You’d think, after rebuilding a forge, hosting diplomats, and surviving a siege, we’d earned the right to not start the day with theft.
But no.
Because this morning began with Cinders standing in the middle of our provisional cook station, holding a ladle like it had insulted her family, and asking, in the calst murder-voice I’ve ever heard:
"Where’s my spoon?"
And I don’t an "a" spoon. I an the spoon. The slightly warped, reinforced iron-band one with a handle short enough to burn your fingers and a bite in the curve where sothing—probably Tinker’s first golem—once tried to eat it.
That spoon had been through things.
Cinders didn’t yell. She just narrowed her eyes and went still. Which, for her, is like watching a fla decide it doesn’t need oxygen anymore. The entire expedition squad froze.
"Soone," she said, very clearly, "touched my spoon."
---
Relay blinked up from his logistics slate.
"I thought it was in the supply bin last night?"
"It was," Cinders said, "because I put it there, after cleaning it, and wrapping it, and setting it exactly where it always goes. And now it’s not."
Glare, who had sohow arrived precisely at the wrong ti, lifted one finger like he was about to suggest sothing dramatic.
Cinders turned toward him with such force that he physically recoiled behind .
I nudged him with my tail. "If you value your teeth, wait a full day before speaking."
Glare nodded solemnly. "Understood."
---
Ten minutes later, we had our answer.
One of the half-elf aides—the nervous one with the shaky handwriting—approached with a polite cough and a stack of translated node-sheets.
"Excuse ," he said. "Are you the expedition’s culinary coordinator?"
Cinders stepped forward.
He flinched.
"We... um... we cataloged an anomalous implent from your storage area late last night. It had a high residual heat signature, unusually stable mana-etching in the banded tal, and we believed it might be a relic."
I saw her shoulders go rigid.
He kept talking.
"I assure you, it’s safe—our enchantnt screeners are non-invasive. We simply flagged it for containnt so it could undergo structural mapping before any long-term myth-craft exposure—"
Cinders didn’t hit him.
I need to be clear about that.
She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t threaten. She didn’t even hiss.
She just said:
"You took my spoon."
---
The aide stopped talking.
There was a long, terrible silence.
Then Cinders turned around and walked away.
No one stopped her.
Relay leaned over and whispered, "Wait, wasn’t that—"
"Her ntor’s," I said.
"Oh," he said. "I thought it was just old."
"It is," I said. "And it’s all she has left."
---
Cinders didn’t co back for the next two hours.
Which, given the state of breakfast, was a minor ergency.
We made do. I boiled grain slabs until they were technically edible and poured moss tea over the top to hide the taste.
No one complained.
Because no one wanted to admit we were all a little bit scared.
---
When she returned, she didn’t speak to anyone.
She didn’t cook.
She sat by the forge and held her empty ration bowl like it was waiting to be filled by sothing other than food.
I didn’t approach. Not then.
Cinders doesn’t process like the rest of us.
She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t spiral.
She burns slow and silent.
Until the mont she doesn’t.
---
"I’m getting it back," she said finally.
I looked up. "Want to co with?"
"No," she said. "They didn’t steal it from Ashring. They took it from ."
"I’ll write up a diplomatic complaint."
She shook her head. "I’m not letting this beco a sovereignty debate. It’s not political."
"Cinders," I said, gently. "They called it a relic."
"Then they don’t know what relics are."
---
She stood.
Straightened her apron.
Clenched her claws once, like she was steadying a pot.
And walked toward the half-elf research tent without looking back.
No fanfare.
No announcent.
Just a kobold missing a spoon.
Heading out to remind people that just because sothing looks small, doesn’t an it isn’t sacred.
---
Half-elf encampnts are a lot like their furniture: elegant, overly symtrical, and completely lacking in common sense.
The research tent sat just beyond the moss-ringed grove, flanked by two lamplight pillars and a very decorative sign warning non-affiliates not to breathe near volatile artifacts. Cinders didn’t read it. She walked under the arch like soone doing math in her head and not liking the results.
I didn’t follow.
I watched.
From a respectful, morally supportive, and completely deniable distance.
---
Inside the tent, the aide—sa one from earlier—nearly dropped his clipboard when she entered.
To his credit, he didn’t run. He even offered her a seat.
She didn’t take it.
"You flagged a utensil as artifact-grade," she said.
He blinked. "We only ant—"
"It’s mine."
A pause.
"Ah. I understand now that it was of... personal importance."
Cinders didn’t blink.
"It belonged to my ntor," she said. "She taught to cook when Ashring was just a firepit and a tarp. That spoon’s survived three monster waves, two supply shortages, and one golem incident. She gave it to the night before the siege."
The elf’s voice softened. "Was she lost?"
Cinders didn’t answer.
She didn’t need to.
"Of course," he said quickly. "I’ll retrieve it imdiately."
---
He returned with it wrapped in silk.
They had cleaned it.
Gently. Respectfully. But cleaned it all the sa.
Cinders took it like she was afraid it might vanish.
Her grip was loose. Then tight. Then loose again.
"I’m sorry," the aide said. "We didn’t an to cause harm."
She nodded. Not a thank you. Just acknowledgnt.
Then she turned and left.
---
I was still leaning against a tree when she ca out.
She walked past .
Didn’t stop.
Didn’t speak.
But the way she held the spoon—tucked against her side like a carried blade—told enough.
I caught up two paces later.
"You want to make a rule?" I asked. "No one touches the cook’s tools without written permission?"
She didn’t smile. But she didn’t growl either.
"I’m fine."
That’s what she said.
But what she ant was: I almost wasn’t.
---
That night, she cooked.
Didn’t announce it. Didn’t ask.
Just started the fla, took out the tin rations, added water, herb scrap, and one thing I think was cave-apple peel from her private stash.
The squad gathered slowly.
Relay brought extra bowls. Flick handed out spoons like it was a ceremony.
No one talked much.
When we sat, Cinders passed out the stew.
Nothing fancy. A little smoky. A little too much salt.
Perfect.
---
One bowl sat untouched.
On the stone edge of the firepit.
Facing inward.
She didn’t explain it.
No one asked.
But after the al, as we drifted back toward the tents, I saw her crouch beside that bowl.
Spoon in one paw.
Quiet voice murmuring sothing I couldn’t hear.
Then she took a single bite from the untouched bowl, nodded once, and poured the rest into the fire.
---
The fla didn’t flare.
The system didn’t ping.
There was no glow, no voice, no resonance surge.
Just heat.
And a kobold standing alone, with the only thing she got to keep.
Reviews
All reviews (0)