Changmin had been watching the foreigner for weeks now, his single good eye following the strange man wherever he went through the palace. He didn't trust him. How could he? A man who appeared out of nowhere, babbling about impossible things—"machines that flew" and "boxes that made ice"—was either a lunatic or a liar. And yet, impossibly, the king had spared him. More than spared him—entrusted him with food, the very thing that could kill or sustain the throne.

Changmin's patience had limits, and those limits had been gnawed raw by the whispers around court. Even the servants had started to lean in when the foreigner spoke, fascinated by his odd turns of phrase and fearless humor. The man had even traded his ridiculous clothes for a hanbok, blending in well enough that some people forgot he was an outsider at all. Everyone but Changmin.

Tonight, Changmin decided he'd had enough of silent observation. He stepped into the royal kitchens, boots clicking against polished stone, the smell of firewood and simmering broth washing over him. There was the foreigner, sleeves rolled, hair damp with sweat, moving with the confidence of a man who belonged—though Changmin knew damn well he didn't.

Changmin crossed the room with slow, deliberate strides and stopped directly behind the man, close enough to loom but not close enough to be mistaken for friendly. He folded his arms across his broad chest, the scarred side of his face catching the flicker of firelight.

"And what are you preparing for the king tonight?" Changmin began, voice low and edged with suspicion, leaning forward slightly as he peered into the pan. "Because it looks like nothing I've ever seen before. Strange shapes, strange smells—" He sniffed once, grudgingly. "...Not bad smells. But that's what poisoners would want, isn't it? Make it smell good so the king swallows it down smiling."

He tilted his head, his one good eye narrowing. "Tell me, outsider. Is this a dish... or a weapon disguised as one?"

His stomach betrayed him at that moment with a loud, hungry growl. The scent rising from the pan was maddening—savory, rich, layered in a way that palace cooks rarely achieved. Changmin stiffened, glaring at the foreigner as if daring him to acknowledge the sound.

"I don't know why His Majesty has kept you alive this long," he growled, though his voice cracked just slightly with hunger. "Perhaps you've bewitched him. Or perhaps..." His eye flicked back to the pan, betraying his interest. "...he simply likes the taste of your so-called 'future food.'"