Cooking a standard dinner for the Warlord pack was a tactical military operation. Cooking the feast for a Warlord's wedding, however, required the kind of divine intervention usually reserved for planetary alignments.
I stood in the center of the manor's massive kitchen, all nine of my silver fox tails swishing in a synchronized rhythm of absolute focus. The ovens were roaring, the enchanted mixing bowls were spinning on their own, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted garlic, spun sugar, and fresh ocean herbs.
"Keep those berry tarts moving!" I called out, pointing a wooden spoon at a line of scurrying kitchen-golems. "And remember the golden rule of the menu today! If it has feathers, it does not enter this kitchen! We are celebrating an avian bride! We are a strictly anti-poultry household tonight!"
The golems gave synchronized little salutes and hurried back to the workstations.
