Morning sunlight spilled through the tall windows like a gentle reminder that yesterday was not, in fact, a dream. Ira sat up on the stiff castle couch, her joints aching and her hair a mess.   Ira, still groggy from yesterday’s chaos, was greeted by a small knock.

It was the kid from before—tousled hair, big eyes, trying his best to look serious with a clipboard that was too big for his hands.

 He said. “I’m Dimitri. Apprentice to Lord Sigrid.”

His voice cracked a little. Ira blinked.

“I’m here to take you and your family to your assigned jobs,” he added in a rehearsed tone, then turned with a crispness he clearly practiced in the mirror.

They followed the kid through corridors of old stone and enchanted sconces, each step echoing with the promise of a strange new routine.

First stop: the garden.

Only, garden was a generous word. It looked more like the wilderness had won a long, bloody war against the flower beds.

Rick stared at the towering weeds and overgrown vines with a resigned expression. “Sure,” he said. “This looks manageable. If I was an ent.”

Second stop: the dusty archive.Her father was handed a quill, a worn desk, and a mountain of ancient parchment.

He looked thrilled. 

Third stop: the sewing room.

Two elderly tailors sized up Ira’s mother while magical needles threaded themselves mid-air.

She is not so thrilled.

And finally, the kitchen.

After making his rounds, Dimitri returned to Lord Sigrid’s chambers.

“All members are settled in their new positions, my lord. That lady is in the kitchen,” he reported, chest puffed with pride.

Sigrid, lounging by the window with his usual brooding look, simply nodded. “Good. Tell Logan that Miss Grace will handle the cooking now. He is to assist her.”

Dimitri blinked. “...Chef Logan might cry.”

“He’ll survive,” Sigrid muttered.

When the message reached Logan, it hit him like a falling sack of flour.

“She’s in charge?” he sputtered. “But… cooking is my thing! Sort of.”

Still, orders were orders. And deep down, Logan respected Sigrid too much to protest.

Ira arrived in the kitchen to find him standing stiffly, arms crossed, looking like a dethroned king.

“I’ve been told to assist you,” he said flatly. “What do you need?”

“Everything,” Ira replied. “Layout, ingredients, utensils, recipes. Show me how the place runs.”

As he explained the kitchen’s system, Ira noticed his knife work—neat, precise, efficient. The storage? Impeccably clean. Spices were alphabetized. Counters gleamed.

“You’re amazing with hygiene and prep,” she said with a genuine smile.

Logan blinked.

“Really?”

“Absolutely. It’s an essential for any chef.”

The poor man turned red from his ears to his collar. “Th-thank you,” he stammered, suddenly fumbling with a ladle.

Ira then asked, “Does Lord Sigrid have any allergies or preferences?”

Logan paused. “Um. I… don’t know.”

She sighed. “Can you ask him?”

He nodded and shuffled off.

Logan approached Sigrid later with the question. The mage lord paused, visibly caught off guard.

No one had ever asked him that.

Not his caretakers. Not his servants. Not even his grandfather, who buried himself in grief after Sigrid’s mother died. He was raised in cold halls and colder silence. Food had always been functional, not emotional.

“I’m not picky,” he said at last. “Tell her that.”

But his feet found their way back to the kitchen door. He stood silently, watching Ira prepare a pot of stew over a soft flame. Her motions were smooth, rhythmic—like she belonged here.

Steam curled around her face. Something about it… was warm. Too warm. He returns to his room silently.....

Back in the kitchen, Dimitri snuck in to observe.

“What’re you making?” he asked, trying to act cool.

“Simple stew. Fresh bread.”

GROWL.

Dimitri froze. His stomach betrayed him.

Ira raised a brow. “Was that… a dragon?”

“N-no,” he said quickly, turning pink.

She burst into laughter.

“Hey! Stop laughing! I’m not hungry!”

“You sound like one!”

“I DO NOT!”

Flushed and flustered, Dimitri stormed out, mumbling something about evil stew witches and cursed food.

Ira wiped a tear from her eye. “What a kid,” she muttered fondly.

Meanwhile, in the so-called garden, Rick was knee-deep in weeds and regrets.

He had started with enthusiasm… which quickly drained when he realized the “garden” had become an untamed jungle.

“This isn’t gardening. This is survival.”

Then he felt it.

A rustle.

A shiver.

Before he could react, something slithered. A thick vine curled around his ankle.

“What the—aaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

It yanked.

Rick screamed as he was pulled into the greenery like a sock on a laundry day.