Raising Beast Cubs to Find a Husband-Chapter 44: The Taste of Home

The Prince’s Chambers

The guards dragged Primrose into the next room, and her heart shattered.

If King Caspian’s room was a palace of cold opulence, Prince Orion’s room was a mausoleum. It was silent, dark, and the only light came from a few dim crystals embedded in the ceiling. In the center of the room, nestled inside a giant, cushioned pearl-shell, lay the Prince.

He was tiny. He couldn’t be more than five or six years old. His hair was the same pearlescent white as his father’s, but his skin was a dull, sickly grey. His small tail, which should have been vibrant, was pale and motionless.

"He does not wake," Crustar the Crab-chancellor whispered, clicking his claws nervously. "He does not eat. The magic in his chest is calcifying."

Primrose shook off the guard’s grip. Her legs were still trembling from the King’s pressure, and she could taste blood in her mouth, but the Nanny Instinct overrode the fear.

She swam—awkwardly—over to the shell.

"Hey there, little one," she whispered, reaching out to touch his forehead.

"Do not touch the Royal Heir!" a guard barked.

"Quiet!" Primrose snapped, not even looking back. "I’m checking his temperature."

His skin was freezing. Not just ocean-cold, but void cold. The grief was sucking the heat out of his body.

She looked at the King, who was floating near the ceiling, watching her with those terrifying, dead teal eyes.

"He needs heat," Primrose stated, her voice shaking but firm. "Internal heat. And fat. His body is cannibalizing its own magic to survive."

"We have tried heating spells," Caspian said, bored. "They burn his skin."

"Not spells," Primrose said. "I need a kitchen."

She paused, looking at the tray of raw fish the guards had prepared. She frowned.

"And I am not feeding him raw fish," she added. "That feels... morally complicated. I need shellfish. Clams. Scallops. And heavy cream."

The Royal Kitchen (The Thermal Vent)

The Kitchen was a marvel of deep-sea engineering. It was built around a massive volcanic thermal vent in the floor of an adjacent cavern.

To cook underwater without the soup dissolving into the ocean, the Jiaoren chefs utilized Magical Air Pockets.

Primrose stood inside one of these shimmering bubbles. The moment she stepped through the barrier, the water fell away, leaving her hair dripping and her dress heavy. The air inside was dry, hot, and smelled of sulfur from the vent below, which acted as a natural stove.

The ingredients she had asked for were laid out on an obsidian slab.

Giant Rock-Clams (A safe, non-sentient protein).

Sea-Cream (Rich, heavy dairy from sea-cows).

Sweet-Kelp (A sugar substitute).

Golden Algae (Which looked and smelled surprisingly like saffron).

King Caspian hovered outside the bubble, floating in the water, watching her through the shimmering translucent wall. He looked like a man watching an insect perform a circus trick.

Okay, Primrose, she thought, tying a piece of seaweed around her waist as a makeshift apron. Hard Mode cooking. Let’s go.

She grabbed a knife made of sharpened shell.

She didn’t cook like the Royal Chefs, who used magic to slice and levitate ingredients from a distance. It was precise, cold, and impersonal.

Primrose cooked with her hands.

She shucked the Rock-Clams, chopping the white meat into tiny, melt-in-the-mouth cubes. Chop. Chop. Chop. The rhythm was comforting.

She threw the fat into the heated stone bowl sitting directly over the vent. It sizzled. The smell of searing garlic-kelp and clams filled the air bubble.

"Don’t be shy, little onion," she muttered to the bulb of sea-root she was dicing. "In you go. Sweat it out."

Outside the bubble, Caspian’s fin twitched. He watched her talk to the vegetables. It was efficient. It was... practiced.

She poured in the Sea-Cream. She added the Sweet-Kelp. She stirred it slowly, creating a thick, golden chowder.

It wasn’t a potion. It was Comfort Food. It was a recipe she used to make back in the restaurant kitchen on Earth—a simple Clam Chowder, adapted for the ocean.

As she stirred, she forgot where she was. She forgot the scary King. She forgot the dungeon. She let her mind drift back to the kitchen radio on Earth.

She started to hum.

It wasn’t a sea shanty. It wasn’t an Imperial hymn. It was a classic jazz tune that used to play on loop at the five-star restaurant where she worked.

"Fly me to the moon..." she hummed, stirring the golden soup. "Let me play among the stars..."

Outside the bubble, King Caspian froze.

His teal eyes widened. His tail stopped swishing.

He knew that melody.

He hadn’t heard that melody since the day he died—twenty-five years ago in this world, but barely a moment ago in his memories.

Impossible, Caspian thought, his heart skipping a beat. That is... Frank Sinatra?

He moved closer to the bubble, pressing his hand against the barrier. He stared at the Fox-kin woman. She was swaying slightly as she cooked, talking to the soup, humming a song from a dead world.

"Who are you?" Caspian whispered, the words lost in the water.

The Feeding

Primrose finished the soup. It was a rich, golden yellow and incredibly thick.

She poured it into a specialized Gourd-Bowl with a narrow spout—designed for feeding infants underwater without spilling. She sealed the lid tight.

She stepped out of the air bubble, the water rushing back around her. Because the soup was heavy with cream and fat, it didn’t dissolve instantly in the water; it held its density, like a bubble of oil.

She swam back to the Prince’s room. The King followed her, his presence heavy and silent.

She approached the shell. She popped the seal on the spout just near the Prince’s nose, squeezing a tiny bubble of the warm, golden broth into the water.

"Orion," she whispered. "Wake up. It’s dinner time."

The scent—concentrated and rich—hit the Prince.

He didn’t move.

She brought the spout to his lips. "Come on," she coaxed. "Just one sip. It tastes like... a warm blanket."

She squeezed the gourd, forcing a thick globule of soup into his mouth. He didn’t have to drink it like water; he just had to swallow the density.

For a second, nothing happened.

Then, Orion’s throat moved. He swallowed.

A second later, a faint flush of color appeared on his grey cheeks. The magic blockage in his chest—which had been cold and hard—seemed to soften, reacting to the intense density of the fat and the warmth of the broth.

Orion’s eyes fluttered open. They were seafoam green.

"Warm..." the Prince rasped, his voice tiny.

"That’s right," Primrose smiled, tears pricking her eyes. "It’s warm. Have another."

He ate another mouthful. Then another. He didn’t cry yet, but he was eating. He was alive.

"He eats," Crustar gasped from the corner. "The Prince eats!"

Primrose turned to the King, holding out the half-empty gourd.

"See?" she said, exhausted but triumphant. "No poison. Just soup."

Caspian drifted toward her. He didn’t look at his son. He looked at the gourd. Then he looked at her.

"Give it to me," he commanded.

She handed him the vessel.

Caspian lifted it. He brought the spout to his lips and took a sip.

The flavor hit him like a physical blow.

It wasn’t just the clams. It was the balance. The roux. The way the cream was reduced. It didn’t taste like Jiaoren food (which was mostly raw).

It tasted like home.

The gourd slipped from Caspian’s fingers.

Primrose gasped, lunging forward to catch it before it hit the floor. "Hey! Be careful! That took an hour to make!"

She cradled the bowl, annoyed, her fatigue making her sloppy.

"Seriously," she muttered under her breath, shaking her head. "You’d think a King would have better table manners. It’s just a New England Chowder, not liquid gold."

The words left her mouth before she could stop them.

New England.

Primrose froze. Her eyes went wide.

Oh no.

Her heart dropped into her stomach. Stupid! Stupid Gamer Brain! New England doesn’t exist here! There is no England! There is only the Empire!

She panicked internally. He’s going to ask what a ’New England’ is. He’s going to think I’m a spy speaking code, or a lunatic. I have to cover this up. I have to say it’s a... a region of the Wolf Lands! Yes!

She opened her mouth to stammer a lie. 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂

But Caspian didn’t ask "What is New England?"

He froze. The water around him seemed to vibrate. He drifted closer, until he was inches from her face, his eyes searching hers with a desperate, terrifying intensity.

He leaned in, his voice a whisper that only she could hear.

"Manhattan," Caspian whispered. "The red one is called Manhattan."

Primrose dropped the spoon.

She stared at the Merman King. She stared at his alien tail, his glowing scales, his fantasy crown.

And she realized.

He wasn’t asking what it meant.

He was completing the set.

"You..." Primrose breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard she thought it would burst.

Caspian grabbed her wrist. His grip wasn’t crushing this time. It was desperate. He pulled her closer, his teal eyes searching her face for a trace of the world he had lost.

"Crustar!" Caspian barked, never breaking eye contact with Primrose. "Clear the room! Everyone out! NOW!"

"But Sire!" the Crab squeaked. "The Land-Walker is—"

"OUT!" Caspian roared, the force of his voice cracking a nearby vase.

The guards and the Chancellor fled.

King Caspian and Primrose floated alone in the silent room.

"Who are you?" Caspian whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of hope and grief.