Chapter 1: The Leftovers LurkThe city of Bergspire was stitched into the mountains like a seam on a noblewoman’s corset, each tier of the city yered like the folds of a well-draped gown. It was a kingdom of cold and conservation, where the Berg Cn had ruled for centuries, ensuring that not a scrap of food ever went to waste.

  At its heart y the Crystal Larder, the greatest repository of preserved food in history—a sprawling vault of ice and stone where meats, grains, and enchanted delicacies were stored for eternity.

  And within its depths, in a forgotten kitchen far from the grand banquet halls, stood a single refrigerator that no one dared open for too long.

  It was in this kitchen that Yulie Underbust washed dishes.

  Yulie was not important. Not in Bergspire.

  She was a dishwasher. A scullery maid at best, but without the noble connotation. She was small by Berg standards, where hearty mountain stock often came with ample curves and commanding presence. Unlike the noblewomen who boasted cleavage like battle banners, Yulie was compact, wiry, and eternally stuck wearing a grease-stained apron that never fit properly.

  She didn’t fight battles. She didn’t control food storage policy. She just cleaned. And occasionally stole a snack when no one was looking.

  Tonight was one of those nights.

  The grand feast had ended, leaving the kitchen in disarray, with potato skins, meat bones, and half-eaten loaves of enchanted bread scattered across the counters. The chefs had long since retired, leaving Yulie alone with the mess.

  Her stomach grumbled.

  “Alright, let’s see what’s left,” she muttered, eyeing the forbidden refrigerator in the corner.

  It was a relic—an old, dented, humming menace. It pre-dated her employment, possibly even the current generation of chefs.

  Yulie hesitated, but hunger is stronger than caution.

  She grabbed the handle and yanked it open. Cold mist spilled out like a dramatic noblewoman’s entrance to a winter ball. Jars and containers lined the shelves, some with bels long faded, others looking suspiciously like they had been pced there by someone no longer alive.

  She rummaged past the mayonnaise, shuffled aside a bag of quinoa, and paused at the Sriracha sauce.

  Something was wrong. The bottle was... breathing. Her heart skipped a beat. The quinoa shifted, as if something was beneath it. Then a sound. A wet, slithering, gurgling sound. The hairs on Yulie’s neck stood up. Slowly, carefully, she moved the quinoa aside and stared directly into the abyss of culinary horror.

  It was a thing. A congealed, undying, yered abomination. A fusion of forgotten meals—a half-eaten dumpling, a getinous hunk of cursed ham, a nightmare of sauces mixed into a single, pulsing, quivering mass.

  And it moved.

  It saw her.

  It lunged.