“Captured at the North Gatehouse. Send help.” Ovidia’s grip on the parchment tightened, the blood-smear warming against her palm. Percy, half-plucked and shivering, collapsed onto the sill. Sterling Graves, still clutching his scrubbing brush as if it were a scepter, leaned over her shoulder, his expression a grotesque blend of horror and protective fury. He looked less like a rival chef and more like a damp, aristocratic terrier. “The North Gatehouse,” he rasped, a tremor in his voice that had nothing to do with the spectral cold. “That’s the Guild’s primary entry point. Patrols every half-hour. They’ll be looking for intruders, or rather, for *you*.” He gestured vaguely at her, his eyes flitting to the mangled pigeon. “He’s a mortal, Leta. They’ll carve him up for chum.” “Not if we get there first,” Ovidia said, her voice a low growl. The notion of her *apprentice*, however bumbling, suffering at the hands of those talentless hacks ignited a slow, simmering rage. No one touched her crew. Not even the Culinary Guild Master, her own uncle, who had seen fit to murder her. She strode to the open doorway, peering into the gloom-shrouded main room of the Weeping Manor. “Constance! I have a task for you.” No immediate answer, only the faint rustle of silk from the upper floor. Sterling wrung his brush. “Lady Constance is likely… preening. You know how she is about her spectral lace.” A gust of icy air, smelling faintly of lavender and grave soil, swept past them. Lady Constance’s disembodied voice, a regal purr, echoed from just behind Sterling, making him jump a foot. “A task, you say? One that promises a delightful spectacle, perhaps? Or better yet, a fresh confection for my palate?” Ovidia turned, a glint in her eye. “A rescue mission. My apprentice has been apprehended by the Guild. I require… an escort.” Constance’s laughter, a series of dry, rattling chimes, filled the space. “An escort into the very den of your executioners? How deliciously macabre! Very well, Chef. Lead the way. I do so enjoy a good dramatic entrance.” Within minutes, Ovidia, Sterling, and a newly invigorated Constance were speeding across the cobbled streets of Somberholme, cloaked in the perpetual twilight. The Culinary Guild loomed ahead, a fortress of obsidian-scaled granite, its gates guarded by four imposing figures clad in polished steel armor, their halberds glinting under the sickly glow of the gaslamps. “Those are the Iron Sentinels,” Sterling whispered, his face pale. “Elite watchmen. Immovable. They’re warded against all but the most powerful psychic incursions.” “Which is precisely why I didn’t ask for a psychic incursion,” Ovidia murmured, a wicked smile playing on her lips. “Constance, darling, do you see that rather portly one on the left? The one with the particularly polished breastplate?” Before Sterling could question her, a ripple of shimmering air distorted the guard. His form spasmed, his head lolling unnaturally for a moment before snapping up with a jerk. The halberd, previously held at a rigid angle, now rested against his shoulder. A distinctly feminine posture, despite the heavy plate. The voice that boomed was undoubtedly the guard’s, but the inflection… it was pure Constance. “Good evening, gentlemen!” the possessed guard announced, his voice surprisingly melodious for a man of his bulk. He performed an exaggerated, sweeping bow that nearly overbalanced him. “My apologies for the momentary lapse. A sudden… *cough*… gastronomic indisposition. My esteemed guests, the illustrious Chef Leta and her humble assistant, require immediate passage to the Master’s private quarters. Urgent culinary matters, you understand.” The other guards exchanged bewildered glances. One, a man with a scarred cheek, stepped forward. “Watchman, are you quite well? And who are these… persons? There was no notice of visitation.” “Nonsense, Theron!” the possessed guard boomed, waving a gauntleted hand dismissively. “The Guild Head is expecting a very rare… *ingredient*. Now, open the gates! And quickly, before I report your insufferable dawdling!” Before Theron could respond, Lady Constance's vessel kicked him squarely in the shins with his armored boot. The guard yelped, hopping on one foot, momentarily forgetting his duty. Seizing the opportunity, the possessed soldier then shoved open one of the massive gates, gesturing grandly for Ovidia and Sterling to enter. Sterling, utterly dumbfounded, stumbled through, his jaw hanging open. Ovidia simply nodded, a silent acknowledgment of Constance’s surprisingly effective theatrics. They moved through the Guild’s echoing halls, the possessed guard striding ahead, occasionally offering loud, utterly fabricated explanations to any passing acolytes or servants. “Executive tasting session! Highly classified truffle inspection! Do not disturb the genius at work!” The main kitchen of the Guild was a cavernous, gleaming space, a stark contrast to the Weeping Manor. Dozens of chefs, pristine in their tall toques, bustled about, each tending to enormous, bubbling tureens of what Ovidia knew would be flavorless broth or meticulously arranged, tasteless garnishes. At the sight of the approaching Sentinel, their movements paused, eyes darting nervously. “My dear Korthos, what is the meaning of this intrusion?” a sharp voice cut through the air. A portly man with a severely waxed mustache and a toque that seemed disproportionately tall for his head stepped forward. Chef-Patron Delmon, Ovidia recognized, her uncle’s most sycophantic lackey. Ovidia didn't wait. From her satchel, she produced a small, tightly sealed pouch of her specially prepared, sun-dried chili powder, toasted to a potent, fiery perfection. With a swift movement, she hurled it directly into the largest, most active tureen, where a thin, unappetizing steam was rising. “A new spice blend, Chef Delmon!” she announced, her voice ringing with false cheer. “For *bold* palates!” The chili powder hit the boiling liquid, instantly vaporizing into a dense, reddish cloud. The sweet, acrid scent of capsaicin exploded through the grand room, catching every chef by surprise. Coughs erupted, then shouts, then a chorus of gagging. The air became thick with invisible fire, burning eyes and nostrils. Chefs dropped spatulas, clutching their faces, their pristine white uniforms now splattered with broth as they stumbled blindly. “Run, you imbeciles!” the possessed soldier bellowed, feigning concern as she deliberately bumped into a cook, sending him sprawling into a stack of silver platters. “The experimental seasoning has gone rogue!” Ovidia grabbed Sterling by the arm, dragging him towards a narrow, unmarked door at the back of the kitchen. “Larder. That’s where they keep the prisoners.” The storage room was a labyrinth of shelves, stacked precariously with jars of bland herbs, desiccated spices, and bizarre, flavor-neutral alchemical ingredients. The air was thick with the dust of ages, and a faint, metallic tang. A tripwire, almost invisible, stretched across the floor, hooked to a series of clanging pots suspended above. “Amateur hour,” Ovidia scoffed, easily stepping over it. Sterling, less graceful, nearly tripped but caught himself, his years of obsessive cleaning likely giving him an unexpected agility. They rounded a corner, only to be met by two more armored watchmen, their halberds raised. “Intruders!” one guard roared. Ovidia didn’t hesitate. She grabbed a jar of petrified 'Crimson Bloom' — a thorned stalk prized for its vibrant, if tasteless, color — and smashed it against the brick wall, sending jagged shards flying. As the guards flinched, Sterling, with a desperate thrust of strength, used his scrubbing brush to trip the first, sending him crashing into the second. Ovidia followed up with a precise kick, disabling both, then quickly bound them with lengths of thick brine-glass twine she’d salvaged from the manor. Behind a stack of massive, empty pickling barrels, they found him. Barnaby, bruised and pale, but otherwise unharmed, was tied to a chair, a gag stuffed into his mouth. His eyes, wide with fear, nonetheless lit up when he saw Ovidia. “Barnaby!” Sterling cried, immediately going to untie him. “Are you alright? What did they do to you?” Ovidia simply nodded at her apprentice. “Report.” Barnaby, once freed, rubbed his wrists, his voice raspy. “They… they interrogated me, Chef. About you. About the manor. Said they knew you weren’t Leta. And… and they said the Leviathan Heart was moved to the Grand Vault, for safekeeping, away from the ‘meddling hands of necromancers and debt collectors’.” “The Grand Vault,” Ovidia repeated, her lips tightening. “Of course. They wouldn't keep something so valuable in a mere storage depot.” She turned to Sterling. “Where is it?” Sterling, now fully in his element as Ovidia’s reluctant henchman, pointed to a heavy, iron-bound door at the far end of the dry stores. “Through there. It’s sealed by sorcery, only accessible by the Guild Head and two high-ranking Arch-Chefs. The enchantments are… formidable.” “Nothing a well-placed spectral aristocrat can’t handle,” Ovidia muttered. “Constance, a moment of your time.” The possessed guard, who had followed them, chuckled, the sound distorted. “Ah, the grand finale! I do so love a good vault-breaking. Rather like a particularly stubborn oyster, wouldn’t you agree?” With Constance's phantom intrusion, the ancient enchantments on the vault door withered and snapped like dried twigs. The heavy iron swung open with a groan, revealing a circular chamber carved from solid obsidian. In the center, bathed in a shimmering blue light, rested a large, frosted stasis box. Within its transparent brine-glass, suspended in a swirling, icy mist, was a grotesque, bulbous organ – the abyssal organ. “There it is,” Sterling breathed, awe in his voice. “The very heart of the abyssal beast.” Ovidia approached the stasis box, her gaze critical. The glow was wrong. The mist too thin. She reached out, her fingers brushing the cool surface, and a faint, sour smell of decay, almost imperceptible beneath the magical chill, prickled her nose. She peered closer at the monstrous organ, her eyes narrowing in disbelief. The surface of the muscle, where it touched the brine-glass, was not the glistening, ruby-red of a fresh sea beast, but a murky, brownish-gray. “No,” she whispered, her voice laced with pure fury. “They ruined it.” She yanked open the stasis box. The moment the seal broke, a putrid stench, like a thousand rotting fish and sour milk, slammed into them. The prize, the object of their dangerous heist, was not preserved. It was a fetid, corrupted mass, slowly dissolving into a vile, green sludge. The incompetent temperature enchantments, designed by her uncle’s inept Arch-Chefs, had not frozen it. They had merely slowed its putrefaction, turning the priceless ingredient into a colossal, stinking monument to their absolute culinary incompetence. It was completely rotten.

Kitchen Invaders