Chapter 1: The Copper Spoon Claims Its Master

The moment His Highness stood, one of the lanterns on the veranda guttered out.

Steward Zhou moved to follow, but a hand swatted him back.

The footsteps echoed down the long corridor, fading into the distance until only the rattle of the lantern frames in the wind remained.

Shen Yan stayed exactly where he was.

Steward Zhou turned back, staring at him for a long, uncomfortable beat before letting out a sigh. “You shouldn’t have answered so bluntly just now.”

“So what was I supposed to say?”

“Anything. Just don’t bring up your mother.” Steward Zhou pulled a rolled ledger from his sleeve. “I’ve worked the stoves for thirty years. This is the first time I’ve seen His Highness pick his own staff. Do you have any idea what a disaster this could be?”

“I know.”

“If you know, why did you accept it?”

“Refusing was death, too.” Shen Yan’s voice was flat. “Steward, I spent four years as a lowly helper in the Imperial Kitchen. Killing chickens, gutting fish, scrubbing pots, hauling charcoal. Wherever Chef Zhang pointed, I had to be there. Tonight, His Highness ate a plate of meat I made. If I can’t reproduce it tomorrow—”

“And if you can’t?”

“Then I’m just a blind idiot helper for the rest of my life. If I can, I’m someone who actually belongs on a stove.”

Steward Zhou fixed him with a stare, then let out a short, bitter laugh. He slapped the ledger onto the table.

“Fine. I’ll write your name.”

He dipped the brush, pausing for a moment before touching the paper.

“Shen Yan. From Chengnan. Age twenty-one. Helper in the Imperial Kitchen. Promoted out of order, placed at the very bottom of the list—”

He paused, lifting his eyes to look at Shen Yan.

“Who named you?”

“My mother.”

“Lady Su from the Su establishment.” Steward Zhou set the brush down and blew on the ink to dry it. “I’ve heard of her. Ten years ago, the grand banquets her shop hosted were snapped up by the city’s officials faster than they could be booked.”

Shen Yan said nothing.

“Lucky you were missed out on that,” Steward Zhou muttered. He rolled up the ledger and shoved it into Shen Yan’s robes. “One last piece of advice. Tomorrow’s banquet is for the Western Liang envoy. The Emperor is hosting a hundred tables. And the one running the kitchen is Nursemaid Liu from the Bureau of Imperial Cuisine.”

Shen Yan’s fingers twitched.

“Liu?”

“Liu.” Steward Zhou looked at him sharply. “Her sister is your stepmother.”

The lamp wick popped.

Shen Yan stood there in silence for a long moment before he managed to speak. “My mother’s shop made a plate of meat that year, too.”

“What kind of meat?”

“I don’t know.” Shen Yan looked down at his own hands. “I only remember that my mother stood by the stove all night. At dawn, a carriage came from the palace and took the meat away. Three days later, the shop shut down.”

Steward Zhou’s face darkened.

“Don’t say that to a second soul.”

“I know.”

“At the third watch, wait at Donghua Gate. Use this to get in. Bring your own knife, bring your own ingredients. Don’t touch anything anyone else offers you.”

“Thank you, Steward.”

“Don’t thank me.” Steward Zhou was already stepping through the door. “If you’re going to die, don’t die on my stove.”

The door closed.

All the lanterns went out.

Shen Yan stood in the empty courtyard, pressing the ledger against his chest. He held it there for a long, quiet while.

Chengnan. Poplar Lane.

It was just before the third watch when the dogs in the alley started barking.

The Shen family door was open, and the lamp in the main hall was still lit.

The moment Shen Yan’s foot crossed the threshold, he heard laughter from inside.

“So you’re back.”

Lady Liu sat behind the eight-person table, wearing an indigo-blue vest. The silver bangles on her wrists clinked against the table edge as she moved. Four dishes were set out: a plate of pickled radish, a plate of preserved melon, a dish of Blanched Pork sliced with military precision, and a jug of wine.

“I’ve been waiting for you since midnight.” She raised her hand to pour the wine. “Sit.”

Shen Yan didn’t sit.

Lady Liu didn’t get angry either. “I heard the palace picked you for the stove.”

“Word travels fast.”

“Fast?” She tapped the table with the tip of her chopsticks. “My sister works in the Bureau of Imperial Cuisine. If a few buckets of slop get tipped in the kitchen at night, she knows about it.”

Shen Yan watched her.

Lady Liu pushed the wine toward him. “Drink.”

Shen Yan picked it up, sniffed the air above the cup, and set it back down.

“Glutinous Rice Wine. Aged three years.” He said it slowly. “Mother sure is generous.”

“It’s a farewell drink,” Lady Liu smiled. “Since you might die tomorrow, you deserve to drink something good.”

From behind the curtain in the back of the main hall, the fabric lifted.

Shen Cong stepped out. He was sixteen, with a pale, clean face. His hands were slick with oil, and a brand-new apron was tied around his waist. A subtle pattern ran along the hem of the apron—the standard issue for Imperial Kitchen helpers.

Shen Yan’s gaze locked onto the apron and didn’t move.

“Mother,” Shen Cong yawned. “Am I actually going tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“And what about brother?”

Lady Liu laughed. “Your brother is staying home tomorrow to rest.”

She pushed the plate of Blanched Pork closer to Shen Yan.

“Let’s be clear. I’ve already spoken to my sister at the palace. During the third watch roll call, they’ll be calling the ‘Shen family.’ They won’t be calling anyone specific. Your spot will be taken by Cong.”

Shen Yan looked at the plate of meat.

It was sliced thin, arranged neatly, the pieces curled into a flower-like pattern.

“Who cut this meat?”

Lady Liu blinked. “I did. What’s wrong with it?”

“The knife work is decent,” Shen Yan said. “But it was cut too early. Left it for half an hour, and the edges have dried out.”

The smile on Lady Liu’s face froze.

Shen Yan pushed the wine cup forward.

“Mother. The ledger says my name. His Highness asked for me by name.”

“His Highness asked for a Shen family cook.” Lady Liu’s smile vanished, her voice hardening. “There’s more than one Shen in this family.”

“Then why didn’t His Highness ask for your brother?”

Shen Cong’s face flushed red. “What do you mean—”

“I mean,” Shen Yan said, slow and deliberate, “His Highness ate the meat I made. He didn’t ask for the Shen family. He asked for me.”

Lady Liu shot to her feet. The table shook, wine spilling over the edge, dripping onto the blue bricks below.

“Fine,” she said. “Fine enough.”

She turned and walked into the west wing.

A moment later, she returned holding a large jar. The mouth was sealed with clay, and the character for ‘Su’ was pressed into the mud.

Shen Yan’s breath hitched.

“Recognize it?” Lady Liu cradled the jar, patting it slowly. “Your mother’s old broth. Braised in this very shop ten years ago. Chicken, duck, pork knuckles, ham, dried scallops. We’d keep it topped up every day, simmering through the night. She said as long as that pot of broth existed, the shop existed.”

She walked over to the stove.

“Your mother was stubborn. Even after the shop closed, she guarded that one jar of broth. Guarded it until it killed her.”

“Put it down.”

“Put it down?” Lady Liu laughed bitterly. “Shen Yan, listen to me. For ten years, you’ve eaten my food, drunk my drinks. That robe you’re wearing was bought with my money. I wanted to send Cong to the palace to give him a chance. And you dare block that path—”

She raised her hand.

The jar crashed onto the stove.

The clay shattered; the soup splattered across the floor. The broth, boiled for ten years, spread across the blue bricks, still steaming, the thick aroma rising to the rafters before settling heavy in the air.

Shen Cong took a step back.

Lady Liu was panting, her hand trembling, but her eyes were terrifyingly bright: “Well, now it’s over. The soup is gone. If you’re going to work the stove, what are you going to use?”

The room went silent.

Only the soup remained on the floor, trickling toward the threshold, where the night wind stirred small ripples in it.

Shen Yan stood there, watching it for a long time.

Then he rolled up his sleeves.

“Cong, light the fire.”

“Huh?”

“Light the fire.” Shen Yan was already at the cutting board, drawing his knife. “High flame.”

Lady Liu frowned. “What are you doing?”

“Braising Soup.”

“The soup is already spilled—”

“If it’s spilled, I make another pot.” Shen Yan set an old hen on the cutting board. The knife flashed, and the entire breast meat was filleted off in one clean slice. “Broth is alive. You can break a jar, but you can’t break the hands that make the soup.”

Lady Liu stood frozen.

Shen Yan moved fast.

Ground chicken, ground meat, scallion, ginger, a spoonful of yellow wine. He stirred the ground chicken into cold water, then poured it into the pot bit by bit. As the heat rose, the water began to boil, foam rising to the surface, caught by the chicken paste, forming gray-white clumps that slowly sank to the bottom.

Shen Cong crouched by the stove, eyes wide. “W-what are you doing?”

“Soup Scanning.” Shen Yan used a spoon to skim off the floating clumps, his wrist giving a light shake. “The soup must be clear. Only clear soup shows the bottom.”

One incense stick’s time.

The water in the pot went from murky to clear, from clear to bright, until it was as transparent as water just drawn from a well.

Shen Yan scooped a spoonful and held it to Shen Cong’s lips.

“Taste it.”

Shen Cong slurped it down, his eyes going wide.

“Umami.”

“Where’s the umami?”

“Umami…” Shen Cong looked flustered, clicking his tongue. “It’s just… umami. My tongue is tingling.”

Shen Yan smiled, then turned to look at Lady Liu.

“Mother, how does this pot compare to the old jar?”

Lady Liu’s face went as pale as the plate of meat on the table.

She opened her mouth, her voice shrill: “No matter how good you are, there’s no place for you in the palace. My sister said, at the third watch roll call—”

“Whether I’m there when they take the roll, your sister doesn’t decide.”

“Then who does?”

“His Highness.”

Shen Yan pulled the ledger from his robes and placed it on the table.

“It’s sealed with His Highness’s private stamp. Mother, if you can change those words, I won’t leave my house tomorrow.”

Lady Liu lunged for it.

Shen Yan had already pulled it back.

“I’ve eaten my meal.” He turned around. “I’ve taken my knife. At the third watch tomorrow morning, I’ll go to Donghua Gate myself.”

“Shen Yan!”

He paused at the threshold but didn’t turn back.

“Mother broke my mother’s soup.”

“…”

“I’ll settle this account with you after I’m done with the stove.”

The night was deep.

Beneath the wall of Donghua Gate, a thin layer of frost lay on the ground.

Shen Yan had arrived an hour early, sitting with the knife case on his knees. The lanterns on the city wall swayed, casting his shadow long and thin.

“Shen Yan.”

Someone called his name.

He looked up.

A figure stood in the shadow of the city wall, wearing a black robe and the cap of an imperial eunuch, face hidden in the dark.

“Nursemaid Liu told me to give you a message.”

Shen Yan stood. “Speak.”

“The stoves in the palace aren’t for just anyone,” the man said with a faint chuckle. “Once you enter the Imperial Kitchen tomorrow, there will be rules for you.”

“What rules?”

“You’ll find out when the time comes.”

The man turned and walked into the shadows, his footsteps fading into the distance.

Shen Yan stood in the frosty ground, his fingers growing stiff from the cold.

He switched the knife case to the other hand.

Then he looked down at his own hands. The callus on the tiger’s mouth, the thin scar on his right index finger—cut on a radish when he was seven.

No. Not seven years old.

Shen Yan’s hand hovered in the air.

Three days ago.

Three days ago, he’d been splitting firewood in the courtyard. Lady Liu had come from behind, saying Cong wanted egg custard and demanding he clear the stove. He’d said the eggs were brought back from the palace and couldn’t be touched. Lady Liu had grabbed the door bolt and smashed it into the back of his head.

He remembered what happened next.

He remembered falling to the ground, the blackness closing in, crying and cursing in his ears, and someone saying, “Faking death.”

But the memories after that were different.

He remembered standing in a tiny space, surrounded by fire. The fire in the stove mouth. The flames reflecting on his face. Someone was shouting, but he couldn’t make out the words. He didn’t remember where it was, or who those people were, only that the fire was huge, there were many people, and food was cooking in the pots.

But he remembered the weight of the spatula.

He remembered how to slice meat to the thinnest possible cut, which way to skim the foam when the soup boiled, how much salt to use for a hundred people.

He remembered too much. Too much for what he’d learned in twenty-one years.

Shen Yan hugged the knife case tighter.

“It’s fine,” he heard himself say, his voice very low. “Just being alive is enough. Being able to work the stove is enough.”

The watch drum on the city wall sounded three times.

The small door of Donghua Gate opened a crack.

A eunuch holding a lantern poked his head out: “Those on the roster, state your name.”

Shen Yan stood up.

He hadn’t opened his mouth yet.

From the dark street behind him, a series of footsteps suddenly appeared.

Not just one person.

A high-pitched voice shouted first: “Wait—”

“It’s by order of Nursemaid Liu from the Bureau of Imperial Cuisine. The Imperial Kitchen is adding one helper today: Shen Cong from Chengnan.”

Shen Yan turned around.

Lady Liu stood across the street, clutching a bundle. Shen Cong huddled behind her, shaking from the cold, but his eyes were bright.

Lady Liu’s face was as white as paper in the lamplight, but her voice was steady: “Shen Yan, don’t blame me.”

“Why would I blame you?”

“If you’re not on the roster, you’ll die the moment you get in. I have another letter here—”

“Mother.”

Shen Yan cut her off.

His voice wasn’t loud, but Lady Liu stopped.

He turned to face her, smiling slightly. The light caught the old scar on his brow bone.

“Did your sister have three pots scrubbed last night?”

Lady Liu blinked. “How did you—”

“Those three pots were scrubbed by me yesterday afternoon.” Shen Yan said. “Before I scrubbed them, I reorganized all the firewood in the Imperial Kitchen. Dry, wet, hard, soft. Four piles.”

“W-what?”

“Tomorrow’s dishes: hot stir-fries need high heat, braising needs low heat, simmering needs a steady, hard fire.” He stepped back, moving to the front of the gate. “Your sister is used to commanding people. But kitchen work isn’t something you can just command.”

The eunuch holding the lantern cleared his throat.

“Are you entering the roster or not?”

Shen Yan held out the ledger.

“Shen Yan.”

The small door opened.

He walked in.

The door closed behind him, shutting out Lady Liu’s face, Shen Cong’s face, and the entire street.

The lantern swayed.

The eunuch, walking ahead, suddenly made a sound.

“What did you bring?”

“A knife.”

“Why haven’t I seen a knife like that before?”

Shen Yan looked down at the knife case.

“I just noticed it too.”