The problem was, the Melkor standing before him was not Melkor. It was a minor spirit of deceit named Urluk, who had escaped the Void clinging to a discarded Silmaril shard. Urluk had a lovely baritone and excellent stage presence, but he had no idea how to grant cooking powers. So he improvised: he decided to give Grom a tattoo that would become Melkor—a living, breathing sliver of the Dark Lord’s essence, trapped under orc-skin.

Urluk used a needle made from a broken arrow, ink boiled from shadow-berries, and his own whispered lies as a catalyst. Grom screamed for six hours as the design took shape: a spiked, glaring face with eyes like pits, spreading from his shoulder blades down to his waist.

When it was done, the tattoo spoke.

“Ink my visage upon your back,” the being had growled, his crown of iron thorns scraping the cavern ceiling. “And I shall grant your cauldron the power to boil any meat, even troll kidney, to tenderness in seconds.”

Grom became the most famous chef in the northern strongholds. Orcs traveled miles to taste his “Morgoth’s Gravy” and “Lidless Eye Lentil Soup.” The tattoo never tried to escape again—it was too busy critiquing the roux.

Grom refused. He had a cauldron to test.

“Stop that,” Grom said, slapping the arm flat. It hissed and sank back into his skin.

He ran to the kitchens, tossed a month-old orc-foot into the pot, and stirred. Nothing happened. The foot remained leathery. Urluk, who had been hiding behind a stalagmite, coughed awkwardly and vanished in a puff of cheap sulfur.