The Culinary Academies invite you to attend the Ambrosial Summit in Ambrosia City.

By receiving this invitation, your potential as a Chef has been recognized and the Culinary Academies welcome you to apply.

If you choose to attend the Academy of Ambrosia, you require sponsorship of 100 gold per annum from a Jacketed Restaurant, for whom you shall serve as an apprentice. If you would like to attend any of the other Culinary Academies, you will be given the chance to speak to a representative during the Ambrosial Summit.

Upon acceptance to a Culinary Academy, you shall earn the title of Chef.

Signed,

Academy of Ambrosia

Uroko Institute

Lyceum Labrusca

Khaldeer Monastery

College of Pitmasters

Archie read and reread and reread the letter late into the night until the flickering, dancing flame of his candle went out. He read it so many times that when he slept, he saw it perfectly in his dreams, recreating every little curl and smear of the midnight ink.

He awoke with the invitation still in his hand. He read it again to make sure it was real. Then he read it again. And again.

He would have stayed in bed all day reading that letter if he could, but today was his last day in Sain. And he had a hundred things he needed to do before he left.

He decided to start with breakfast.

Archie rubbed his eyes as he descended into Petrichor’s kitchen. His mother smiled from her usual table. His father was nowhere to be found. Adeline picked up on Archie’s unasked question.

“He went out,” she said. “He’ll be back before dinner.”

Dinner? That’s halfway between now and leaving.

“What’s for breakfast?” Archie asked.

“Eggs. Any way you’d like them.”

“Poached?”

“Poached it is. But it’s gonna cost you.” Adeline rose from her chair and approached Archie.

“What?”

“You’ve gotta give your mom a hug first,” she said as she embraced him.

Archie usually hugged back lightly, just draping his arms around his mother in a non-committal teenage fashion. But on this day, his last day, he squeezed her close and thought about how much he would miss her.

“What’s your plan for today?” she asked without letting go.

“I don’t know.” Archie wriggled his way out of the hug—a teenage boy could only take so much parental affection at a time.

“Good. You can take our trash over to Simeon’s pigs.”

The woven bin banged against Archie’s knees as he lugged it across town. The trash at the top of the bin wasn’t too bad—the remains of a corn cob, fatty chunks of pork, a piece of burnt bread—but a black liquid seeped out from the bottom of the bin, threatening to drip onto Archie’s shoes and leave them with a stink that couldn’t be washed out.

But Archie didn’t mind too much. Simeon was one of the few Chefs remaining in Sain and the only one that Archie hadn’t spoken to since manifesting. With his father out, Archie was desperate to tell the story to someone and talk about the invitation.

Simeon wasn’t much of a cook, but he was an expert at an essential piece of magic to the village—extraction. Archie arrived just in time to witness it. The man seemed much older than the last time Archie saw him—but maybe that was just all the dirt on his face. Simeon put one hand against a pig’s shoulder and his other hand against a large square stone.

“Hi Si—”

“Sh!”

Simeon clenched his eyes, brow furrowed, effort plain to the world. The pig stood still—an intentional stillness—and jawed mindlessly at some root it had pulled. The stone’s rough edges started to smoothen and take shape. Some of the gray stone shifted to red. Other parts turned into white streaks. Soon, the stone no longer resembled a stone at all. The red glistened with blood and plasma. The white streaks clumped up into fatty marbling. Finally, Simeon sighed and dropped his arms to his side. The pig happily trotted off, unbothered.

“I extracted from this one last week,” Simeon explained, “so the meat isn’t quite up to my standard. But I just had a sow die on me last week, so I’m having to stretch it. Times ain’t so good around now.”

“I had some of it yesterday. Frempe brought it over and we had a feast.”

“At Petrichor, I heard, I heard. Shame I couldn’t make it.”

“I got invited to the Culinary Academies,” Archie blurted out. He put the bin on the ground and pulled the letter from his pocket.

“Oh! Been a while since I’ve seen one of those. No one in Sain has been invited in…what, five, six years? Bring it here, let’s see.”

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Archie and Simeon spoke for hours. Archie talked about the pitcher of water and his dad cooking while Simeon dumped the trash into the pig sty. The story of the Glutton’s visit made Simeon lean in and sweat. Eventually, they made their way to all the questions that had built up in Archie about academy life.

For every ten questions Archie had, Simeon had half an answer, but the two still spent over an hour speculating and daydreaming. Finally, the rumble of Archie’s stomach signaled the time to leave. He bought some broccoli, potatoes, and even had enough money leftover—with Simeon’s generous discount—for a healthy slice of the newly extracted pork shoulder.

When Archie returned to Petrichor, he set the heavy bag of food down and peeked out into the dining area. No one. He turned to the stairs.

“He’s still not back,” Adeline said from the pantry. “Now let’s see what you’ve brought.”

They prepared the food together in a corner of the oven. Adeline showed off, resting a finger on a potato to make it split perfectly in two. Some hopeful diners wandered in, but Adeline turned them away. “We’re still cleaned out from yesterday. Arty is getting some stuff and we’ll be open again tomorrow.”

“How’d you become a Chef, mom?” Archie had heard the story a dozen times before, but he was desperate to speak about anything related to his own upcoming journey.

“Well, I was a bit of a late bloomer like you. I was sixteen when I manifested. My magic wasn’t as special as yours—I made a batch of candied apples that tasted exactly like scrambled eggs.” Adeline pressed her finger into the potato half and it disassembled into neat squares. Her skill was beyond that of an orange jacket, but she had never returned to the Academy to take their test—Archie assumed she did so out of solidarity with her husband.

“It got me noticed, but people obviously weren’t happy about the flavor switch. Can you imagine?” She giggled, and Archie joined her until he became acutely aware of how little time they would have left together to giggle.

“I got my invitation and found myself trying to learn how to stop making steaks taste like fish and pies taste like coffee—although people really didn’t mind that last one.” She poked a finger into the fire and pulled it back to the potatoes, a thin tendril of flame following the motion.

“I met your father my first week in Ambrosia City. We ended up apprenticing at the same place, this little pastry shop—”

“He didn’t apprentice here?”

“No. Too far away. Plus, Petrichor was…going through some changes.” A shadow tainted her expression, but she shook it off with a smile. “Anyway, one day after your father’s shift ended, he stuck around and made a raspberry tart for me. It was the most magical meal I ever ate. I remember how he…”

After they ate, Adeline and Archie packed up his things. “Nighttime is no time for packing,” Adeline had said. They stuffed clothes and old recipe books down into a trunk. Adeline fetched a spare set of utensils, stabbing tongs and ladles and forks and knives down into his clothes.

“The Academies should provide you with pots and pans, but it’s always good to have your own set when you can,” Adeline explained. “So, with you getting there late, you’re not gonna have much time to decide on where you want to go. Have you thought about which academy you’ll attend?”

Archie had been waiting for someone to ask. “The Academy of Ambrosia. Like dad.”

Adeline nodded. “What about Lyceum Labrusca? You love pasta—you’ll never learn how to make it better than there.”

Archie shrugged.

“I thought about going to Uroko Institute,” Adeline said. “I used to have a stash of Urokan seafood recipes growing up.”

Archie shrugged again.

“Well what kind of Chef do you want to be?” Adeline asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there’s all kinds of Chefs. You could be a cook. Or a fighter—one of the Acorn Guard. Or maybe you could study to be a Veratore and become a healer. Or—”

“A cook,” Archie answered. “So that I can come back here and…”

Archie trailed off, thinking of his vision in the crystal ball.

“So…you wanted to make seafood. What about dad? What did he want to make?”

Adeline looked down. “Well, he wasn’t sure. He had a natural knack for fire, but things…weren’t easy for him. People didn’t like him.”

“Because of his dad?”

“Yeah. So when the time came, he didn’t know what we wanted to make. He just wanted to bring Petrichor back to life.”

“That’s what I want, too.”

Archie expected his mother to look proud. Instead, she let a little wince show in her smile.

“Archie…listen to me. You’re going to Ambrosia City. You’re going to apprentice at some great restaurant. You’ll attend the Academy of Ambrosia. The whole world is yours, Archie. So do me a favor and don’t worry about Petrichor or me or your dad. There’s a great life out there, and it…might not be at Petrichor.”

“Mom…”

“I’m here!” Arty shouted from downstairs. Archie barely managed to stand before Arty came barreling in.

“Dad! Where have you been?”

“Haggling,” he said with a grin. “Have you already packed?”

“Yes.”

“Any room left?”

Archie noticed that Arty’s hands were hidden behind his back. “A bit.”

“Good! I got a gift for you.” Arty whipped out his hand, revealing…a handle. A normal, metal and resin handle attached to…nothing. Nothing but a handle. “Tada!”

“What is it?”

“This, Archie, is an omnihandle. There’s only one like it in Sain, and I just bought it.”

“With what money?” Archie asked.

“Don’t worry about that!” He rushed over and pushed the handle into Archie’s palm. “Come on, try it!”

Archie looked down at the handle. “Try…what?”

“Oh, here.” Arty took the handle back and flicked his wrist. Metal sprouted from the handle, flattening and then curling up at the lips into a frying pan. “Like that!” He flicked his wrist again and the pan slipped back into the handle. Arty gave the handle to Archie, who lifted it up to inspect. Arty shifted around impatiently. “Archie, it’s magic! Just try it!”

“I don’t know how! I haven’t learned that yet!”

“Oh, you’re eighteen now, you should be able to perform some magic. Just…do it!”

Archie flicked his wrist. Nothing.

“Again, try again!”

Another flick. This time, splinters of wood grew from the handle, forming a sharp array of points.

“Oh, nearly there!” Arty exclaimed. “That looks like the beginnings of a cutting board!”

Truthfully, it looked more like a collection of toothpicks.

Archie raised an eyebrow. Before he could ask, Arty answered. “The handle can extend into all sorts of cooking tools. Pots, pans, ladles, spatulas—all sorts! Now, it’ll get outperformed by a mastercraft in any of those forms, but the flexibility cannot be undervalued. You learn how to shape essence and this’ll help you tremendously.”

“Cool.” Archie rotated the handle around, watching as the splinters returned into the handle. He felt a lump grow in his throat. “Dad, I…”

“I’m going to miss you,” Arty said. “But I’m so excited for you. You’ll have to write all the time. I can’t wait to hear your story.”

Archie buried his face in his father’s shoulder, hiding the tears.