Westirifer sat commandingly at the westernmost edge of Lustbound Heaven, where the air already carried the faint metallic tang of distant storms. To the north rose the **Gigori Hills**—jagged obsidian-and-granite spines that pierced low-hanging clouds like the teeth of sleeping giants, their peaks perpetually wreathed in mist that glowed faintly violet at dusk. Lower down, gentler foothills rolled like the shoulders of some vast slumbering beast, blanketed in knee-high silvergrass that hissed softly whenever wind moved through it.
To the south stretched endless plateaus of cracked basalt and ochre clay, separated by shallow, meandering streams that glittered like molten copper under the afternoon sun. The flat land between them formed Westirifer's natural grassland: waves of emerald-and-gold blades that rippled in perfect unison, releasing a sweet, sun-warmed hay scent every time a breeze passed.
East lay the **Nightbloom Forest**—a living wall of midnight-blue trunks and leaves that shimmered like wet velvet. Even from the edge, the air changed: cooler, damper, thick with the heavy perfume of night-blooming jasmine, crushed fern, and the faint coppery musk of large predators that never fully slept.
And to the west ran the wide, white-stone trade road that eventually fed into the spires of Virexion, the capital, its distant minarets flashing like polished mirrors against the horizon.
Lucifer slipped out of the ducal kitchen in a blur of motion. The moment he crossed the threshold, the warm butter-and-spice aroma of the kitchen gave way to the crisp bite of pine resin and wet earth. Using his supernatural speed, he became little more than a ripple in the air; grass barely bent beneath his feet as he arrowed straight into Nightbloom.
Inside the forest the light fractured into deep indigo and emerald shafts. Every few steps the ground squelched softly—decaying leaves and moss so thick it felt like walking on damp velvet. Sounds layered on top of each other: the low, wet croak of unseen amphibians, the papery rustle of giant moth wings overhead, the distant, bone-rattling bellow of something far larger than any natural wolf. The air tasted faintly of iron and nightshade.
Deeper in, Lucifer's senses sharpened. He caught the distinctive dry, dusty smell of Cluckhorn Drake feathers—something between sun-baked straw and hot scales—long before he saw them.
The pack of twelve grazed in a small clearing. Each drake was the size of a full-grown buffalo, feathered body gleaming iridescent bronze and forest green in the dappled light. Two long serpentine necks rose from a single muscular torso, each ending in a chicken-like head with a bright crimson comb that pulsed faintly with inner heat. Their draconic wings—leathery, veined with gold—were folded tight against powerful shoulders. Webbed talons gouged deep furrows in the black soil as they scratched for grubs. A long, thick tail lashed lazily behind each one, tipped with a cluster of razor-sharp bone spurs that clicked softly against stone whenever they moved.
Lucifer struck in a single heartbeat of motion. Twin flashes of steel; two heads thudded to the leaf litter almost soundlessly, bright arterial blood steaming in the cool air. The copper-salt smell of fresh kill bloomed instantly. The rest of the pack never even looked up—too busy tearing at tender small plants and insects with wet ripping sounds.
He stored both massive carcasses in his space with a thought, feeling the faint warm weight vanish from his hands, then turned and raced back. The forest scents blurred into a single rushing tunnel of pine, blood, and wet earth until he burst back into the ducal kitchen.
The moment he crossed the threshold, warmth enveloped him again: the rich, golden smell of melting butter, the sharp green bite of freshly chopped herbs, the sweet-earthy undertone of pearl peas and moonheart mushrooms. Steam curled from multiple pots, carrying snatches of cumin, garlic, and slow-caramelizing onions.
Everything was ready—almost.
Gracy and the younger shadowborns had peeled and diced mountains of potatoes, onions, and pearl peas; the starchy, slightly sulfurous scent of raw onion still lingered on their fingers. Emerald leaves lay in damp, glossy piles like scattered jewels, releasing a clean, almost minty fragrance whenever anyone brushed past. Cauliflower florets gleamed ivory-white in one basin, moonheart mushrooms gave off their signature faint luminescent glow and a deep umami aroma like aged porcini.
Amelia and Wisteria had peeled 30–40 fat garlics whole; the sharp, almost acrid perfume of fresh garlic hung around them like a cloud. Nearby sat neat piles: 200 g shimmering black peppercorns (their fragrance warm and woody), 150 g cumin (dusty-sweet), 20 bay leaves brittle and dark green, exuding a faint eucalyptus note.
Lucifer didn't pause. "Vritra—five kilos of tomatoes, small dice. Aelune—ten kilos of lentils, rinse until the water runs clear."
He pulled the two Cluckhorn Drakes from storage. The kitchen instantly filled with the concentrated smell of warm feathers, hot blood, and the faint smoky char of draconic scales. Their weight made the heavy oak table creak as he laid them down.
"Lovertia," he said softly, "skin them clean, debone every scrap of meat, and thoroughly wash the organs—liver, lungs, heart, gizzard, intestines. Take Mara and Gracy to help."
Lovertia's eyes lit with smug pride. She divided the tasks with exaggerated seriousness:
- Mara: skinning (the wet, sucking sound of hide peeling away from muscle would fill the next half-hour)
- Herself: deboning (the rhythmic wet thunk of knife against cartilage)
- Gracy: cleaning the internals (the sour, metallic reek of stomach contents and intestinal slime would make her nose wrinkle every few seconds)
When Gracy protested about the foul smell of guts, Lovertia crossed her arms. "That's your punishment for stealing my lap time and my kiss."
Mara grinned wickedly. "Fine. From now on I'll always take your place with Papa. Punish me all you want—I'll do anything to stay close to him."
Gracy nodded fiercely. Lovertia's smug expression cracked into genuine annoyance—until Lucifer's calm voice cut through from behind.
"Tia, come here. You and I will finish the stew and the dessert together. Let your sisters handle the rest."
Lovertia's face instantly transformed—cheeks flushing rose-petal pink, eyes sparkling like moonstones. She practically floated to his side.
Mara and Gracy chorused indignantly, "Daddy, that's favoritism!"
Lucifer only smiled. "No favoritism. I spent time with all of you earlier. Tia waited patiently. Now it's her turn."
The two younger girls' shoulders slumped, but they turned back to the messy, steaming pile of drake internals without further protest, the wet sloshing sounds resuming.
Lucifer, Amelia, Wisteria, Vritra, Aelune, and Lovertia formed a smooth production line. Knives flashed in bright kitchen light; the rhythmic thock-thock-thock of blades on wood filled the room. Carrots released a bright, sweet-orange scent as they were sliced. Onions hissed softly when their layers parted, releasing eye-watering sulfur. Moonheart mushrooms gave off gentle blue bioluminescence and a deep, almost meaty aroma as they were quartered. Emerald leaves tore with a clean, juicy snap.
Lucifer slid an enormous cauldron onto the hottest burner. The iron bottom instantly began to tick and pop. He poured in 2.5 liters of golden butter. The solid blocks slumped, then collapsed into a shimmering, bubbling lake that filled the entire kitchen with the rich, nutty, almost caramelized fragrance of browning dairy.
When the butter screamed hot, he tossed in the cumin seeds from Amelia's bowl. They hissed and danced, instantly releasing a warm, earthy, almost smoky wave of aroma that rolled through the room like a summer wind.
Next came lentils from Vritra—dry and pebbly at first, then softening as they met the heat. A handful of green chillies from Wisteria followed; their sharp, grassy heat bloomed immediately, stinging the back of the throat even from a meter away.
Potatoes and carrots from Lovertia went in next, followed by bay leaves from Amelia. The vegetables sizzled and softened, releasing sweet starches and woody notes. After twenty-five minutes the mixture had taken on a deep, golden hue and a comforting, homey smell that made every stomach in the room rumble.
Aelune dumped in the rest of the mixed vegetables. A pinch of turmeric turned everything a vibrant saffron. Salt crystals sparkled briefly before dissolving. Water followed—pouring in a steady silver stream until the cauldron was nearly full. A final scatter of chopped cilantro and coarsely ground black pepper, then the lid went on. (Lucifer promptly forgot about it, distracted by the next task.)
He joined Mara and Gracy at the drake carcasses. Together they scrubbed intestines until the sour stench faded to a clean, meaty smell; trimmed fat until only silky-smooth muscle remained. Bones clattered into one pile, feathers into another—soft, warm, faintly oily.
Lucifer cubed the lean meat into thick squares, scoring each piece lightly so marinade could penetrate. In a huge basin he mixed ginger-garlic-chilli paste (sharp and sinus-clearing), salt, cracked pepper, rivers of fresh lime juice (bright citrus mist rising), rosemary and thyme (piney and resinous), another liter of melted butter, and half a kilogram of thick, tangy yogurt. The combined smell was ferocious—spicy, savory, creamy, herbaceous, mouth-wateringly acidic.
The meat soaked in this fiery bath for thirty minutes, turning glossy and deeply stained. Then banana leaves—still carrying the faint green scent of the plantation—were used to wrap each portion. The parcels went into the brick oven, where radiant heat immediately began to coax out deep, smoky-roast notes.
By now the stew had been simmering for an hour; the kitchen smelled overwhelmingly of slow-cooked comfort—sweet root vegetables, warm spices, buttery richness. The drake meat had been roasting forty minutes; the banana-leaf packets were now leaking fragrant steam that smelled of charred citrus, herbs, and succulent dark meat.
Lucifer turned to the final dish. A second massive cauldron received 30 liters of fresh milk. As it warmed, the sweet, clean scent of dairy filled every corner. Fifteen liters of raw honey followed—thick golden ropes that sank slowly, releasing floral, almost candy-like perfume. Flour went in next (roughly a quarter of the honey volume), thickening the mixture into a velvety custard base.
Aelune stood on a stool, stirring constantly with a long wooden paddle. The soft slosh-slosh-slosh became hypnotic. Every few minutes Lucifer drifted over and dusted in cardamom (sweet-spicy), cinnamon (warm-bark), and handfuls of mixed dry fruits—almonds snapping, raisins plumping, cashews turning golden. The air grew heavier, sweeter, almost dessert-like on its own.
Ninety minutes later, Lucifer extinguished every flame. The brick oven sighed as it cooled; both stoves clicked into silence.
Three perfect dishes remained:
- **Hearty Vegetable Stew** — deep golden broth, tender chunks of root vegetables and mushrooms, bright pops of pearl peas, underpinned by butter, cumin, and slow-simmered depth.
- **Roasted Cluckhorn Drake Meat** — mahogany-glazed parcels, meat fork-tender, juices running clear and fragrant with lime, herbs, garlic, and smoky char.
- **Honey-Milk Pudding** — thick, glossy, pale amber, studded with nuts and raisins, scented with cardamom and cinnamon, sweet enough to make teeth ache in the best way.
Lucifer tasted each one. A spoonful of stew—warm, savory, perfectly balanced. A bite of roast meat—juicy, spicy, deeply satisfying. A taste of pudding—creamy, floral, indulgent.
Satisfied, he plated two generous portions of roast meat, two deep bowls of stew, and one small bowl of pudding, sealed them carefully, and handed the tray to Lovertia.
"Go give your mother her share, Tia."
Lovertia practically glowed as she carried the tray away, the rich aromas trailing behind her like a royal banner.
Back in the kitchen, every remaining woman and shadowborn daughter stared at the cauldrons and oven like they were holy relics. Drool glistened at the corners of mouths. Mara and Aelune's eyes were locked on the remaining roast parcels; their pupils were blown wide, nostrils flaring with every breath, completely hypnotized by the scent of spiced, caramelized drake meat.
The rest of the ducal household along with them were going to have a hearthy meal and they know it well.