I must work hard and make this perfect. This is the very first task we are performing for our new master, and the first impression will set the tone for our entire future in this house. I will ensure every detail is flawless.

  I stood in the center of the kitchen, taking a deep breath to steady my racing heart. The room felt large and full of potential, a far cry from the cramped, communal kitchens of the slave compound. I began by selecting two heavy iron pots—sturdy vessels that looked capable of holding the heat—to prepare two distinct dishes: a light soup to open the palate and a hearty main course to satisfy the hunger our master had mentioned so many times.

  I signaled to Wyn to handle the hearth. She moved with her usual efficiency, her beastman instincts making her quick and sure-footed as she gathered the kindling. I left her to tend to the flames, focusing my full attention on the ingredients we had gathered at the market. I had decided on a menu that felt both refined and comforting: a vibrant tomato soup followed by a rich wheat pilaf mixed with sweet corn and tender meat.

  I began with the tomatoes. They were ripe and firm, their skins glowing under the kitchen light. I peeled them one by one with a sharp knife, working slowly and methodically. I made sure to hold them over a deep ceramic bowl so that not a single drop of the precious juice would be lost, even if I accidentally pierced the flesh during the process. Once I had a sufficient pile of peeled tomatoes, I moved them to a wooden cutting board. I sliced them into the smallest pieces I could manage, ensuring they would break down and blend into the soup's base without leaving any unrefined chunks behind. After each tomato was processed, I carefully swept the slices and the collected juice into a fresh bowl, repeating the cycle until the pile was gone.

  Next came the onion. I took a medium-sized bulb, stripped away the papery outer layers, and began to dice it. I kept these pieces slightly larger than the tomato fragments, wanting them to provide a bit of texture and a foundational sweetness to the base of the soup. Lastly, I took a block of the fresh cheese we had purchased for breakfast. I cut it into tiny, delicate cubes, setting them aside to be used as the final flourish.

  When the preparations were complete, I drizzled enough oil into the first pot to thoroughly drench the surface. Wyn had successfully coaxed the fire into a steady, even heat. I placed the pot over the flames and handed Wyn the meat we had brought from the butcher.

  “Wyn, please slice the meat into bite-sized pieces,” I instructed, demonstrating with my thumb. “Try to keep them uniform, about the size of the tip of your thumb, so they cook evenly.”

  She nodded, her focus sharp as she took up the task. With her busy, I returned to the stove. Once the oil began to shimmer and give off a faint, nutty aroma, I added the diced onions. I watched them closely, stirring them with a wooden spoon until their translucent white turned to a soft, delicate pink. At that exact moment, I added a generous pinch of ground garlic, letting the scent bloom in the air for just a few seconds before adding three measured cups of water. The fire was strong, and it didn't take long for the liquid to reach a rolling boil. I seasoned the base with five pinches of salt and two of cracked black pepper.

  Once the seasoning had dissolved, I added the tomatoes. I stirred the mixture continuously, watching as the ingredients began to marry into a thick, fragrant soup. When the consistency looked right, I moved the pot to the cooler edge of the hearth and scattered the cheese cubes over the surface, allowing them to soften into the heat.

  I then turned my attention to the second pot for the main course. I added a bit more oil this time, waiting for it to reach a high heat. By then, Wyn had finished the meat. I slid the pieces into the pot, the sizzle echoing through the kitchen. While I began the initial sear, I glanced toward the living room.

  “Wyn, could you please go and set the utensils for the dinner table?” I asked quietly.

  While she moved to the dining area, I focused on the meat. When it was roughly half-cooked and the exterior was beautifully browned, I added the corn. I stirred them together, letting the corn kernels char slightly in the fat, before adding the cracked wheat—filling about a quarter of the pot. I stirred the wheat until every grain was polished and glistening with oil, then added twice as much water as I had wheat. I finished the seasoning with five pinches of black pepper and seven of salt, then pressed the lid firmly onto the pot to let it steam.

  With the main dish simmering, I joined Wyn in the living room to finish the table. We moved with the synchronized grace we had been taught, laying out two plates, a spoon for each setting, a cup, a fresh portion of bread, and a metal pitcher filled with cool water.

  “Is the meal ready?”

  The master’s voice came from the couch. He didn't look up, but his tone was expectant.

  “The soup is ready, master,” I replied, stepping toward him with a slight bow. “Please, feel free to enjoy your soup now. I will finish the main dish and bring it out before you are done. Wyn can stay here to serve you while I remain in the kitchen.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  “No, forget it,” he said, his voice flat and devoid of interest. “I can wait.”

  I paused, a flicker of confusion crossing my mind. “Did you not say that you were hungry, master?”

  I was certain I had heard him mention his hunger multiple times since we left the market. We had worked at an almost frantic pace to ensure he wouldn't have to wait, yet now he was waving it off. I wondered if I had somehow misread the situation.

  “I am indeed hungry,” he said, finally sitting up and looking at us. “But why are you only putting out plates for me? I already told you at the market—I want us to eat together.”

  “Yes, master, you certainly said that,” I replied, my voice hesitating. “But the main dish isn't quite finished yet, and we didn't want you to have to wait a moment longer. Also... we weren't entirely sure about the arrangement. There is a small table in the kitchen; we thought perhaps we would eat there once you had finished your meal.”

  This was the core of our training. A master and a slave were separated by an invisible but unbreakable line. To cross that line, to sit at his table as if we were his equals, felt like a violation of the very order of the world.

  “...Sigh.” He looked at me, a long, weary exhale escaping him. “Just wait until the meal is finished, and then come and eat with me. I think we need to have a real talk after that.”

  He turned back toward the fire, leaving me flustered. I felt a surge of anxiety. A talk? The phrase usually preceded a lecture or a punishment in the compound. I hoped desperately that I hadn't already done something to earn his ire.

  Since he had given a direct order, there was no room for further argument. I hurried back to the kitchen to finalize the pilaf, while Wyn adjusted the table setting for three people instead of one. I lifted the lid of the pot a few times, stirring the wheat to ensure the strong fire didn't burn the bottom of the dish. When the water had been fully absorbed and the grains were tender, I carried the heavy pot into the living room and placed it in the center of the table.

  Everything was ready. The steam from the soup and the pilaf rose in swirling patterns, filling the room with a rich, savory aroma. Wyn was already busy filling the bowls with soup, so I began to portion out the wheat and meat onto the plates.

  Our master rose from the couch and took his seat at the head of the table. I caught him watching us out of the corner of my eye as we worked. He didn't speak; he simply observed the way we moved, his gaze unreadable.

  “Here, master. Please, enjoy your meal,” I said, placing the first filled plate in front of him.

  He had the soup and the main course ready, yet he didn't pick up his spoon. He waited, his hands resting on the table, until Wyn and I had finished serving ourselves and had taken our seats—facing each other, just to his right.

  “Okay,” he said, finally reaching for his spoon. “You can start.”

  I picked up my spoon reluctantly, my eyes fixed on his hand. I felt a paralyzing tension. Will he like it? Did I over-season it? Is the wheat too firm? I couldn't hear any sound from Wyn’s side of the table, either; she was likely holding her breath just as I was.

  He took a careful sip of the soup, his expression neutral. “Hmm...” he hummed.

  Then, he took a forkful of the pilaf, chewing slowly. “Hmm...” he hummed again.

  I couldn't stand the silence any longer. My nerves were frayed to the breaking point. “M-master...”

  He looked up, his dark brown eyes meeting mine. “Hm? What is it, Woya?”

  “Master... I am sorry to interrupt, but... did you like the taste of the meal?” I asked, my voice small but fueled by a desperate need for validation.

  “...Hmm,” he started, his voice sounding a bit reluctant. “I'm sorry to have to say this right at the start, but please... don't make tomato soup from now on.”

  I felt as though the floor had dropped out from under me. A wave of profound disappointment and shame washed over me. I had failed. My very first attempt to serve him, and I had produced something he found unpleasant.

  “U-uh... I-is that so?” I stammered, my head dropping. “I am deeply ashamed, master. I will strive to do better.”

  “Hey, sorry,” he said, his tone shifting instantly as he noticed my reaction. “I think I expressed that a bit poorly. The soup doesn't taste bad at all. In fact, it’s actually quite well-made. The problem is simply that I, personally, don't like tomato soup very much. It’s a matter of preference, not a reflection of your cooking. As for the other dish—the wheat and meat—it’s excellent. I really like the flavor. I’d definitely like to have this again.”

  The weight in my chest lifted almost instantly. I looked up at him, my eyes wide. It was a stroke of incredible bad luck that I had chosen the one dish he disliked for our first meal, but the fact that he enjoyed the main course was enough to save my spirit.

  “Thank you for your compliment, master,” I said, bowing my head with genuine gratitude. “I will make sure to remember your preferences and refrain from making anything you find unappealing in the future.”

  With the tension finally broken, we began to eat our own portions. The room fell into a quiet, rhythmic peace, the only sounds being the soft clatter of spoons against ceramic and the occasional crackle from the fireplace. From time to time, the master would gesture for a refill of water or a bit more of the pilaf, and we would move quickly to serve him. Despite the initial awkwardness, it was the most peaceful meal I had shared since the day the slave trader’s carriage had pulled away from our village.

  [Edited]