The poisoned broth incident was a turning point for Liana. That small act of sabotage, easily disguised as a mistake, unveiled to her the tangled web of intrigues lurking beneath the palace's glittering surface. She was no longer just a cook — she had become, reluctantly, a player in a far greater game of power. The silent promise she had made to herself — to no longer be "useless," to wield her culinary skills for something greater — only grew stronger with each passing day.
The Imperial Kitchen became her laboratory, her observatory, and her battlefield. With a cunning that surprised even herself, Liana dodged the petty traps and provocations set by rival chefs. When Grimald ordered her to peel hundreds of onions, she obeyed with a speed and precision the Head Chef could not deny, even if he begrudged praise. When ingredients "vanished," she improvised with mastery, crafting even more remarkable dishes from the leftovers, earning praise from Emperor Theron and the silent rage of her enemies.
Yet the true arena of her influence remained Theron's palate. The young Emperor, once deeply bored, began showing signs of awakening. Liana's secret "treats," discreetly delivered by Kael with his usual quiet efficiency, became the spark for that change.
One day, she baked a simple, fragrant bread, kneaded with milk and eggs, baked until golden crust met soft crumb. Served with an herb and garlic paste she crushed and infused in basic olive oil — a rare luxury Kael had procured. Theron closed his eyes as he tasted it. The bread was more than delicious; it was comforting, familiar, yet elevated in a way Theron had never experienced. He felt the warmth of the oven, the care of the hands. It was the flavor of home.
"This bread..." Theron murmured to Kael, voice barely a whisper. "It reminds me... of something my mother used to make, long ago, before... everything changed." His eyes clouded with an unusual nostalgia. "Not lavish, but honest — something no grand feast could match."
Liana, quietly awaiting his reaction, shivered. She had touched a wound — a human spot inside the Emperor. She understood the power simple food, made with intention and soul, could wield over a man's heart — even an Emperor's.
As her influence over Theron grew, Liana extended her "observations" beyond the kitchen halls. Cloaked, she asked Kael to accompany her on brief excursions outside the palace. She needed to see the empire with her own eyes, to feel its pulse. Though hesitant at first, Kael felt a strange loyalty to Liana and obeyed.
In the markets and shadowy alleys, Liana witnessed the people's true plight: mothers struggling to feed children dry bread, worried merchants lamenting missing goods, beggars curled in corners with haunting hungry eyes. She noted the quality of produce — bruised fruit, wilted vegetables, meat with a dubious odor. Her suspicions were confirmed. Malnutrition, disease, misery.
It wasn't just a lack of seasoning, she realized with a heavy heart. It was a lack of basic food. A broken system.
Back in the palace, her dishes for Theron reflected these harsh truths. She prepared a stew with tough vegetables and cheap meat, slow-cooked and elevated by techniques from her world, transforming the humble into sublime.
"Your Majesty," she said with a bow, presenting the dish. "A common people's meal. Simple, yet nourishing."
Theron, who once would have sneered at something "common," tasted with growing interest. He savored the hearty texture, the earthy flavor. "It's... different," he admitted. "Honest. Makes one think."
Gradually, Liana began using food as silent communication. When Theron seemed irritable and ready to make rash tax decisions, she served calming tea, brewed with herbs she tended in her secret palace garden, paired with light sweets that spoke of patience. When he showed indifference to news of distant rebellions, she crafted dishes from "divided" ingredients that, combined, created a harmonious and powerful flavor — a symbol of unity.
These subtle influences did not go unnoticed. The Prime Minister, Lord Valerius — no relation to Liana's family, but a shrewd and conservative man thriving in stagnation — and other nobles in his faction began watching Liana with calculating eyes. They noticed the Emperor's slow transformation: his growing curiosity, his questions about the people, his newfound interest in once-boring affairs.
"That cook... she wields undue influence over His Majesty," Lord Valerius whispered to an ally during a dinner where Theron, for the first time, questioned the origin of the palace's meat. "Her cooking isn't just food; it's poison, eroding the established order."
Sabotages in Liana's kitchen grew bolder. One day, she found a dead, filthy animal hidden in a basket of vegetables. Another time, her water source was contaminated with dirt. Grimald, still disdainful, looked more uneasy — as if the situation was slipping beyond his control.
Pressure rose from an unexpected front: her own "family." Her parents, disappointed that she hadn't arranged a marriage for them, began sending letters demanding money and palace supplies, threatening to "expose secrets" if she refused. They didn't understand the chasm between who she was and who they thought she was.
In a moment of isolation, Liana found herself in the imperial library — once forbidden to her. She wasn't looking for cookbooks (she knew none existed), but for old maps and reports on the empire's provinces, their harvests, their customs. Her chef's eyes, once fixed on recipes, now studied logistics, food distribution, and the land's shortcomings. The truth was clear: yes, she was a chef. But to survive and change, she had to become more. A strategist. A social observer.
Tension mounted. Liana was a spark in a powder keg, and her dishes — humble or elaborate — were the fuse igniting a change the empire and its corrupt rulers were not ready to face.