Chapter 4
KENRON
The sun hasn’t even rolled over in her bed of clouds when I swing my legs out of mine.
There’s a spark in my chest. Not the ache that sometimes flares up when the scars across my ribs pull the wrong way or when I think too long about trenches and phosphorus storms. No.
This is something else. Bright. Clean. An itch behind my sternum that has me grinning like an idiot before I’ve even touched my boots.
She came back again.
That stiff-spined, fire-eyed human woman with the voice like broken glass and a heart that doesn’t know how to lie to itself. She came back. Sat in the same booth. Ate the firebomb I laid in front of her like it was a gauntlet I’d thrown. Didn't say a word—but she didn’t need to.
I felt her eyes on me.
I feel them now.
The kitchen is cold when I first step in, just a metal box waiting for a soul to wake it. I toss the lights on, let them buzz to life, and tie my apron around my waist like armor. It’s a good morning. I can feel it in my bones.
I whistle as I move. Something old and wild. A song my mother used to hum while scrubbing the scales on my back, before war or shame or death taught her to stop smiling.
By the time I’m elbow-deep in roots and spice paste, I’ve got the charred stew base bubbling and my palms stained orange.
“You’re whistling,” comes a voice like sandpaper over rust.
I don’t turn. Just grin at the pot. “Maybe the stew’s finally got rhythm.”
My father makes a sound halfway between a grunt and a curse. He’s old-school Vakutan, bone-tired and deep-souled. Still wears his war beads even though the strings are frayed and the memories heavier than stone.
“She’s dangerous,” he mutters.
I don’t ask who he means. I know.
“She’s hungry,” I say instead.
He snorts. “So are snakes.”
I stir the pot slower. Let the scent rise between us. Earthy. Thick. A kick of vinegar beneath the surface like a secret.
“Doesn’t mean they bite without reason.”
Father doesn’t reply. He rarely does when he knows I’m about to dig in.
But I feel his eyes on me. That sharp, assessing look that used to strip enemies to the bone. He sees the way I move today. The extra care in the blade work. The rhythm to my prep. The fact that every sauce I reduce is a shade of red.
“She’s not for you.”
I laugh. “Didn’t know I was ordering off a menu.”
He leaves me to it after that.
The hours blur, the way they always do when the kitchen sings.
My staff trickles in one by one—Y’kren with her horn piercings and zero patience, Javi the Fratvoyan with the fastest hands this side of the inner ring, and old Breck, who doesn’t talk much but makes the kind of fried tarbeans that get written about in food reviews without his name on them.
They all feel it too. The shift. The tension. Something like expectation baking into the air like yeast.
No one says her name. None of them know it.
But they saw her.
And they saw me watching her.
I try not to watch the door. Try not to glance up every time it hisses open. But my hands know when to slow, when to stall. My shoulders twitch toward the front without asking permission.
She doesn’t come.
And still, I cook like she will.
I plate one extra of the fire-root meat. Set it near the warmer. Just in case.
Maybe I’m a fool.
Maybe I like being a fool for a woman who looks at me like I might not be the monster her blood taught her to fear.
When the dinner rush hits, I drown in it with both hands open. It’s what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. Cook like the gods are watching. Cook like fire’s a language and I’m fluent.
But every time I bring a plate to the line, my eyes flick left.
To that corner booth.
It’s empty tonight.
But I leave it clean. Polished.
Waiting.
Just like me.
The air shifts around mid-evening—thickens, sharpens. I know it before I see her.
There’s a particular kind of silence that hits just before she walks through the door. Not a hush exactly, more like...a recalibration. Like the room itself straightens its spine. Like the walls hold their breath.
Then she’s there.
Third night in a row.
She doesn’t strut. Doesn’t creep. Just walks in like she doesn’t owe anyone an explanation—and maybe she doesn’t.
Her eyes do a sweep of the room, half-calculated, half-defensive, like she's still bracing for some boot to drop. But when they hit that same corner booth—the one I’ve left untouched all day—I swear I see something flicker behind them. Relief, maybe. Familiarity.
I don’t let myself smile. Not too much.
She sits without waiting. Doesn't bother looking at the menu. Doesn't ask what's new. Just folds her hands on the table and stares straight ahead, chin high, mouth tight.
But she’s here.
That's enough.
I’m already plating when Y’kren offers to take the dish. I wave her off.
“This one’s mine.”
She smirks like she knows. Maybe she does.
I layer it slow. Intentional. A ceremonial dish from the old rites—Kin-Finding Stew, we call it.
Vakutan tradition says it was first served to strangers on the brink of blood feud, something to remind them of warmth before war.
It’s sweet in unexpected places. Hot in strange corners.
Rich with roots that grow deep and stubborn. Not something we put on the menu.
Not something I cook for just anyone.
The meat’s tender and smoked over firefruit wood.
The sauce is an aged reduction of star-anise berries and fermented shell-honey.
I finish it with pickled vine curls and crushed sun-nuts for texture, then light a narrow strip of fireleaf at the edge of the plate.
It smolders, just enough to scent the air.
I don’t say a word when I place it in front of her.
She looks down at it, then up at me. Raises one brow.
“What’s this?”
“Something ancient,” I say. “From a time when we thought sharing food might prevent war.”
Her lips twitch. Not a smile. Not quite.
“You think I came here to start a war?”
I shrug. “Not with your hands, maybe.”
She doesn’t answer that. Just stares at the plate. Like it’s a riddle she’s almost afraid to solve.
Slowly, she picks up the fork.
The first bite’s small. Cautious. I don’t expect more. But when she chews, her eyes close just a fraction, and that’s when I look away.
I retreat to the kitchen, let the sounds of the line fill the space between us. But I’m watching. Always. Every time she takes a bite, I see the way her fingers relax. The way her shoulders drop by degrees.
She doesn’t talk.
But food is a language. And right now, she’s speaking it fluently.
I keep my hands moving. I’ve got orders to fill, customers to please, but every time I glance back, she’s still there. Still eating. Still quiet.
But not hard anymore.
Not so jagged.
At one point, a spoon clinks against the edge of the bowl and she looks up—right at me.
I meet her eyes.
Neither of us look away.
It’s not a long moment. But it’s full.
There’s something warm in my chest. Something reckless.
I don’t name it.
When she finishes, she sets the fork down gently. Doesn’t bolt. Doesn’t tense. Just breathes, deep and steady. Like she’s forgotten to be angry for five whole minutes.
That’s enough for tonight.
Let her keep that silence.
Let her come back wanting more.