28. Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Eight
Evandra
“Magic is not sustained by power alone. The Rift stirs most strongly in spaces of connection—shared meals, quiet hands, laughter around a hearth. Where bonds are built, the Rift listens. Where warmth is offered freely, it remembers.” —Excerpt from Foundations of Rift Harmonics, Vol. II
The kitchen wasn’t much—a mismatched set of cast iron pans, dull knives, and an oven that needed persuasion to stay lit. But it was mine for the afternoon. And for the first time since arriving in Riftreach, I felt like I could really, actually breathe.
At the very end of the hallway, just beyond Drake’s and my chambers, the kitchen opened into the ship’s hull where it jutted out from the cavern wall.
A line of lanterns kept the shadows at bay, their glow glancing off copper pots and polished counters worn smooth by years of use.
This was the rebellion’s private kitchen—quiet, well-kept, with just enough space for a few people to cook without bumping elbows.
The planked floor sloped ever so slightly toward the cavern, a reminder that the whole place was never meant to be anchored here, but somehow was.
A bundle of root vegetables thumped onto the prep table in front of me, and I set to work.
My sleeves were rolled up, and my fingers were sticky with garlic and stained with beet juice.
Steam coiled from the pot on the hearth, warm and fragrant with the herbs I’d managed to barter from a Riftborn grower.
The scent of simmering broth filled the cavern space like a spell of comfort.
For once, I wasn’t the Seer, the asset, the spark of a rebellion. I was just… Eva. A woman with a knife and a cutting board and a meal to make.
“Need help?” Felix asked, sidling into the kitchen with the obligatory grin of someone who did not, in fact, want to help.
“Only if you want to peel these potatoes,” I said, sliding a bowl toward him without looking up.
He recoiled. “I think I hear someone calling me from… not here.”
“Sit,” I ordered, pointing my paring knife at him. “Peel.”
He sighed dramatically but complied, flopping into a stool with theatrical suffering.
“You’re terrifying with that knife, you know.”
“I’m more terrifying with a ladle.” I winked.
Behind him, I heard footsteps and the telltale scrape of boots. I turned—and nearly dropped the onion I was holding.
Fen stood in the doorway, arms crossed, brow arched.
“I heard you were poisoning the rebellion,” she said dryly.
“Maybe just you,” I shot back.
Felix choked on a laugh and ducked behind a basket of leeks.
“You’re probably picky, right?” I asked, wiping my hands on my apron.
I expected Fen to turn and walk away, but instead, she stepped forward slowly, examining the kitchen like it might bite her.
“Maybe. What is it?” Her genuine curiosity shocked me.
“Vegetable stew. With some… hopefully-edible mushrooms Ness assured me wouldn’t kill us.”
“Ambitious,” she said. She didn’t sit, but she didn’t leave either.
I stirred. “I used to cook every day back home. The regulars at the inn would get mad if I changed the stew recipe too much.”
“You owned that inn?”
“My dad did. I ran the kitchen. It was small, but… it mattered to people.”
Fen was quiet. Then, unexpectedly: “I get that.”
I looked at her.
“The mattering part,” she clarified, avoiding my eyes. “Being useful. Having a job that… means something.” I thought about what Felix had told me about Fen nursing him back to health when they were young.
Silence fell between us. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… tentative. New.
“You want to help?” I offered, holding out a knife.
She eyed it as if it were a Vyrmin. “I’m more of a ‘stab a man in the throat’ kind of girl.”
I smirked. “Then chopping carrots should be no problem.”
A smirk graced the corner of her lips, just barely noticeable. She reached for the knife.
“Fine,” she said, taking the cutting board. “But if I lose a finger, you owe me wine.”
“Deal.” I said with a smirk. This was the friendliest conversation Fen and I had ever exchanged, though it still involved knives.
The three of us settled into a rhythm. I stirred. She chopped. Felix peeled. The fire crackled, and for a while, the kitchen filled with the soft cadence of preparation—the scrape of blades, the bubble of broth, the quiet comfort of shared silence.
As the stew simmered, I pulled out the last of the foraged herbs and tossed them into the pot.
I glanced around the kitchen—at the mismatched pots, the chipped dishes, the two warriors peeling and chopping at my side—and something in my chest loosened.
I wasn’t just surviving here. I was building something. Contributing something.
“Thanks,” I said quietly in Fen’s direction.
“For what?” She asked, suspicious.
“For not… walking out.”
She didn’t look at me, just shrugged and said, “Felix seems to trust you. Figured I should give you a chance, too.”
It wasn’t much. But it was everything.
A long table had been set on the upper deck of the ship, cluttered with mismatched plates, bowls of steaming vegetable stew, a few slabs of roast meat, and wine.
Drake and I slid into our seats—his hand brushed against mine under the table, just briefly, but enough to send a flutter through my stomach.
“Thank you for inviting me,” I said, trying to smooth over the awkward silence that followed. “I was excited to cook for you all.”
“And it’s not even poisoned!” Felix added brightly.
“…That we know of,” Fen muttered, already halfway into her wine.
Julian raised his glass with a wry grin. “To our resident Seer, who hasn’t died yet. And to our dear Captain Eldrake, who’s apparently now also a babysitter-slash-boyfriend.”
I nearly choked on my sip of water.
Drake coughed. “Not a—well, I wouldn’t say boyf—it’s—Eva’s safety is critical to the mission, sir.”
Julian waved a dismissive hand. “Of course, of course. Seduction for strategy. Classic move. I once spent three months seducing a baron’s daughter just to steal his shipping manifest.”
“She’s sitting right here,” I muttered, eyes wide.
“Oh, we know,” Fen deadpanned, tilting her goblet toward me without looking. “Hard not to when you fuck each other with your eyes every chance you get.”
Drake shot her a look. “You’re drunk.”
“I wish I were drunk,” Fen said dryly.
Felix snorted and leaned into me. “To be fair, it is hard not to notice. He stares at you like you’re the only woman he’s ever seen.”
I covered my face with one hand. “Gods, is every dinner this embarrassing?”
“No,” Fen said. “This one is special. This is roast-Drake-for-being-a-simp night.”
“We’ve been planning it for days,” Felix added, grinning.
“As long as you don’t knock her up before we dethrone the King, I don’t care how you get her to cooperate,” Julian said between slurps of stew.
Drake’s hand froze on his wine glass. “That’s not—Sir, with all due respect?—”
“Relax,” Julian muttered. “We’re off-duty.”
Drake opened his mouth again, shut it, then took a very long drink.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or crawl under the table. What was Julian trying to say? Drake was just manipulating me to cooperate?
Across from me, Fen was watching Drake carefully. She’d gone quiet—not sulking, but observant. Her smirk had faded, and something unreadable flickered behind her eyes. She took another slow sip of wine and glanced at me. “You’re lucky, you know,” she said.
I blinked. “Lucky?”
She shrugged. “I’ve known him a long time. Never seen him this soft. Not even when he broke his ribs and wouldn’t admit it.”
“You’re exaggerating,” Drake muttered into his cup.
“She’s not,” Felix said. “He got stabbed in the gut once and still showed up for morning drills.”
“He was still bleeding,” Fen added helpfully.
I looked at Drake, stunned. “Why would you do that?”
He met my eyes, serious now. “Because people were counting on me.”
The laughter faded just a little around the table. Not awkwardly, but gently—as if the mood had shifted from teasing to something quieter, something more real. Julian’s words echoed in the back of my mind. ‘Seduction for strategy. Classic move.’
I looked at Drake again, at the way he smiled at me—soft, sincere. Or at least it looked sincere.
But what if it wasn’t?
What if this warmth, this tenderness, was part of the mission?
A role he’d slipped into just as easily as his armor?
He was loyal to the rebellion. I couldn’t forget that.
And I was their greatest asset. I forced a smile, pushing the doubts down.
Hard. But a cold thread of uncertainty curled in my stomach like smoke.
Felix cleared his throat loudly. “So! Anyone want more of this stew before I polish it off?”
“Yup,” Fen said flatly, filling her bowl.
“I’m full,” Julian murmured.
“I can make dessert next time!” I offered quickly, eager to distract my mind from the doubt creeping in. “I used to make these tarts at the inn; everyone loved them.”
Julian looked up with sudden interest. “If you can cook blueberry muffins, I might just promote you.”
“Oh, she’s already climbing the ranks,” Felix said, throwing an exaggerated wink in my direction. “You should see her fight now. Nearly knocked Drake on his ass today.”
“Nearly?” I teased, shooting a look at Drake. “I seem to recall his ass hitting the floor.”
“My foot slipped,” he said flatly.
“On my boot,” I added.
Fen actually chuckled. “Stars help us, she’s becoming one of us.”
“Stars help us,” Drake muttered, but his smile said otherwise.
I laughed—really laughed—and it echoed in the space like something bright and new.
I looked around the table at this ragtag group of rebels and warriors, misfits and survivors.
I pushed down the doubt Julian had planted, refusing to believe that the laughter and tenderness around me were nothing more than tactics. This was my home now. My family.