Cooking dinner

The kitchen loomed before me like some sort of ominous battleground, the counters pristine and weapons err, utensils—laid out neatly, as if mocking me. I stood there, clutching a wooden spoon in one hand and staring at the array of ingredients with all the confidence of a mouse in a lion's den. 

Thalindra leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her dark eyes glinting with barely concealed amusement. The fox sat at her feet, his tail swishing lazily as though he, too, was enjoying the unfolding chaos. 

"I don't understand why I have to cook," I grumbled, gesturing wildly at the ingredients on the counter. "You're the one with the perfect everything. Surely cooking is included in your long list of villainous talents."

Thalindra's lips curved into that maddening smirk that always made my blood pressure spike. "Consider it training."

"Training for what? Surviving a kitchen fire?" I snapped, holding up an egg as if it were a particularly dangerous weapon.