Chapter 12

  The midday sun streamed down into the cobblestone plaza, glinting off the brass fittings of merchant carts and the polished glass panes of the nearby taverns. The air in the outpost’s market square smelled of fried fish, roasting nuts, and something unmistakably sweet - candied root slivers dusted with crushed crimson spice.

  Ren’s nose twitched. He’d already stashed away his newly purchased travel cooking set, dagger, and ingredients back at the small inn where the group had found lodging. He’d told himself - firmly, very firmly - that he wasn’t going to buy anything else until they were ready to leave.

  That resolve lasted about four minutes.

  The scent that broke him wasn’t even one he could name at first - something smoky, yes, but also rich and tangy, with an undertone of something sweet. It was the sort of smell that didn’t just invite you over, it grabbed you by the shirt collar and dragged you in.

  Which was why he found himself weaving through the market stalls toward a crowd gathered around a raised wooden platform. He was just about to take a closer look when a gruff voice called to him from behind.

  “Oi, you there!”

  Ren turned. A tall, broad man in a stained apron stood outside a modest stone-front eatery. His forearms were like tree trunks, each marked with old burns and flour dust. “You’re the one buying up those fancy spices from Harick’s stall earlier, aren’t you?”

  Ren blinked. “Uh… guilty?”

  The man grinned, showing a missing canine tooth. “Name’s Brannick. I’m the best cook in this outpost. Folks say you think you’re somethin’ special with a skillet - word travels fast here.”

  Ren’s brows rose. “Word from where? I’ve been here two hours.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Brannick said with a theatrical wave. “I say we have ourselves a friendly cook-off. Right here. You and me. Winner gets braggin’ rights and the loser buys the other a barrel of the good ale.”

  A small crowd had already started gathering, drawn by the magic words cook-off. Raven, leaning against a crate, looked mildly entertained. “You up for it, Ren?”

  Ren smirked. “Sure. But don’t cry when I win.”

  ___________________________

  The rules were hastily agreed upon: one portable brazier each, a small table, and whatever ingredients they wanted from the pile. No magic allowed except for heat control and safety measures - apparently the last time magic was fully allowed, someone almost set the watchtower on fire.

  They started at the same moment. Arvik lunged for a slab of cured meat and a jar of fermented greens, his knife flashing as he sliced the meat paper-thin. Ren took a different route - root vegetables, the red herbs, and a small bundle of something that looked like wild spring onions but smelled faintly of citrus.

  “Never seen someone go for tubers first,” Arvik remarked without looking up.

  Ren shrugged. “Maybe you haven’t been paying attention.”

  That got a few chuckles from the crowd.

  He set to work, peeling the roots in quick spirals, the skins curling away to reveal golden flesh beneath. A pot clanged as he set it over the heat and splashed in oil that hissed and spat. The scent of the red herbs, crushed between his fingers, released a spicy floral note that made his mouth water.

  Arvik, meanwhile, was moving with the confidence of someone who’d done this a thousand times - meat sizzling on the griddle, fermented greens frying just enough to mellow their tang, a thick sauce bubbling in a small pot.

  “Bit of advice, lad,” Arvik said, flipping his meat with a practiced flick, “Crowd here loves bold flavors. Big. Loud. Not… whatever boiled roots you’ve got going.”

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  “Not everything needs to be loud to be bold. There is great wisdom in quiet defiance,” Ren said without looking up.

  That earned him a few murmurs from the crowd. One older man even nodded in approval.

  The real trick came when Ren pulled out a small pouch from his belt - ground spice mix from one of the merchants he’d visited earlier. Golden-red in color, it smelled of warmth: turmeric, a hint of cinnamon, and something sharp like dried ginger. He dusted it over the vegetables just as they began to brown, the sizzling oil carrying the scent outward like a promise.

  Arvik shot him a glance. “That smells foreign.”

  Ren grinned. “It is.”

  For protein, he took a handful of the skewered meat from the communal pile - tender, already marinated - and seared it quickly before tossing it with the spiced vegetables. At the last second, he squeezed the juice from the citrus-onion stalks over everything, brightening the flavor and sending up a fragrant steam that made even Arvik’s eyes widen a little.

  When the twenty minutes were up, they plated side by side.

  Arvik’s dish was a feast for the senses: thin-sliced meat fanned over the plate, drizzled with a rich sauce, the fermented greens piled high beside it. It looked - and smelled - like something that could wake the dead.

  Ren’s plate was humbler, but vibrant - golden vegetables glistening with oil and spice, seared meat tucked in among them, flecks of red herb and green onion scattered like confetti.

  The crowd tasted first Arvik’s, then Ren’s. There were nods, murmurs, a few raised brows. Then someone laughed. Then two more.

  Finally, an old woman with sharp eyes and no patience for flattery declared, “The boy’s wins. Yours is good, Arvik, but I could eat his every day and not get bored.”

  The cheer that went up wasn’t deafening, but it was warm. Arvik laughed, clapping Ren on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.

  “Well, damn,” the big man said. “Didn’t think I’d lose today. You’ve got a knack, boy.”

  Ren tried not to look too smug. “Guess quiet food is not so bad after all.”

  By the time he left the platform, the crowd was in good spirits, the air buzzing with laughter and the lingering scent of both dishes. Ren’s teammates had been watching from the sidelines, and even Sinclair - ever the stoic - had a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

  It wasn’t a grand victory, but it was enough. Enough to remind them that not everything on this journey had to be grim and heavy. Enough to make the day feel… lighter.

  _____________________________

  The rain had started soon after the contest - a soft, misty drizzle that slicked the cobblestones outside and left the outpost smelling faintly of wet dirt and ozone. Ren was halfway through peeling a bright-orange root he’d bought that morning when Sinclair’s boots thudded on the upstairs steps.

  He didn’t speak right away, just strode toward the wide oak table in the center of the common room, the rest of the group turning to look at him. A folded parchment, sealed in dark green wax, was in his hand.

  “Letter from Soraya,” he said finally, voice steady but carrying an edge that cut through the fire’s crackle. “Came in from another crow just after the midday bell.”

  Ren set the root aside. Leo leaned forward in his chair, curiosity written plainly on his face. Even Raven, who usually read through news with the sort of half-bored detachment that came from having heard it all before, tilted her head slightly.

  Sinclair broke the seal and smoothed the parchment flat against the table, eyes scanning the first few lines before he began to read aloud.

  To Sinclair,

  We crossed the Dragonkin territories without incident, though not without struggle. They refused our request for aid.

  Two nights ago we entered the Lausen Empire. The land feels tense - as if holding its breath before a shout. Soldiers march in columns, wagons heavy with arms, and everywhere the same hushed phrase: mobilization orders.

  Whether this is posturing or preparation for war, I do not yet know. Rumors suggest fortification in the capital and new levies raised in the north.

  We press onward to the main Order base. I expect to arrive within the fortnight.

  Until then, take care. Do not assume distance makes you safe. If war is coming, it will touch more than the Empire’s borders.

  - Soraya

  By the time Sinclair finished, the common room was quiet enough that the fire’s soft hiss filled the space.

  Ren leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin. “Mobilization orders… think it’s related to what we’re chasing?”

  “Everything’s related to what we’re chasing,” Raven murmured, eyes on the parchment. “The question is whether they know it yet.”

  Leo gave a humorless laugh. “Great. So we get to explore ruins while an empire sharpens its swords.”

  Sinclair folded the letter again, her expression unreadable. “Whatever the Lausen Empire is preparing for, it’s their road to walk. Ours doesn’t change.” She slid the parchment into her coat. “But be ready. If the winds shift, they could start blowing our way faster than we like.”

  No one argued. Outside, the drizzle deepened to rain, tapping against the windows like a steady, patient drumbeat.