn't deny it.
Then the sniff came. That slow inhale that meant doom. "Did you already salt it?"
"Maybe."
"You always salt too soon! It tightens the grain!"
"Maybe I like tight grain."
He gave me a look like he was debating torching the whole forest just to make a point.
"Back away," he hissed.
"Oh, now you want to do it. After all that talk about apprentices and delegation."
"Delegation does not mean sabotage," he snapped, shuffling forward like a grumpy kitchen god. He took the spoon, stirred it twice—gently, sensually, like it owed him money—and the smell immediately changed.
It smelled… kind of incredible.
"Show-off," I muttered.
"I once cooked for the Emperor of Khor," he said, not even hiding the pride.
"Did he eat it or worship it?"
"He commissioned a temple."
"He was probably high."
"You are uncultured swine."
I plopped onto a rock and watched him fuss with spice pouches and fire levels like it was alchemy. He muttered the whole time. Stirred with reverence. Sprinkled something gold and bitter-smelling.
He poured it into two bowls. His was basically a cauldron. Mine was a sip.
I tasted it.
Gods.
"…Okay, that's stupidly good."
He looked smug enough to combust. "Porridge is sacred. Food is sacred. I am sacred."
I rolled my eyes and licked the spoon. Slowly.
He didn't say anything, but I saw the twitch in his eye. Victory.
"Tomorrow," he muttered, "I'm roasting a goat."
"Make it extra sacred," I said, stealing a spoonful from his bowl. "This badger needs protein."
He groaned. "Don't start."
I grinned, mouth full of creamy, perfect porridge.
I may have botched the cooking. But I won breakfast.