The forest just beyond Elderwood was wilder than Noura expected.
She had always admired it from afar—the way the tree line curved around the hills like protective arms, the way morning mist seemed to linger just a little longer under its canopy. But this time, she didn't come as a curious newcomer or a wanderer.
She came as a chef on a mission.
With a small satchel slung across her shoulder, her grandmother's notebook tucked inside, and a trio of empty jars clinking softly against each other, Noura stepped into the woods in search of inspiration.
"Only a few hours," she told herself, more to calm her nerves than anything. "Just enough to see what's growing near the riverbend."
The villagers had mentioned certain edible roots and seasonal herbs that flourished after rainfall. Noura had read the signs of early spring, tasted the shift in the air. She wanted something new—something untouched by familiarity. She was ready to invent her first fully original dish.
Something that would make this world hers.
***
The forest greeted her with dappled light and birdsong. She moved carefully, noting the way her boots sunk slightly into moss, the rustling of lizards darting under fallen logs. It didn't take long to find ingredients that made her heart beat faster.
A cluster of bulbous, bright orange tubers with waxy skin. When she scratched the surface with her nail, it released a spicy citrus scent. Encouraging.
A group of fern-like plants with fronds shaped like stars. Their leaves shimmered faintly under sunlight, and when she rubbed one between her fingers, her skin tingled.
An odd, purple fruit that grew low to the ground in small bunches. It was firm, with speckled skin and a sour smell.
She gathered a little of everything, labeling each in her notebook with a sketch and brief description. She even found what she thought might be a type of wild salt flower clinging to rocks near the water.
By midday, her satchel was heavy with promise.
***
Back in her kitchen, Noura laid out her findings on the wooden prep table, humming softly as she worked. The market spices she'd bought a week earlier still sat in neatly tied pouches on the shelf. She opened several, sniffed their contents, and nodded to herself.
"This is the one," she murmured, selecting a tangy red powder and a vial of herb oil.
With the divine cooking tools pulsing faintly nearby, she began her work.
She peeled and chopped the orange tubers, sliced the purple fruit thin, and ground the fern leaves into a paste. She marinated strips of forest hen meat in the new oil and a bit of sunroot. Everything smelled exciting—strange, yes, but exciting.
She boiled the tubers in broth made from saltflower and stone-nuts. She pan-fried the fruit slices until their skin blistered. She simmered the leaf paste with honey and root powder.
When it came time to plate it, the dish looked... beautiful.
Amber-glazed meat strips atop a bed of golden mash. Shimmering fruit slices on the side. A small cup of green sauce that gave off the scent of wild mint and roasted bark.
She smiled.
Then she tasted it.
***
The first bite stopped her cold.
The meat was bitter. Not just slightly—violently. The marinade clashed with something in the forest hen, bringing out a metallic sharpness that coated her tongue.
The mash was gluey. The tubers had released a sticky starch that refused to break down, turning the texture into something closer to wet clay.
The fruit was a disaster. Its sourness had intensified under heat, and combined with the blistered skin, it left a bitter film that no amount of water could wash away.
But it was the sauce that truly broke her.
It tasted like soap. Spicy, oily, and disturbingly floral—like biting into perfume.
Noura dropped the spoon.
She stared at the dish. At the kitchen. At the glowing knives that had faithfully chopped every ingredient. The mortar that had hummed in time with her grinding.
All useless.
"Why didn't you warn me?" she whispered at the satchel.
The tools didn't answer. Of course they didn't. They had no power to stop a bad idea.
She sank into a chair, her shoulders slumping.
***
An hour passed. Maybe two.
The sun had dipped behind the hills, and the kitchen filled with shadow. The smell of failure still clung to the air. She hadn't thrown the dish away. She left it on the table as if expecting it to apologize.
Her hands rested in her lap. Her fingers curled slightly, still stained with spice and leaf oil.
It wasn't just disappointment.
It was shame.
For a moment, she felt like she was back in her apartment in Jakarta—sitting on the floor, surrounded by takeout boxes, ignoring the reminder on her phone to "log a recipe." That crushing, hollow feeling. Like her dream had teeth and had bitten her when she got too close.
She thought this world would be different.
She thought magic and second chances meant she wouldn't fail.
***
A soft knock pulled her from her spiral.
Then a creak.
Lira peeked in, holding a small lantern. "You didn't come to supper."
Noura didn't answer.
Lira stepped inside, sniffed, and made a face. "Whoa. That's... something."
"I ruined it," Noura said flatly. "Everything. Nothing worked."
Lira set the lantern down. She eyed the dish, then Noura. "You experimented?"
"Yes."
"With new forest ingredients?"
"Yes."
"And untested spices?"
"Yes," Noura hissed. "And the meat turned bitter, the mash turned to glue, the sauce tastes like soap, and I can't even look at it without feeling sick."
Lira sat beside her.
There was a long pause.
Then she said, gently, "Good."
Noura blinked. "What?"
"I mean it. Good. About time you messed up."
"I don't think I understand your definition of 'good.'"
Lira shrugged. "You've been cooking so well, so confidently, everyone thinks you can do no wrong. Even you. But you can. That's the point. Now you know."
Noura stared at the failed dish. "I thought I'd be more… magical. With the tools. With the second chance."
"The tools help," Lira said. "But they don't know. You do."
Outside, footsteps approached. Garrick's voice rang out. "She in there?"
The door creaked open. Garrick, Bram, and even Elsa stepped inside, one after the other. They looked around, saw the dish, and made almost identical expressions.
"Oh wow," Garrick said, blinking. "That smells… bold."
Elsa wrinkled her nose but smiled. "I bet you were trying something cool."
Bram sniffed. "What did you call this?"
"Failure stew," Noura muttered.
Bram nodded thoughtfully. "A fine name. Honest."
Garrick patted her shoulder. "You know, once I tried to make firewood from green sapwood. Thought I was clever. Burned like wet paper and stank for hours. Didn't stop me from trying again."
"You should've seen the first chair I built," Bram added. "Collapsed in five seconds. Took me three tries before it held."
Noura looked up at them. "You're not just saying that to make me feel better?"
"We're saying it because it's true," Garrick said. "Everyone fails, Noura. Especially when they're trying something new."
Elsa beamed. "Next time you try, can I help? I'll taste it before you cook the whole batch."
Noura laughed softly. "I might take you up on that."
The kitchen didn't feel so heavy anymore.
Later that night, Noura sat alone at the table, a new page open in her grandmother's book.
She didn't write a recipe.
She wrote a lesson:
"The kitchen is a place of fire and error. Even magic burns. Even gods forget salt. But if we learn—truly learn—then every bad taste becomes a map. A way forward."
She smiled, closed the book, and cleaned the failed dish with quiet dignity.
Tomorrow, she would cook again.
Not to impress.
Not to prove anything.
But because failing meant she was growing.
And growth, she now knew, had flavor too.
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