Chapter 99: Cooking for the Mimics
When she woke up, it was barely dawn, according to her internal clock.
Or...whatever passed for an internal clock underground.
Her hands moved without thinking, muscle memory guiding her through the motions of a simple breakfast. Knife, board, ingredients. Nothing complicated—just broth simmered with mossy roots, eggs fried in oil, bread warmed on the hot plate until the edges crisped golden.
The first mouthful nearly undid her. Salt, yolk, crunch. She chewed slowly, eyes shut, forcing herself to believe she was in Whetvale again, behind her cart, serving miners before their shifts. Not here, not in this dungeon.
She didn’t stop until the bowl was empty, the plate wiped clean. For a few blessed minutes she felt human again.
Then came the knock. Not even a knock, really—more of a scrape, like nails against the door.
The mimic guard.
Marron wiped her hands, rolled her shoulders, and followed. She half-expected to be taken to the fourth-floor diner again. Instead, the patrol led her down a twisting corridor into a chamber she hadn’t seen before.
A kitchen.
The sight almost buckled her knees. A long stone counter, a vented hearth, crude shelves stacked with jars and tools. Some items were real—metal pans, clay pots. Others shimmered faintly, mimic-born illusions given weight. The whole space smelled faintly of smoke and raw stone.
Already waiting at the far end was the Lieutenant. Still as carved ice, eyes pale as snow-glass, hands clasped behind his back.
The chatter of the patrol followed her in. They pressed close, masks slipping, hungry faces breaking into uneven smiles.
"Chef will feed us.""Chef hunted with blade and salt.""Chef bleeds for flavor, flavors for us."
Marron’s stomach tightened. She set her tools on the counter like weapons and laid the wrapped ant meat at the center. The Lieutenant’s gaze flicked to it, then to her.
"Tonight’s portion is yours," she said evenly.
A ripple went through the patrol. One mimic clicked its throat. "Yes. Chef must divide the blessing." Another scraped stone teeth together. "We bled with her. We deserve taste."
Marron looked to the Lieutenant, waiting for judgment.
Silence stretched until her lungs burned. Finally, he spoke:"You decide portions, Chef. But waste my cut..." His voice iced over. "And do not expect mercy."
"Understood."
The hot plate flared to life with a spark. Marron exhaled once and let her body fall into rhythm. Knife, meat, fire. The eternal dance.
She carved the thorax with surgical precision, setting aside a thick, marbled slab for the Lieutenant—golden ichor veining through the flesh like trapped honey. For the patrol, she cut thin strips, quick to cook and easy to divide.
Magic stirred under her skin. Her SSS-class skill pulsed awake, spilling warmth into her fingers, weaving silver threads into every slice, every brush of seasoning. She could see it now, bright veins of flavor-light embedding themselves into the meat.
And she remembered the journal.
"Each enchantment consumed returns not to nothing, but feeds the Core itself."
That explained the dungeon’s brightening walls. The glow. The hum. Every buff she’d unknowingly poured into her food had been feeding the heart of this place.
Not anymore.
She clenched her jaw, forcing the current down, trying to dam the river with sheer will. Sweat beaded along her temple. Holding back an SSS-class skill felt like stopping a volcano with a cork.
Still—she managed.
For the Lieutenant’s cut, she scored the flesh crosshatch, brushed honey wine into the grooves until they shone. Garlic and wild herbs followed, sharp scent deepening into something rich and festival-sweet.
For the patrol, she heated oil until it shimmered, then laid the strips flat. The sizzle rang out—pure music, sharp and clean. Honey glaze caramelized on the surface, golden and sticky.
The mimics swayed in their skins, drooling, their voices rising in warped harmony.
"Yes, yes, the blessing.""Chef seasons with blood, with fire."
Marron ignored them, though her knuckles ached from gripping the handle. They’d taste heaven, yes—but they wouldn’t evolve further. She wouldn’t let them.
While the roast turned, she opened the dwarven journal. Pages crackled under her fingers, ink faded to ghosts. One line burned into her mind:
"Too much flavor given freely will wake hungers in the stone itself."
Her throat dried. She snapped the book shut and shoved it under the counter before anyone could notice.
The roast was ready. Juices pooled golden, surface crisped and fragrant. She plated it with precision: one thick slice for the Lieutenant, glazed and garnished with moss leaves and roots.
For the patrol, she fanned the seared strips across a flat stone, their glaze gleaming, no garnish. Plain. Enough.
"Two different dishes from the same ingredient," she said, voice steady. "Yours roasted slow—for depth. Theirs seared fast—for satisfaction."
The Lieutenant accepted his plate. Pale eyes lingered on her face as he cut, chewed, swallowed. The tension in his jaw eased almost imperceptibly. Another bite followed, slower, as though cataloguing every flavor.
"Acceptable," he said at last. But the word carried more weight than before. He was hiding how much he enjoyed it.
The patrol fell on their portions like wolves. Teeth gnawed, tongues licked stone clean, voices moaning in unnatural chorus. Marron’s stomach turned.
Even so, she saw it: subtle shifts in their stolen bodies. Movements smoother. Faces holding shape longer. Mimicry refined.
She’d held back the buff, but still—her cooking changed them.
And then the air changed.
A draft swept the chamber, cool and alive. The walls pulsed faintly, veins of light threading deeper, brighter, like arteries carrying blood. The dungeon itself had eaten with them.
Marron’s breath caught.
No one else noticed. The mimics were lost in bliss. The Lieutenant was finishing his plate, pale eyes unreadable.
But she knew. Every bite brought her closer to losing not just her cart, but the dungeon itself to her cooking.
She bowed her head to hide her face. Her hands smelled of garlic and honey, but beneath that was fear.
Only one thought steadied her:
I will not let this place devour me.