Marked by the Four Beast Lords After Transmigration

Mari tasted the sour red stone-root strip with the expression of someone prepared to dislike it properly.

Nia stood on the safer side of the lower kitchen table with Shen beside her, watching Mari chew while smoke from the bone hearth drifted low enough to sting the back of her throat. The bowl from Sera’s table sat between them, its cloth folded back and its contents glossy from the sour fruit steep. The strips had darkened while Shen carried them down, turning the liquid a deep red that stained the stone where one drop had escaped.

Mari chewed longer than Nia expected, then reached for another strip.

Sera would have smiled. Nia kept her own mouth still and let Mari decide what she wanted to say.

“It is too firm,” Mari said.

“It needs to sit until tomorrow,” Nia said.

Mari pointed at Shen with the second strip. “You cut these?”

“Some.”

“Yours are better.”

Nia turned toward him.

Shen lowered his eyes to the bowl and nudged one of the thinner strips aside with the tip of the tasting spoon. “I cut the thicker ones first. The later ones are thinner.”

Mari grunted and bit through the strip. “For boar, maybe. Smoked bird too. Too sharp for hare.”

“Shen said the same thing.”

“Then he can keep saying useful things.” Mari turned toward the worker at the marking cloth. “Small bowl only. Do not build a dish around it. It cuts fat, it does not feed people.”

The worker wrote quickly.

Nia relaxed her fingers from the edge of her wrap.

The lower kitchens had changed while she had been at Sera’s table. The clean leaf-bundle trays had been moved to the cooler side. Hooks of thick-feather bird hung closer to the smoke pit, their skins beginning to darken at the edges. Two tubs of roasted bones sat near the broth hearth, one marked boar and one marked ridge deer, both giving off a deep, browned smell that made the air richer than it had been when she left. On the far table, pale frost-root and ridge carrot had been scrubbed and cut into uneven chunks, waiting for the roasting trays that were supposed to make up for the delayed gold gourd.

Mari had not stopped working. Ash marked one cuff, her braid had loosened near her neck, and she still reached for the next bowl before the last one settled.

Shen shifted closer as someone passed behind them with a hot bone tray. His sleeve brushed Nia’s arm, and his tail curved near her ankle without wrapping around it. The worker adjusted around the curve of Shen’s tail and passed behind him instead.

Mari’s eyes flicked to Shen’s tail, then back to the bowl. She lifted the sour red strips and carried them toward the boar pot station.

“Bring the rough salt,” she said.

Shen picked up Sera’s small pouch before Nia could reach it. “I have it.”

“I can carry a pouch.”

“You have been on your feet all morning.”

Nia turned her face toward him. “That sounds like something Sera would say.”

His mouth curved. “She would agree.”

Mari turned back from the hearth. “Bring the pouch before the pot cools.”

Nia followed with Shen, stepping around a basket of split hollow stalk and a worker kneeling to scrub spilled fat from the stone. The boar station had been set near the largest hearth, where a deep pot waited without its full contents yet. Chopped sharp bulb, early iron-greens, and roasted bones sat in separate bowls. The first cuts of boar had been divided: some for the festival pot, some for workers, some held back under cloth for patrol or reserve. The festival share looked smaller now that it was laid out in front of the pot.

Mari set the sour strips near the meat and looked at the worker assigned to the station. “Show her the fat.”

The worker lifted a small bowl.

Nia frowned before she meant to. “That is all?”

“That is what remains after patrol, bundle filling, smoke pit, and reserve,” Mari said.

Nia took the bowl carefully. The fat was pale and clean, but not nearly enough to carry a festival-sized boar pot the way Mari had first planned. It would enrich the start, not save the whole thing. The greens and roots would have to help. The bones would have to do more work than usual.

She looked toward the roasted bone tubs. “Did you smell the ridge deer bones yet?”

Mari pointed with her chin. “Strong.”

“How strong?”

“Like they want everyone to know they died on a mountain.”

Shen made a quiet sound beside her.

Nia pressed her lips together and reached for the boar bone tub instead. The roasted bones were dark at the edges, browned enough to promise flavor without crossing into bitterness. When the worker shifted them, marrow and browned bits clung to the pan below.

“Start with the boar bones,” Nia said. “Keep the ridge deer separate, like we said. If the broth stays thin, we can add a little of the deer broth after tasting.”

Mari watched her for a breath. “Good.”

Nia held the word for half a breath, then reached for the boar bone tub.

The worker poured hot water over the boar bones. Steam rose at once, carrying browned fat and marrow with it. Nia leaned closer until Shen’s hand touched the back of her wrap.

“The steam is too hot,” he said.

“I know.”

“I was smelling it.”

Mari reached around Nia, took the spoon, and scraped the browned pan bits into the water. “Your eyebrows do not need broth.”

Nia stepped back, and Shen’s hand left her back only after she was clear of the steam.

The pot began with fat, sharp bulb, and a smaller pile of boar than the first menu cloth had promised. The scent rose sweet and sharp, then deepened when the first pieces of boar went in. There was not enough meat to make the pot look abundant, but the sound of it hitting hot fat still drew attention from nearby workers. Mari stirred hard, letting the edges catch color before adding the bone water.

Nia watched the liquid darken.

“Early greens now?” Mari asked.

“A small amount,” Nia said. “Enough to flavor the broth. Hold most back.”

The worker added chopped iron-greens, and the pot took on their sturdy, mineral scent. They darkened quickly where they touched the heat. Nia could almost taste how they would go heavy if everything went in at once.

“Stop there.”

Mari gestured, and the worker pulled the bowl back.

The pot simmered while the kitchen kept moving around it. Someone called for more cloth near the smoke pit. A child’s voice echoed briefly from the corridor before being shushed and redirected. Rovan appeared at the doorway with one shoulder dusted in flour or ash and three strips tucked into his belt.

He stopped when he saw the sour red strips. “Those are the berry sheets?”

“No,” Mari said.

Rovan looked disappointed. “Then what are they?”

“Not for you.”

Rovan glanced at Mari, then came closer anyway. “Could runners carry them?”

Nia smiled. “Not well. They are wet.”

“Then not for runners.”

Mari pointed at him with the stirring spoon. “If you want food, stand near the worker tray instead of staring at boar garnish.”

Shen opened Sera’s pouch of rough herb salt and tipped a small amount into a shallow dish. “This may be better for your bread.”

Rovan’s attention moved at once.

Mari stared at Shen. “Do not feed him all the test salt.”

“Only a pinch.”

Rovan held out the last bite of his root bread.

Shen sprinkled the smallest pinch over it.

Rovan ate, chewed, and stilled. His eyes lowered to the bread as if it had changed shape in his hand. “That is better.”

Nia studied the pouch. “The rough salt wakes up plain bread. It might help the roasted roots too.”

Mari’s gaze shifted toward the cut roots. “That salt came from Sera?”

“Sera’s bread salt,” Nia said. “Dried winter herb, salt, maybe crushed hollow stalk and sharp bulb.”

“Too rough for broth,” Shen added.

“But good on roots, where it can cling to the oil,” Nia said.

Mari walked to the root table with the dish of herb salt. The worker there had already oiled two roasting trays with a careful hand, stretching the fat thin enough that Nia could see dull stone through the sheen. Pale frost-root and ridge carrot waited in separate piles. The red stone-root pile was small beside them.

Mari dipped a finger into the salt and tasted it. “Sharp.”

“For roots, that may help.” Nia picked up a piece of pale frost-root. “The roots need their own flavor, not just the place where gold gourd should have been.”

The worker beside the tray glanced toward Mari as if to see whether that much honesty was allowed.

Mari only took the frost-root from Nia and dropped it onto the tray. “Tell me how.”

Nia looked over the piles. “Keep the pale roots larger so they soften inside. Ridge carrot smaller, because sweetness will show faster. Red stone-root thin, since there is less of it and it stays hard. Oil first, then rough salt. Berry sharpener after roasting, not before, or they may steam instead of brown.”

Mari nodded to the worker. “You heard her.”

The worker began adjusting the cuts.

Nia moved her hands to help, then remembered the line of hot trays, knives, and Mari’s mood. She settled for pointing. “That one can be smaller. That ridge carrot is too thin; it will burn before the frost-root softens.”

Shen stepped in without needing to ask. He cut where she indicated, his hands neat and quick, each corrected piece sliding into the pile without disturbing the worker’s rhythm.

Mari watched him too.

“You cook like a fussy old woman,” she said.

Shen slid another cut piece into place. “Thank you.”

Rovan laughed once, then straightened before Mari had to turn fully. “I have a message for the smoke pit.”

“Then take it there.”

He went, still chewing the better-seasoned root bread.

The first test tray of roots went near the hearth rather than into the hottest part. Nia stayed back while Shen and the worker turned the pieces after their edges began to brown. The rough salt clung to the oil, leaving little dark flecks over the pale roots. The smell changed slowly: root sweetness, herb, sharp bulb, warmed fat. It was not gold gourd richness. It could not pretend to be. But it had its own sturdiness, the kind of flavor that would hold beside broth, boar, and cold hands.

Mari returned to the boar pot and lifted the lid.

The steam that escaped was leaner than Nia wanted, but not empty. The roasted boar bones had done their work. The broth smelled browned and savory, the early greens softened into it without taking over. Mari dipped a spoon, cooled it against the rim, and tasted.

Her face gave away almost nothing.

She handed the spoon to Nia.

Shen caught Nia’s sleeve before she reached too far over the pot and took the spoon from Mari himself, cooling it again before offering it to Nia. Mari saw that too. Her eyes flicked to Shen’s hand, to Nia’s, then back to the pot without comment.

Nia tasted.

The broth had depth, but it was thin around the edges. The boar was there. The greens were there. The fat did not linger the way it would have if the original count had held. It needed the late greens. It needed maybe a small amount of ridge deer bone broth if carefully blended. It also needed the sour strips beside it, not inside it, because putting them in the pot would make the whole thing sharp instead of giving each bite a way out of richness.

“It is close,” she said.

Mari took the spoon back. “Close means not enough.”

“Close means we should not ruin it trying to fix it.” Nia turned toward the ridge deer tub. “A little of the deer broth may help. Not bones in this pot. Just broth, after it simmers separately. Taste before adding more.”

Mari’s mouth shifted. “Strong bones.”

“A little can help if the boar still tastes first.”

Shen’s eyes warmed at the phrase, but he only reached for the smaller ladle.

Mari allowed one small ladle of ridge deer broth after it had simmered long enough to color the water. The scent deepened at once, darker and wilder beneath the boar. Nia tasted again after Mari stirred.

The second taste was better, still lean but no longer hollow.

Mari took the spoon from her hand and tasted for herself. “Late greens after the meat softens.”

“Yes.”

“Sour strips beside, not in.”

“Yes.”

“Roasted roots with rough salt and berry sharpener after.”

“Yes.”

Mari turned to the worker at the cloth. “Change the line. Boar and iron-greens pot with roasted bones. Sour red strips beside if they soften by serving. Roasted winter roots with rough salt and berry sharpener. Gold gourd separate if the path opens.”

The worker wrote, then paused. “If the path opens?”

Cold air kept slipping under the corridor curtain, and Mari turned toward it. “If. Not when.”

Nia watched the worker strike the old line thinner and write the new one beneath it. The first menu cloth had been neat. This one had crossed-out lines, darker ink, and room for what the mountain could actually give them.

The root tray finished first.

Shen lifted it from the hearth with both hands wrapped in cloth. The pieces had browned at the edges, the pale frost-root soft enough to give when Mari pressed it with the side of a spoon. Ridge carrot had darkened into small orange-gold pieces. The thin red stone-root had curled slightly, not tender enough to be abundant, but enough to scatter color through the tray.

Nia spooned a little berry sharpener over one corner only.

“Not all?” the worker asked.

“Test first.”

Mari took a piece with berry sharpener and a piece without. She ate the plain one first, then the sharp one.

The worker held her breath badly.

Mari swallowed. “The sharpened corner is better.”

Nia exhaled.

“But not too much,” Mari added. “If everything tastes bright, nothing does.”

Nia nodded. “A drizzle after roasting. Maybe keep some plain for elders who want softer flavor.”

Mari pointed to the cloth. “Write split trays. Some sharpened, some plain.”

Shen passed Nia a small piece of frost-root from the sharpened corner. “Careful. Hot.”

She took it between her fingers, blowing on it once before tasting. The outside had taken the rough salt well. The herb clung to the oil. The berry sharpener cut through the root sweetness without making it taste like dessert. It was not exciting the way honey-bark berry cups were exciting.

Nia reached for another piece before she answered.

“That will work,” she said.

Mari heard the certainty and grunted. “Good. We need things that work.”

Rovan returned with the smoke-pit strip and the smell of smoke woven into his hair. He stopped beside the root tray before Mari could warn him.

“No.”

His hand froze halfway out.

Mari picked up one piece of plain frost-root and held it out. “One. Then carry this to Kael if he is still near the cold store.”

Rovan took the root with the reverence of a man who had almost been denied and ate it too quickly.

His eyes widened. “Hot.”

Nia reached for the water cup, but Shen had already picked it up and passed it to him.

Rovan drank, breathed through his nose, and nodded toward the tray. “That is good.”

“Message,” Mari said.

He accepted the marked strip from the worker. “To Kael near the cold store.”

“And tell him gold gourd remains delayed, but the root trays work without it.”

Rovan repeated it under his breath, then looked at Nia. “The root trays work without it.”

“Yes.”

He nodded once and left.

The boar pot continued to simmer.

It would not be ready for hours. The meat needed time to soften. The late greens waited in their bowl, washed and chopped. The sour red strips were covered again and marked for tomorrow. The rough herb salt went into Mari’s keeping after she measured a careful portion back into Sera’s pouch.

Shen tied the pouch closed and set it beside the sour bowl. “Sera will ask whether you returned it.”

Mari snorted. “Sera can come collect her salt if she wants to accuse me of theft.”

“She will.”

Mari said, “She will.”

Nia smiled. “Yes.”

For a little while, the kitchen settled into the kind of motion that did not need her hands. Workers carried bones to broth, roots to trays, scraps to worker pots. Shen helped lift a heavy pan, then wiped the table where the sour liquid had stained the stone. Mari stood over the updated cloth, one hand braced beside the fresh ink.

Nia stayed near the edge of the table and let herself be still.

The morning’s movement caught up with her once no one was asking her to choose, taste, or explain. The knot of her scarf still held Sera’s careful tightening, and the pouch of herb salt sat marked and useful in Mari’s kitchen.

Shen came to stand beside her, close enough that his sleeve touched hers.

“You have been standing too long,” he said.

Nia studied the cloth, the pot, the roots, the covered sour strips. “Maybe.”

His tail curved lightly around the back of her ankle. “We can take the long corridor back. Warmer.”

“Mari may still need—”

Mari did not look up from the cloth. “Mari needs fewer people hovering near hot pots. Go before Kael asks why you are still here.”

Nia turned toward her. “Does everyone report how long I stand?”

“Yes,” Mari said.

Shen’s hand settled at Nia’s back.

Nia gathered the empty bowl from Sera’s table, but Shen took it before she had fully lifted it.

“Shen.”

“The long corridor has uneven steps,” he said, tucking the bowl under one arm.

Mari made a low sound from the table and did not look up.

As they moved toward the corridor, Nia glanced back once. The updated cloth lay weighted at its corners, ink still dark where the worker had changed the lines. Boar and iron-greens pot with roasted bones. Sour red strips beside if softened. Roasted roots with rough salt and berry sharpener. Gold gourd separate if the path opened.

It was not the first imagined menu, but it was a better one for the mountain they actually had.

Shen lifted the curtain with his free hand, letting Nia pass into the warmer side corridor before him. The air there smelled less of smoke and more of stone, wool, and the faint herbal steam from the treatment rooms below. His hand returned to the small of her back as they walked.

Behind them, Mari’s voice cut through the kitchen.

“Do not drown the roots in berry. I said drizzle.”

Nia laughed before she could stop herself.

The corner of Shen’s mouth softened, and his tail brushed her ankle as they turned toward the long corridor home.

Behind them, the lower kitchens kept working around the changed cloth, and the boar pot kept simmering.

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