he demon girl’s broke. Flat-out, rock-bottom busted. Not that I ever expected her to pull out a dainty coin purse and chirp, “Will this cover the lesson, kind sir?” Gods no. That’d make too much sense. And sense ran off screaming about ten absurdities ago.
This is my life now—teaching a literal hellspawn how to cook, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by black-market squirrels and cookware with questionable provenance. I’ve somehow been elected Soup Wizard of the local gremlin economy. No coin, no contract, no hope.
Perfect. Really climbing the career ladder here.
Not even a real kitchen to fake professionalism—just my slapdash camp: scorched stones in a crooked circle, moss-slick logs for chairs, and boot-packed dirt masquerading as a workspace. The fire snaps and hisses, flinging sparks like it’s trying to get in on the mockery. Smoke rolls in greasy spirals, stinging my eyes, clinging to my clothes. The cauldron—gifted, if we’re being generous, by a family of raccoons—hangs over the flames. It hisses. Low. Like it knows something I don’t.
My shirt’s glued to my back. Damp with sweat, streaked with soot. Every movement yanks at the old scars along my palms, as if they’re protesting this culinary farce out of spite. Knees ache. Shoulders burn. Every breath tastes like char and mildew. The air hangs thick with the scent of burned wood and whatever unholy herbs the squirrels handed over like hush money.
I glance sideways.
She’s still there.
Still poking at a raw onion like it’s personally responsible for every tragedy in her bloodline. The knife gleams in her claws—short, curved, and way too comfortable in her grip. The way it catches the firelight? Absolutely not comforting.
“Right,” I mutter, mostly for me. “Lesson one: we don’t stab the vegetables. They’re already dead. Show some respect.”
She blinks. Slowly. Once. Those red eyes track my every move like she’s deciding where to aim next.
Great. Just great.
Behind me, the cookware pile rattles in the breeze—an iron skillet, a wok, and, for reasons I’m still not emotionally prepared to unpack, an actual porcelain teapot. The forest seems to breathe with it, like it's watching. Judging. Probably laughing.
This whole setup? Courtesy of the Rabbit. Capital R. Custodian of the Enchanted Forest. Life coach extraordinaire. Teach the girl to cook, he said. Share your knowledge. Build trust. Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one who had to negotiate with a herd of badgers about the rightful ownership of their heirloom spatula.
The rest of the forest critters jumped on board, of course. Fuzzy little opportunists. Bring ingredients, get fed. That was the deal. Which makes me... what? Some grimy, middle-aged line cook running a monster-and-rodent pop-up diner?
I rub my face. The fire presses in. Hot. Suffocating. The ground squelches underfoot when I shift, damp earth sucking at my boots. Even here—out in the open—the woods feel close. Heavy. Like they’re leaning in. Watching. Waiting to see if I’ll actually go through with this disaster.
“Okay,” I say, louder now. Trying to sound like a man not two seconds from flinging himself into the fire just to escape. “We slice. Not hack. Thin pieces. Even cuts. Pretend you’re making friends with the onion, not declaring war.”
She tilts her head. Just a little. Just enough to make it feel like a threat. The knife twitches.
And yep—there it is. That old, twitchy part of me—fists tightening, weight shifting. Instinct curling at the edges. Because sure, I’ve fought worse. But none of them ever looked me in the eye while brandishing a paring knife like they meant it.
Behind me, the cauldron lets out a wet, angry hiss. The smell that follows? Gods. Like rotting moss had a love child with wet mushrooms. Probably those herbs. Probably my life choices.
I drag a hand down my face, slow. Patient. That’s the word. Patient, resilient, emotionally bulletproof. That’s the survival strategy here.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
Teaching one broke, blade-happy demon girl to make stew shouldn’t be the thing that breaks me.
...Right?
I turn before she starts round two with the onion. My focus shifts to the tribute mountain behind me—the ingredients the woodland mafia tossed at me like an offering. Piles of mushrooms still wearing their dirt coats, fist-sized tubers with suspicious bite marks, wilted greens tied with what looks like spider silk. A pouch of dried berries lies off to the side, dropped off by some chatty field mice who swore they were full of antioxidants. The hedgehog, not to be outdone, chucked in wild garlic like he was laying down a challenge.
I sigh. Deep. Soul-deep.
This is my normal now.
Grunting, I start sorting the mess—edible, questionable, lethal. My hands move on autopilot. Veteran muscle memory kicks in while my brain retreats into a corner to scream into a towel.
Then—on instinct—I swipe my palm through the air, right across the empty space where the world always glitches.
A soft ping. Familiar. Unsettlingly comforting. My ingredient tab flares to life—clean lines, glowing icons, no nonsense. A weird digital comfort in this feral fairy tale.
“Sure,” I mutter. “Magic menus and woodland barter economies. Totally normal Tuesday.”
I drop things in one at a time. Mushrooms: in. Tubers: in. Greens: in—with a mental note to triple-wash or straight-up incinerate. The interface accepts each offering with a soft flicker, like this whole circus makes some kind of sense.
Behind me, the knife scrapes. I freeze.
Then—back to work. Keep going. Keep moving. Like some desperate forest gremlin trying to stay one step ahead of total collapse. One root vegetable at a time. One steady breath after another.
I really thought minoring in Culinary Arts was just a throwaway semester. A fluff class. An easy A to balance out the existential weight of Thermodynamics and a failing marriage. But here we are—me, a pile of potentially cursed produce, and a demon girl breathing down my neck like she’s deciding which part of me cooks best in stew. So yeah. Turns out, second-best impulse decision I ever made. Right after the pottery class that shattered my last shot at reconciliation.
Mushrooms clump under my knife—still damp, dirt clinging to their caps like they’re not done being part of the forest. I scrape them aside. Next come the greens, wilted and limp, giving off that particular funk of boiled socks and locker-room apologies. And then... the meat.
Gods, the meat.
It’s marbled, sure, but slick in a way that feels personal. Warm to the touch. Not like it just came off a beast—but like it remembers being alive. And it smells... wrong. Like someone tried to freshen up roadkill with perfume. Sweet rot. Flowers over flesh. Something you’d find in a fever dream or a badly translated recipe for “hunter’s stew.”
I keep chopping. Blade, board, gather, repeat. Just keep the rhythm. Don’t think. Don’t look.
But I feel her. That presence—too close. Like static before a storm, crackling behind my ears. The fine hairs on my arms rise in protest. Every instinct tells me I’m being watched. Hunted. Measured.
A glance, just a sliver of one, and—there. She’s right beside me now. Closer than she was ten seconds ago, and I sure as hell didn’t invite her.
Her claws still grip the knife, but loose. Dangling. Forgotten. Crimson eyes locked onto my hands like she’s memorizing the shape of each tendon. Unblinking. Intense. Too bright. Like someone tuned the saturation up past “creepy” and straight into nope.
She exhales—slow, deliberate. Her breath brushes my arm. It’s hot, sticky-sweet. Like burnt sugar left too long in a pan. Something meant to tempt, but burnt into bitterness.
Her pupils twitch. Slits like blades. Every time I move, they follow—flick, twitch, lock. Precision of a predator who’s never had to chase a damn thing in her life.
And yet, I keep chopping. Because what’s the alternative? Turn to her, smile, and say “Hey, can you maybe back up a bit, knife-demon? Personal space?” Yeah, that sounds like a fast track to becoming a garnish.
The fire crackles behind us—spitting sparks that nip at my boots. Smoke curls thick and slow, crawling into my lungs until breathing feels like chewing on charcoal. My back’s damp. Scar tissue pulls with every shoulder roll. And through it all, my heartbeat pounds loud enough to register as a percussion section.
I shift my stance. Not to run. Just... to remind myself I still can.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches. Eyes narrowing—barely. A twitch at the corner of her mouth. Smile? Snarl? Hard to say. With her, it could be both.
I don’t flinch. Can’t afford it. That’s part of the dance now. She’s testing something. Waiting.
And me? I’m just trying to cook dinner without dying.
This is fine. Everything’s fine.
…Mostly.