Cinders was not, under any circumstances, trying to start a food-based diplomatic incident. That was important to note.
She was just cooking.
That's what I kept telling myself as I watched her clean a pot with more precision than some people cleaned relics. Elbow deep in her traveling ration kit, eyes twitching slightly with every crunch of dried root, she was not panicking.
Except she was. Because I'd seen Cinders cook during a monster attack with blood on her apron and less tension in her shoulders than she had right now.
"Are you going to peel the heat-skin off that mossroot, or interrogate it until it confesses its crimes?" I asked gently.
She didn't look up.
"Is this how it's going to be now?" she muttered. "Every time I cook something, someone writes a report?"
I glanced sideways. Two half-elf aides were indeed hovering on the other side of the fire ring, holding slates. Whispering. Taking notes. They weren't even subtle.
I offered a diplomatic wave.
They bowed back.
