Finally, the Chicken Cacciatore

Upon returning to my quarters, I unpacked the basket onto the table. Chicken. Onions. Carrots. Potatoes. A few cloves of garlic and a bundle of fresh herbs. For tonight’s dinner, I had decided on chicken stew—a simple, comforting dish of chicken broth simmered slowly with root vegetables. Nothing extravagant, just a warm, hearty bowl.

I was taking the ingredients out one by one and organizing them when something rolled from the bottom of the basket.

Clatter.

“...Tomato.”

It was a plump, perfectly ripe, vivid red tomato. In an instant, the scene from the market flashed through my mind: the auntie beaming as she added extras because we were a newlywed couple, Victoria playing the part of a shy young bride, and those fingers digging into my side.

Poke. Poke poke.

“......Ha.”

I let out a helpless chuckle and picked up the tomato. Its weight settled heavily in my palm. Through the taut skin, I could feel how perfectly the flesh had ripened. Near the stem, a fresh yet ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sweetly fragrant tomato scent rose. It was an excellent tomato—far too good to simply slice and serve as a side.

Sigh. A cook’s brain really is an uncontrollable thing. The moment I hold quality ingredients, the menu in my head flips open on its own.

I had chicken. I had tomatoes. Onions, carrots, garlic, herbs. And tucked away in the cupboard was a bottle of red wine I had bought on a whim, wondering if I might ever need it.

...With this combination.

“...Cacciatore.”

I could make Chicken Cacciatore. A dish I had prepared countless times in my previous life’s kitchen. An Italian countryside stew known as “hunter’s chicken.” Sear the chicken until golden, then simmer it slowly with vegetables, wine, and tomatoes. It wasn’t flashy in the least, yet nothing warmed a cold night better. A rustic bowl made by a hunter with whatever was on hand—far from the palace’s extravagant delicacies.

…And so, it felt right. It might not suit an imperial princess, but for the woman whose eyes had sparkled while choosing vegetables in the market, the one who had even pretended to be a new bride over a single tomato… somehow, this dish seemed perfect for her.

I lit the stove and set water to boil. While I waited, I gazed down at the tomato.

…How ridiculous. Truly ridiculous.

That woman would drench this palace in blood in just a few days. And the first to fall, bleeding, would be me. So what I should be doing right now is escaping this place as quickly as possible… not preparing dinner for her.

My head understood that perfectly. Yet the hand holding the tomato, this heart of mine… kept dragging up old memories.

The empty kitchen in the early morning after closing, me chewing on cold staff meal while scrolling through text on my phone. In those lines, a woman had been starving. As a young princess she had trembled at a single piece of bread. On the battlefield she had clenched her teeth even after being struck by arrows. Betrayed by those she trusted, stabbed in the back, she had grown colder, gradually turning into a madwoman.

Every time I reached those passages, I had thought:

──That woman has probably never eaten a single proper warm meal.

If I had been by her side, I would have at least cooked her a bowl of soup.

Back then, I thought it was nothing more than empty words tossed at the text on a screen. But now. The woman from those lines was coming to sit at my table tonight.

“The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ways of the world are truly…”

I let out a long breath. So this was how wishes could be granted—in such a twisted manner. This was the ugly shape a prayer could take when it finally returned.

That woman might kill me one day. No, according to the original story, she definitely would. Therefore I had to run, and I would run. That plan had not changed.

But that matter and this one were separate.

Tonight, a guest was coming to my table. A woman who had never properly tasted a warm meal had said her heart was racing because she looked forward to my cooking. Even if… those words were a lie, once I stood in the kitchen there was only one thing to do.

As a chef in my previous life, I would give her exactly what I had once wished I could. I would pour my everything into creating the warmest possible bowl.

I rolled up my sleeves and stood before the cutting board, knife in hand. The moment the cool handle settled against my palm, a strange calm washed over me. It was a tranquility I had never felt while holding a sword.

Yes. This was my true calling after all.

“...Let’s begin.”

First, the tomatoes. I scored shallow crosses at the base, dropped them into boiling water, counted to ten, then plunged them into ice water. The skins curled back neatly from the cuts. When I peeled them away with my fingertips, the thin membranes slipped off like silk. This technique was called concasse—removing the bitter skin and leaving only the flesh. After seeding and roughly dicing the pulp, a small pile of ruby-like pieces gleamed on the board.

Next came the vegetables. I diced the onion and carrot into neat cubes. Tap, tap, tap. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the board echoed pleasantly in the quiet room. I crushed the garlic with the flat of the blade and sliced it thinly.

And then… at last… our star ingredient appeared: the chicken!

I patted the chicken legs thoroughly dry with a cloth, then rubbed them evenly with salt and pepper. Removing moisture was crucial. Wet chicken would never sear properly. I heated oil in the pot and placed the chicken skin-side down.

Sssssssssss—!!

The pot roared in response. The rich aroma of chicken fat rose immediately, but I suppressed the urge to touch it. The enemy of a good sear is impatience. Even though I wanted to flip it, even though I wanted to peek, I waited until the skin formed a golden armor.

When I finally turned the pieces, the skin glowed a beautiful pumpkin hue. Across the bottom of the pot, brown bits left by the chicken clung like scattered jewels. To an amateur they might look like burnt marks, but this was fond. The treasure more precious than gold that would carry the depth of this dish.

I removed the seared chicken for a moment and poured the onions and carrots into the hot fat. Shaaaaaaa. The vegetables soaked up the chicken drippings and turned translucent, releasing a sweet fragrance. Adding the garlic deepened the aroma further.

Now for today’s highlight…!

I uncorked the wine and poured the deep red liquid into the hot pot all at once.

Shaaaaaaaaaack—!!

White steam exploded upward. As the alcohol burned off, only the wine’s rich bouquet remained. The brown treasures stuck to the bottom began to dissolve into the bubbling liquid. Each scrape of my wooden spatula freed more fond, tinting the broth a deeper amber.

I added the diced tomatoes, nestled the herbs on top, and returned the chicken so it was half-submerged. I set the lid slightly ajar, removed some wood from the fire, and lowered the flame.

From here, it belonged to heat and time.

While the stew simmered, I sat in a chair and watched the pot. Bubble bubble bubble bubble… Steam slipped through the lid’s gap and slowly filled the room. At first came the heavy scent of wine, then the bright acidity of tomato. As time passed, that sharpness rounded out into something sweet and profound. The chicken fat and tomato’s tang embraced each other, melding into the signature aroma of cacciatore. I had smelled it thousands of times in my previous life’s kitchen, yet today it felt strangely different.

…What expression would that woman make when she ate this bowl? Would it be that masked smile? That chilling predator’s grin? Or the face ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of an ordinary girl her age, like the one I had glimpsed in the market?

“What exactly am I hoping for?”

I shook my head, stood up, and lifted the lid. The thoroughly reduced broth bubbled with a glossy thickness. The chicken had grown so tender the meat nearly slipped from the bone, and the sauce—harmonized from tomatoes and wine—had become a deep, rich red bordering on the color of blood.

…Blood-red rose.

The Roseria Imperial Family Emblem suddenly came to mind, and I let out a small snort. Of all things, even the color had to match.

I spooned up some broth and tasted it.

“……Perfect.”

The umami spread across my tongue. The tomato’s acidity had softened beautifully, multiplying in depth when it met the chicken stock. The balance of salt and sweetness, the lingering herbal notes—there was nothing to criticize. It was the best bowl I could make, one that would not shame my single Michelin star from my previous life.

I adjusted the final seasoning, lowered the flame to keep it warm, sliced some bread ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to serve alongside, and by the time I finished, complete night had fallen outside the window.

Victoria walked alone down the corridor wrapped in darkness.

Whooooosh… The night wind was cold, yet she felt no chill at all. Quite the opposite. Ever since earlier, the inside of her chest had been beating with an inexplicably warm pulse.

When she had asked if she might visit his quarters tonight and Kyle had finally nodded awkwardly without saying “no,” from that very moment she had waited for nothing but this night.

Was she a little early? It didn’t matter. Arriving a bit sooner to watch him busily moving about would be pleasant in its own way.

She thought it laughable even as she did it. The greatest imperial princess in the world, heart fluttering like a girl on her way to a mere imperial guard’s quarters.

Just as she turned a corner in the dark corridor—

…Suddenly, a scent drifted toward her.

“……?”

Victoria stopped walking. It was an unfamiliar aroma. She had never encountered it at any banquet in the imperial palace. It was not the scent of incense or expensive spices; it was something humble and warm, difficult to name.

Yet…

“…This is…”

It was the first time she had ever smelled it, so why did her chest ache with a sharp pang? As if she had just encountered something lost long, long ago.

It felt foreign. And at the same time—painfully, unbearably familiar.

Almost unconsciously, Victoria began walking toward the source of the scent. The stronger it grew, the harder her heart pounded.

…She thought she understood. This scent, this warmth—Victoria… knew it.

Her memory hovered just out of reach. Something submerged in fog was trying to rise to the surface along with the aroma. But every time she reached for it, it scattered. Again and again.

Her steps quickened. She crossed the corridor, turned corners, passed through dark passages. The graceful gait of an imperial princess had been forgotten long ago.

At last, at the end of the scent, Victoria arrived before a certain set of quarters. Warm light and the aroma were leaking through the crack of the door and the window frames.

In that instant, Victoria knew by instinct.

Inside was Kyle Lowenheim.

Ah—

She had been about to knock immediately when a small window beside the door caught her eye. Almost without thinking, she approached it silently and, holding her breath, peeked inside.

…There he was.

Kyle, sleeves rolled up, was moving busily in front of the stove. He peered into the steaming pot, tasted the broth with a spoon, and nodded in satisfaction. Then he carefully wiped the narrow table and set out two bowls—two whole place settings—preparing to welcome her.

“…….”

Victoria watched without even daring to breathe. Her chest swelled until it felt ready to burst. Over that scene, another night overlapped.

The remote kitchen where everyone slept. The man cooking alone. The humble bowl of steaming food offered without a word. The warm hand he had extended. And the night she had erased that hand with her own.

…I’m sorry, Kyle. This body does not deserve such treatment from you.

Apology and longing, excitement and guilt tangled together, filling her heart completely. Even so, Victoria could not tear her eyes from the small window. The scenery she had longed for her entire life—the sight she had even prayed to the gods to see just once more—was right there inside that warm light.

Right then, Kyle, having finished cooking, suddenly turned his head toward the window.

“I wonder when she’ll arrive…”

……!!

In that instant, Victoria whipped her head down.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Her heart slammed wildly. Had she been caught? Had he seen? Surely he hadn’t noticed her spying.

“…………”

Crouched low beneath the windowsill with both hands covering her mouth, Victoria’s face had flushed so red it was visible even in the darkness. The greatest Victoria von Roseria in the world. The Rose Empress who had once commanded the continent. Hiding beneath a windowsill like a girl caught peeking at a man… How unbecoming of an imperial princess. Truly, how utterly unbecoming…

…And yet, somehow, she didn’t hate it. Rather, this racing heartbeat, this embarrassment—it was unbearably sweet.

Victoria covered her mouth and laughed silently. Then, pressing one hand firmly against her chest that swelled with anticipation, she crept stealthily from the window toward the door, muffling her footsteps.

She stood straight in front of the door, straightened her slightly disheveled clothes, lightly patted her burning cheeks with both hands, and took one deep, steadying breath.

Toward the moment she had longed for so desperately—

Knock. Knock knock.

Clumsily. Very, very clumsily. She knocked on the door.