Reincarnated as the Villainess's Unlucky Bodyguard

Chapter 129 A Royal Feast and Fiery Experiments

"Welcome to the royal kitchen," Enara announced with a smug grin as we stepped through the towering oak doors. "Or as I like to call it, the kingdom's best-kept secret."

I stared in awe. The "kitchen" was the size of a ballroom, with gleaming countertops of obsidian, enchanted silver pots hanging from the ceiling, and rows upon rows of spice jars that sparkled like jewels. The air was alive with the hum of magic, and I could practically feel the culinary energy radiating from every surface.

"This... is ridiculous," I said, spinning in a slow circle. "Why does a kitchen need chandeliers? Three chandeliers, might I add?"

"Because royalty," Enara replied smugly, gesturing around the grandiose kitchen.

I crossed my arms, skeptical. "Does royalty also explain why there's an entire wall dedicated to golden ladles?"

"Golden ladles are a sign of status," Enara said, tilting her chin up. "And a necessity."

"For what? Feeding dragons?"

"Are you here to question my family's decor choices or to cook?"

[I suggest you focus, Host. The opportunity to utilize such advanced facilities is rare. You might actually produce something edible.]

Great vote of confidence, System, I thought back dryly, rolling my eyes.

Enara narrowed her eyes at me. "What's with the eye-rolling? Already overwhelmed by greatness?"

"No, I'm just mentally preparing for what's to come," I replied, avoiding her gaze.

Ananara, perched on a countertop like a king surveying his kingdom, let out a haughty snort. "She'll ruin everything she touches. It's inevitable."

"Ananara," I said through gritted teeth, "if you don't stop with the peanut gallery commentary, I'll throw you into the oven."

"You lack the skill to manage that," he retorted.

Enara waved dismissively, rummaging through a spice rack that looked like a treasure chest. "Let him be. Watching you fail is entertainment enough."

I glared at her, but curiosity soon pulled my attention back to the kitchen. The enchanted ovens, the magically stirred pots, the floating recipe scrolls—it was like a playground for culinary chaos. And chaos was my specialty.

"All right," I said, rubbing my hands together. "Let's do this."

I started with something simple: bread. Or at least, I thought it would be simple. The recipe scroll hovered in front of me, listing instructions in elegant script.

Step one: combine flour, water, yeast, and salt. Easy enough.

Except it wasn't.

"Why is this dough sticking to everything?" I muttered, wrestling with a glob of goo that seemed more interested in my hands than the bowl.

"You're supposed to knead it," Enara said, leaning against the counter with a smug grin. "Not turn it into a weapon."

"I am kneading it!"

[Incorrect, Host. Your technique is closer to pummeling. Adjust pressure and motion for optimal results.]

Thanks for the coaching, I thought sarcastically, trying to follow the System's advice.

Eventually, the dough looked passable. I placed it into an enchanted oven that promised perfect baking.

"Now what?" Enara asked, clearly unimpressed.

"Now, we wait," I said, dusting flour off my hands.

"Waiting is boring," she declared, grabbing a fruit knife. "Let's make something else."

Enara suggested we try flambéing fruit, which seemed straightforward until I added my flames. The black fire licked across the dish, giving it an ominous appearance.

"Why does it look like it's plotting world domination?" Enara asked, squinting at the blackened fruit.

"It's... charred for flavor," I said defensively.

[Note: The flames were too intense. Recommend halving the magic output next time.]

Noted.

Enara took a bite and immediately gagged. "It tastes like burnt despair!"

The chefs moved with military precision, each taking their place at the counters. Volnara barked orders, her tone brooking no argument.

"Basic knife skills first," she said, picking up a gleaming blade. "You can't make good food if your cuts look like they were done by a drunken ogre."

She demonstrated, slicing an onion into paper-thin rings with effortless speed. "Watch the angle of the blade. Grip firmly but not too tight. And for the love of the gods, do not cry."

I tried to mimic her movements, but my onion looked more like it had been mauled than sliced.

Volnara sighed. "Your wrist is too stiff. Relax."

Enara, to my annoyance, nailed it on her first try. "Like this?" she asked, her rings coming out almost as perfect as Volnara's.

"Exactly," Volnara said, nodding approvingly.

"Show-off," I muttered under my breath.

Next, the chefs moved on to sauces. Volnara guided us through the process of making a classic béchamel, her instructions precise.

"Start with equal parts butter and flour. Melt the butter first, then add the flour to create a roux. Stir constantly, or it'll burn," she explained, her hands moving deftly as she spoke.

I followed her lead, but my roux ended up clumpy.

"You're rushing," she said, glancing over my shoulder. "Patience is key. Cooking is an art, not a battle."

"That's easy for you to say," I grumbled, trying to salvage the mess.

Enara smirked. "Maybe you should stick to burning things. It's clearly your specialty."

I glared at her but kept stirring. With Volnara's guidance, I finally managed a smooth roux, and we moved on to adding milk.

"Slowly," Volnara warned. "Too much at once, and it'll curdle."

I poured the milk in a thin stream, holding my breath. To my surprise, the sauce thickened beautifully.

"Not bad," Volnara said grudgingly. "But don't let it go to your head."

For the final lesson, Volnara demonstrated a full dish: roasted pheasant with a berry reduction and herb-infused potatoes.

"Start by seasoning the bird," she instructed, rubbing a mixture of herbs and spices onto the pheasant. "Be generous. A bland dish is an insult to the gods of cuisine."

Enara and I copied her, though my pheasant ended up looking more like it had been through a mud fight.

"Now, sear it," Volnara continued, placing the bird in a hot skillet. The kitchen filled with the mouthwatering aroma of sizzling meat.

As the pheasant roasted in the enchanted oven, she turned her attention to the potatoes.

"Slice them thinly," she said, demonstrating with her flawless knife skills. "Toss them with olive oil, garlic, and rosemary."

Enara's potatoes looked perfect, of course. Mine... not so much.

"Host, your knife technique remains subpar," the System chimed in. [Recommend additional practice or reliance on pre-chopped ingredients.]

You're not helping, I thought back.

When the dishes were finally plated, Volnara arranged them with an artist's touch. "Presentation matters. People eat with their eyes first."

My plate looked like an abstract painting gone wrong, but at least the food was cooked.

The Taste Test

Volnara crossed her arms as we tasted our creations.

Enara's dish was nearly flawless, earning a rare smile from the head chef. Mine... well, it wasn't terrible.

"It's edible," Volnara said grudgingly. "Barely."

Ananara, of course, couldn't resist a jab. "I've tasted better in compost piles."

I picked up a spoon and pointed it at him. "One more word, and you're going in the next pie."

He snorted. "As if you could manage a pie without burning down the palace."