Moses spoke from the doorway. "There is an old hearth kitchen below the west terrace. Stone-lined, good ventilation, human-safe with adjustments."
I pointed at him. "See? Moses is useful."
Malachi crossed his arms. "I am useful."
I did not look at his arms, or his mouth, or anywhere below his belt. "You are stressful," I said. "Different category."
His eyes warmed. I fled before he could say something low and devastating.
The west terrace kitchen was perfect in the way abandoned places could be perfect if you had imagination and a death wish. Black stone counters, deep ovens built into the wall, copper bowls big enough to bathe in, windows opening over a drop that made my stomach reconsider gravity.
I walked the room with Cindy and Melon behind me, already planning.
"Six tiers," I said. "No, seven. If dragons want drama, I'll give them drama."
Cindy's eyes lit. "Flavors?"
"Dark chocolate, burnt honey, blood orange, spiced rum, smoked vanilla, brown sugar buttercream, edible gold leaf, and something with heat, but controlled."
Moses nodded. "Ember honey carries warmth without flame."
"Good, I want that. Also, dragon-safe sugar glass."
Melon raised his hand. "Can sugar glass be dragon-safe?"
"We're about to find out."
By afternoon, the first committee arrived. Three dragons from Ember House, dressed like they had never touched flour and would sue it for contact. Sheba came with them, naturally. She stepped into the kitchen and looked around as if the stone had offended her.
"How quaint."
I was dusting a counter with flour. "Careful, compliments like that might make us friends."
Her eyes slid to my apron. "Queens do not usually smell of butter."
"Queens who eat do."
One of her women sniffed. "This ceremony requires dignity."
"Then stop talking in my kitchen."
Cindy choked.
Sheba's smile thinned. "A cake will not make you queen."
"No," I said, "but when every clan eats it, they'll remember my hands made something they wanted."
For the first time, her expression cracked. Small, beautiful. War had officially begun.
By sunset, I had ingredient lists, oven tests, and three dragon elders arguing over whether cinnamon was too aggressive for oath work. I was elbow-deep in batter when Malric appeared at the kitchen entrance, alone, of course. I kept mixing.
"If you're here to loom, stand over there. You're blocking my emotional support exit."
"I am here to ask why you avoid me."
The spoon hit the bowl too hard. "I am busy."
"You were busy this morning behind Melon."
"Melon needed protection."
"From me?"
"From vibes."
He came closer. I did not run. Mostly because I had batter on my hands and dignity to pretend.
"Do you regret kissing me?" he asked.
My throat tightened. "No."
His chest rose slowly.
I stared at the batter. "I regret running away like my panties weren't soaked and my brain hadn't fallen out."
Silence. Then his voice dropped. "Belinda."
"Nope." I lifted the spoon like a weapon. "Do not say my name in that tone while I'm holding cake batter."
A smile touched his mouth. Soft, wicked, [snorts] patient.
"I will wait," he said.
That was worse than him taking. That made my chest hurt. I looked away first.
"Good, because I have a war cake to build."
From the corridor, Julius called, "Lady Belinda?"
I stepped back, grateful for interruption. "What?"
He appeared with another sealed message, expression grim. "The council has approved your terms," he said. "And named Sheba as one of the official witnesses to your preparation."
The kitchen went quiet. Malric's fire stirred hot enough to warm the room. I wiped my hands on my apron and smiled at the black seal.
"Fine," I said. "Then she can watch me win."
Julius's point of view
By the time Lady Belinda said, "Then she can watch me win," I had already begun counting the laws that could kill her. Humans often mistook danger for teeth, claws, and fire. Dragons knew better. The sharpest thing in any court was a well-written clause.
I stood at the entrance of the West Terrace kitchen with the council seal still warm between my fingers. Lady Belinda faced me in an apron dusted with flour. Her dark forearms marked in sugar and work. Chin lifted like she had been born arguing with old gods. Lord Malric stood behind her. Too close. Too still. That was never a good sign. His fire had gone quiet under his skin. And the quiet fire in Malric meant something was deciding whether to become a massacre.
"The council approved her terms," he said.
"They did."
"And then poisoned them."