The world revolved around Arthur. Or maybe he was the one spinning while the world remained still. Lost, disoriented, and confused, the only thing he knew for sure was that he was no longer sitting on Brixaby’s neck.

The first things that finally came into focus were the classic scents of frying garlic and mushrooms. Then, in the next moment, he found himself standing nearly nose to nose with a brick wall that radiated heat.

He took a step back. No, it wasn’t a wall, it was a brick oven. A huge contraption he’d seen in a few high-end kitchens with brickwork extending to the ceiling.

“Brix?” Arthur started to turn.

Before he could, a voice shouted right behind him. “You there! Boy!”

Fully turning, he saw who—what—spoke and jumped back so fast that the back of his shoulders knocked against the uncomfortably warm oven.

Automatically, he reached for his Nice Shot card. To his horror, it wasn’t available. Only a few bare cards were: Master of Skills, Charming Gentle-Person, and Return to Start.

He had nothing to defend himself against the scourgling in human clothing that stared down at him with an unimpressed gaze. It was shaped like a donkey. Though, like a scourgling, its remaining fur was thin and left patches displaying weeping sores. One long ear was half off and drooping over its—his?—face.

It raised a hoof hand, pointed at Arthur, and in a man’s voice said, “Are you just going to lollygag around or are you going to work?”

“Work?” Arthur breathed.

Was he meant to kill this scourgling with his bare hands? He’d been through a dungeon before and knew he had to fight his way out. Where was Brixaby? Cressida?

Arthur’s reply had been a question, but the scourgling took it as an answer. He waved at him with a hoof hand. “Then follow me. Let’s see if you’re worth anything.”

There was a tail sticking out of workpants.

This was . . . very, very wrong.

A horrible thought seized Arthur, and he shot a quick glance at his own hands. Still human. That was a relief. But his hands were smaller, the skin a little brighter, and he was missing a few peppered burn scars that usually dotted his knuckles. These were still his hands, but younger.

Master of Skills, Charming Gentle-Person, and Return to Start were all my first cards, he thought.

This all flashed in and out of his mind within a second, then he moved to follow the scourgling. They moved through a professional kitchen that didn’t look too different from the one in Barlow’s restaurant back in Wolf Moon Hive.

Though the kitchen seemed larger than Barlow’s in an exaggerated way because Arthur found he was shorter. He was maybe twelve or thirteen, he judged, thinking of his cards.

Glancing internally, he made sure his Cooking Class was equipped. Strangely, his other classes like Thief and Gambler were all locked, even though he’d had them as a kid.

What in the world was going on?

There were other cooks in the kitchen, including a crab-type scourgling that, horribly enough, seemed to be making a seafood stew.

The other cooks glanced at Arthur, though only in mild curiosity, like anyone would when seeing a new face in the kitchen.

The donkey scourgling stopped at the last workstation in line at the back. There was a cutting board, a set of knives—only some were appropriate for chopping—and one whole side piled high with vegetables.

“Now, let’s see what you can do with this.” Despite the fact the scourgling had a hoof for a hand, he grabbed a knife from the block. It made sense in a dreamlike way. He handed it, handle first, to Arthur.

Taking it, Arthur wondered if he was meant to stab the donkey with it and harvest its cards. Then he took a closer look and frowned. “You want me to . . . chop the vegetables?”

“No,” the donkey said dryly, “I want you to sing a tune. Keep us all entertained while we fix your meal.”

The casual disrespect in the kitchen—the way it acted like a boss—struck a reflex in Arthur. “No, chef. I only meant this knife isn’t appropriate.”

The donkey’s eyes narrowed. One was weeping pus. “How so?”

With his free hand, Arthur pressed the tip down, and it bent, flexible as a green twig. “This is a filet knife. I could carve a fish with this, but not carrots.”

The donkey said nothing but half stepped back and gestured to the block. “What would you use?”

Arthur replaced the filet knife and instead picked up a good straight-edged paring knife. “I’d use this for peeling and segmenting smaller vegetables and fruits. And a heavier weight knife, like this medium weight here, with the thick heel”—he pointed to the base—“for the harder stuff.”

New skill level:

Knife Work (Cooking Class)

Level 46