With their names scribbled on the competition roster in barely legible handwriting (thanks to Poffin's attempt to "help"), the party did what any team of highly unqualified chefs would do:
Brainstorm.
In the middle of Emberglow's colorful plaza, they circled up like war generals, deadly serious... if their enemy was common sense.
"So what's the plan?" Ash asked, arms crossed.
"Easy," Lyra said immediately, slapping down a cookbook thicker than Poffin's patience. "We make Dragonbone Soufflé."
The group stared at her.
"Dragonbone?" Seren repeated, horrified. "Isn't that... toxic?"
"Only if you breathe near it," Lyra said cheerily.
"Or look at it wrong," Seren muttered.
Ash was already rubbing his temples.
Before anyone could shoot it down properly, Vix decided to contribute:
"Fine. What about Searing Basilisk Tartare? Costs a fortune, burns your tongue off, and technically counts as 'alive' for the first three minutes."
Everyone recoiled instinctively, except Kale, who looked genuinely intrigued.
Then Seren, trying to be the voice of reason (which, honestly, was a full-time unpaid position), suggested something "nourishing yet elegant"—a thirteen-step elvish delicacy that required ingredients that probably did not even exist on this continent. And four different cooking implements that they did not own.
Meanwhile, in the background, Poffin was trying to sneak himself into a bakery before Ash dragged him away.
"I'm just saying," Kale said eventually, raising his hand like a kid volunteering at school, "we could just... fry an egg?"
Everyone turned toward him like he had committed some unspeakable heresy.
"A fried egg?" Lyra repeated, her voice dripping with judgment.
"It's simple," Kale said, unfazed. "It's humble. It's pure."
"It's breakfast," Vix snapped.
"It's honest," Kale said, somehow managing to sound like he was defending the honor of an ancient tradition.
Velvet pinched the bridge of her nose, suppressing a scream.
Ash patted Kale's shoulder while Poffin squirmed in his grip. "You're a brave man. Wrong, but brave."
Velvet sighed and declared, "Alright. We're doomed."
And thus began the brainstorming session that would surely go down in Emberglow history:
One part culinary genius.
Ninety-nine parts disaster waiting to happen.
After a long, painful brainstorming session — featuring such culinary atrocities as "Mystery Casserole Supreme" and "Dragonbone Smoothie" — Poffin, who had been staring at them all like a disappointed chef at a toddler's bake sale, finally raised a paw with dignified authority.
Everyone paused.
Ash sighed, already tired. "Alright, what's your brilliant idea?"
Poffin cleared his throat (despite having no real need to) and proudly declared:
"Steak."
There was a full two seconds of silence.
Ash turned over to the group. "He said....Steak."
Then, the entire party simultaneously deadpanned:
"Wow. What a shocker."
"Truly, the plot twists today are groundbreaking."
"Next he's gonna invent breathing."
Poffin just stood there, chest puffed out like he had personally reinvented the concept of food itself.
He nodded sagely, as if their sarcasm was applause.
Velvet pinched the bridge of her nose. "Of course you suggested steak."
Kale chuckled. "Honestly, I'd be concerned if he didn't."
Lyra smirked. "Better than Vix's poisoned pies, at least."
Vix threw a half-hearted glare in her direction. "I prefer the term 'character-building cuisine,' thank you."
As they wrapped up the Great Steak Debate of Emberglow (™), Seren casually opened one of their travel bags — and out spilled a small avalanche of strawberry jam jars, rolling across the cobblestones like fruity grenades of destiny.
The party stared.
Then looked at each other.
Then stared harder.
Ash rubbed the back of his neck. "You know... we do have roughly the national reserve of strawberry jam in here."
Lyra knelt down, picking one up. "It would be a shame to waste it."
Vix nodded thoughtfully, pretending to inspect a jar like an expert sommelier. "Vintage... last Tuesday. Good year."
Kale, who had caught one of the jars before it rolled into traffic, simply shrugged. "I mean... we could make a dessert, right? Something simple. Jam tarts? Jam-filled buns?"
Seren smiled brightly. "Jam filled donuts!"
Poffin, who was busy drawing increasingly complicated steak blueprints in the dirt, perked up immediately at the word donuts.
Ash gave a dramatic sigh. "Well, guess our dessert's sorted. Main dish: steak. Dessert: Strawberry jam donuts. It's like a five-star tavern run by drunken toddlers."
Velvet chuckled under her breath. "It's chaotic, but it might just be crazy enough to work."
Poffin triumphantly raised a paw — jam jar still balanced precariously on his head — and barked what could only be interpreted as:
"Victory is inevitable."
The jam wobbled ominously but stayed miraculously perched.
The party, somehow, was filled with the first true glimmer of hope since they had agreed to let a feral Flufferbeast headline their cooking competition dreams.
After far too many questionable suggestions (and a near-fatal argument about whether jam steak was visionary or a war crime), the party finally agreed:
Steak for the main course.
Jam-based dessert for the finale.
Simple. Elegant. Entirely relying on an overgrown cotton ball's culinary instincts.
What could possibly go wrong?
With that blessed disaster now legally binding (via handshakes, a hastily drawn up "Official Party Cooking Treaty," and one jam-stained paw print), they moved on to the next critical phase: training.
Ash clapped his hands together. "Alright. Time to turn the little goblin into Emberglow's Master Cook."
Poffin stood proudly at the center of the kitchen, a handkerchief tied dramatically around his head like a battle banner, a wooden ladle held aloft like it was Excalibur.
Velvet knelt down and muttered seriously, "Remember. Today... we make history."
"Or a minor culinary disaster," Vix added, flipping a coin and pocketing it without looking.
The training began.
Ash was patient, explaining step-by-step how to sear meat. He even did the hand gestures.
Poffin listened intently... for about three seconds.
Then he decided that slapping the steak repeatedly onto the pan was a superior technique — resulting in a symphony of oil splatters, cursing, and the faint smell of sadness.
"Too much salt," he said at one point, squinting at a burnt steak.
"But it looks like the steak salted itself out of fear," Kale whispered, poking it.
Meanwhile, Vix took on the role of Saboteur Supreme, sneakily messing with the ingredients to simulate "unexpected circumstances." Like substituting flour with chalk dust.
Ash had to physically restrain Poffin from suplexing her into a fish barrel after the third sabotage.
Yet somehow... through sheer stubbornness... Poffin adapted.
He learned.
He perfected.
He weaponized jam.
Velvet crossed her arms, smirking as she watched Poffin twirl a spatula like a master swordsman.
"This might work," she said softly.
Unfortunately that belief lasted roughly three minutes.
Poffin, ladle in paw, was supposed to be practicing simple searing techniques. Instead, he somehow invented flame-charred steak flambé — which might have been impressive if the fire had been intentional... or controlled... or limited to the pan.
Ash, wielding a bucket of water like a seasoned firefighter, barked orders. "Contain the blaze! Save the jam supplies!"
The spice rack fell at one point.
At another, a bag of flour exploded like a snowstorm, coating the entire party in ghostly white dust.
When the smoke (and flour) finally cleared, Poffin stood proudly atop the table like a battle-hardened general — face solemn, fur powdered, ladle planted firmly into a sack of sugar like a war banner.
Velvet wiped the flour from her face in slow, painful motions. "We're out of supplies."
Ash, coughing up what might've been half a bakery's worth of airborne wheat, nodded gravely. "We're going to need... more flour."
Velvet groaned, turned on her heel, and declared, "I'm going to the market."
There was a beat of silence.
Then Poffin muttered something unintelligible — probably along the lines of "Bring back steak" — while poking a suspiciously jelly-covered steak on the table.
The others?
They stayed behind, staring at the battlefield of half-cooked meats, suspicious pastries, and very aggressive puddles of jam slowly claiming the table.
This was no longer just a cooking competition.
This was survival.
Velvet weaved through the bustling streets of Emberglow Enclave, her boots clicking against the cobblestones as the scent of baked bread and sweet pastries dragged at her senses. She kept her eyes sharp though—she had a mission.
Flour.
Lots of it. Enough to save the would-be kitchen from collapsing under its own chaos.
She pushed open the door to a modest bakery, a little brass bell above the entrance jingling merrily.
Inside, a stout, flour-dusted man behind the counter looked up from kneading a lump of dough roughly the size of a small goblin.
Velvet approached, slapping a few silver coins onto the counter.
"I need as much raw flour as you can spare," she said briskly.
The baker paused, squinting at her suspiciously, as if she had just asked for fifty pounds of dynamite and a map to the city vault.
"...Flour?" he repeated slowly, his hands still buried wrist-deep in dough.
"For training," Velvet clarified. "For the competition."
At once, the baker froze. His eyes narrowed into thin slits, like a war veteran hearing the first echoes of battle drums.
"Training... for that?" he said grimly, as if she had just announced she was joining a cursed death march.
Velvet raised a brow. "Yes?"
She had expected a simple transaction. Instead, she got ominous music playing in the background that only he could hear.
The baker leaned in, voice dropping to a hoarse whisper.
"Beware, missy. That competition... it ain't just about cooking. It's about blood. Betrayal. Flour-dusted treachery. It's war."
Velvet blinked once.
Then twice.
"...Right," she said flatly. "Sounds serious. I'll be sure to...watch my back for stray bread knives."
The baker was undeterred. He thrust a sack of flour at her with all the solemnity of passing a sword to a knight.
"I'm serious, girl. Once the whisks start spinning, there's no going back."
Velvet simply nodded, scooping up the sack with ease.
"Got it. Thanks for the flour, Prophet of Doom. I'll keep my eyes peeled for rogue soufflés." she said sarcastically.
Without another word, she spun on her heel and exited the bakery, the little brass bell cheerily oblivious to the end-times sermon that had just transpired.
Behind her, the baker watched grimly through the window, his hands pressing against the glass like a man who had seen too many pastries fall in senseless violence.
Velvet hoisted the sack higher onto her shoulder and shook her head.
How bad could it be? she thought.
Meanwhile, back at the inn, Poffin had somehow managed to trap himself inside a giant mixing bowl.
Velvet returned to the inn, sack of flour slung over her shoulder like a soldier hauling supplies to the front line.
The door creaked open, and immediately, chaos greeted her like an overenthusiastic dog.
Ash was desperately trying to pry a frying pan off Poffin's head, who was waddling around blindly like an angry kettle.
Lyra was levitating several cracked eggs with magic, attempting to "salvage" them mid-air—resulting in more yolk on the ceiling than in any bowl.
Kale, heroic as ever, was on the floor, wrestling what looked suspiciously like a sentient dough blob screeching in agony.
Vix lounged nearby, eating a loaf of bread, watching the spectacle unfold with the detached amusement of a woman who had clearly decided today was not her problem.
Seren sat in a corner scribbling "helpful" notes, none of which contained anything remotely useful.
Velvet stared at the scene for a full two seconds, a long, resigned breath escaping her.
She walked into the room, stepped casually over a fallen rolling pin, side-stepped a puddle of batter, and dropped the sack of flour onto the counter with a heavy thump.
"Flour's here," she announced, tone as dry as Emberglow sugar left out in the desert.
No one looked up.
Poffin, still with the pan helmet, bumped into a table leg and muttered something deeply offensive.
Ash gave a muffled thanks from under a pile of spilled kitchen towels.
Velvet leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
She considered offering to help, then thought better of it.
Instead, she watched the absolute disaster unfold with the detached serenity of someone who knew, in her soul, that asking questions would only prolong her suffering.
This... was fine. This was her life now.
Velvet pulled an apple from her pocket, took a bite, and simply waited for the flour to somehow, inevitably, explode.
It was just a matter of time.
The stars had long since claimed the skies when the party finally slumped around the battered kitchen counter like war veterans.
Poffin wiped his forehead with a rag far too stained to be considered hygienic, Ash nursed a burn on his hand, and Kale looked suspiciously flour-dusted from head to toe — like a failed attempt at becoming a statue.
But...
On the battered old table...
A miracle.
A meal that was not actively trying to kill anyone.
Golden steak — medium rare, well seasoned, slightly charred, but not burnt.
And a modest little dessert plate with jam-filled pastries that, if you squinted, looked vaguely artistic.
The party stared at the results like cavemen gazing upon fire for the first time.
Ash, after a long silence, patted Poffin on the back. "Well... it looks edible."
Poffin, standing proud with arms crossed and a smug, regal air, simply gave a decisive nod.
He muttered something that translated loosely to: I told you mere mortals to trust the genius.
Seren cleared her throat. "Right, uh... now someone has to taste it."
Instantly, the party exchanged a look — the kind of look people share when someone mentions a haunted house and they all start calculating the least important person in the group.
And then, as if pulled by destiny herself, all heads slowly turned... to Velvet.
Velvet blinked. "Me? Seriously?"
"You're the leader," Lyra said sweetly, very much enjoying herself.
"Chain of command," Kale added with solemn (and entirely fake) seriousness.
Vix gave a lazy thumbs-up. "Good luck, General."
Velvet sighed so hard it might've counted as a second wind. She pushed herself off the wall, grabbed a fork, and stabbed into the steak with the air of a woman marching to her execution.
One bite.
Silence.
Everyone leaned in — some in fear, some in morbid fascination, and Poffin, grinning like a gremlin awaiting judgment.
Velvet chewed... and chewed...
And then slowly, unbelievably, raised her eyebrows.
"Huh," she said, swallowing. "That's... actually good. like... I hate to admit it but that's the best steak I've eaten.'"
The room exploded into triumphant cheers — mostly from Poffin, who was already posing dramatically as if expecting a standing ovation.
Ash patted him again, accidentally sending a puff of flour into the air.
Velvet pointed her fork at the rest of the food. "Alright. Someone bring me the dessert before I start thinking this was all a fever dream."
Poffin, looking suspiciously like he had trained his whole life for this moment, was already proudly slicing up the jam pastries.
Tonight, at least, they weren't complete disasters.
Tomorrow? Tomorrow was another story.