Chapter 11

I always cook faster when I’m alone. I can focus wholeheartedly on the spices the dish needs and how quickly the consistency changes depending on the intensity of the heat under the pot. But Nex is currently pilfering through my cupboards like a bored child, so I’m fairly distracted. It certainly doesn’t help that every time he shimmies past me, the scent of fresh air and rain envelops me. I drop a fresh rosemary sprig on the ground when Nex bumps me for the fifth time in the small kitchen.

“Would it kill you to just sit down and wait?” I grumble as I pick up the sprig and successfully add it to the cream colored broth simmering in the copper pot.

“How much longer is it going to take?” He whines, then peeks over my shoulder. I elbow him in the ribs, which makes him at least back out of the kitchen.

“I’ll make it take another hour if you keep complaining about it.”

Nex rolls his eyes, yet resignedly retreats to the sturdy chair he sat in the night before. Without him disturbing my space and concentration, I’m able to finish the broth for the noodles quickly after achieving the desired consistency. The savory aroma of the broth swirls through the air as I ladle generous portions into two bowls, the steam curling upwards in delicate tendrils. As I prepare to take my seat, I extend my hand to place Nex’s bowl before him, but he’s quicker, swooping in to snatch it from my grasp, and starts eagerly fishing through the bowl.

“I forgot to ask, but do you usually have poor table manners?” I point at him with my fork, raising an eyebrow at the pace at which he inhales each long noodle with abandon.

Nex moans between bites. “Shouldn’t it be a compliment that I don’t care about manners because your food is that good?” He mumbles, his mouth hardly empty before he fills it again. “Besides, you starved me all morning so forgive me if I eat what I can before you thrust more slave labor upon me.”

I smirk between bites. “Gotta serve the time.”

“In terms of crime and punishment, aren’t you technically guilty by association?” Nex accuses while pointing his fork at me this time.

“I made sure the compendium was returned, so technically I served justice.”

“Ah, the judge and the executioner.”

“I prefer ‘concerned citizen’.”

“I prefer ‘menace’,” Nex chimes, then yelps when I kick his shin under the table, causing him to drop his fork in his bowl, cream-colored broth splashing onto the table. Nex raises his hands in surrender. “Okay okay, I submit. Just let me eat in peace.”

While I have a snarky retort prepared, I withhold and allow him to finish his hard-earned noodles for the time being. We silently eat, the sun filtering through the window and warming my flushed face. The light plays with the red brick walls and the dull tiles lining the floor. The air is full of dust particles that soar lazily around the room, and I feel my shoulders and arms start to loosen as I watch the shiny particles move in a mesmerizing flow. I’ve admired the very same sight for years. It’s usually around this time of day that my mother would start preparing for the lunch rush, and a young Ryn would sit in this chair and mince vegetables for the broths while absorbing the same sunlight I do now.

Nex’s fork clinks against the porcelain bowl and breaks the nostalgic spell the sunlight has on me. I tear my gaze from the window and find my bowl still half-full, but I’ve lost my appetite, numbing knots filling my stomach instead. Nex, however, has not. I could’ve sat the compendium on the table directly in front of Nex and he probably still wouldn’t spare me a glance. It isn’t till he’s nearly slurped up the last of the noodles that he leans back in his chair.

“We’ve got one more problem,” he says with his mouth still full and like I’ve been part of an entire conversation he’s had inside his head.

I fold my arms over my chest. “Only one? And here I thought we had an abundance. But which one are you specifically referring to?”

Nex copies my pose and rolls his eyes in a way that moves his entire body. “I’m talking about the Trial.”

Such a teenager.

“Ah, then please proceed,” I say flippantly, anything to annoy him the way he annoys me.

He clears his throat and ignores my antics.

“You helping people. You can’t keep doing that. Outside the Trials, it’s a virtue, sure. Throughout, it’s a death wish. You’re gonna get someone else killed.” His voice is so even and unperturbed, yet his words are grave. I snort as I grab my fork and move it around in my bowl.

“Sure, but am I not helping them not get killed?”

“While in the middle of the storm? No, you’re not,” he says matter-of-factly. “In the Trials, you can’t help another candidate for the same reason you can’t help your fellow Scavenger on an expedition; preservation. The winds are too strong the further you descend into the storm. There’s a higher chance of you both getting carried away if you’re not using all your strength to hold onto your harpoon. It’s technically only rated for one,” Nex explains, and I can see his jaw flex and his shoulders tense.

“Oh,” is all I say at the deeper understanding. I’d figured it was due to over confidence and self-glorification that the Scavengers only help themselves, not because it’s detrimental to survival.

Nex rests his elbows on the table. “The Scavenger ethos is ‘Your path, your hands’ because if everyone helped when someone needed it, no one would learn their own limits and capabilities, and no one would make it to or back from Old Atoraxis,” he says, a hint of something deeper and personal lingering at the end of his words.

Kaida’s scolding after I saved her floods my mind. It’s no wonder Kaida was so upset. To her, I had not only taken away her chance to qualify, I limited Kaida in discovering her own abilities and learning on her own accord. I have had five Stormglass Trials to practice and test my skills. This had been Kaida’s first, and it’s uncommon for candidates to return for another Trial.

I blink at Nex, who has returned to playing with his fork. “You helped me,” I state.

Nex’s hand stops. “I did.”

“Why?”

He licks his lips. “Couldn’t have my apprentice die on the first day. Too much is at stake,” he kids, then raises his now empty bowl.

I raise my brows unimpressed. “You mean your feeding source is at stake?”

Nex winks at me. “Exactly,” he chuckles. Then his voice grows quiet and his impudence falters. “And I was the one who made a mistake. I didn’t tell you that the layer moved with the storm. If you’d died, it would’ve been on my hands.”

“You know, letting me know that the fourth layer moves around could’ve prevented all the drama,” I gently scold.

Nex peeks through his lashes bashfully. “Well aware.” A brief touch of sadness shadows his face.

Why does he have to do that? Why does he have to act like he cares about nothing and everything all at once? He makes no sense. I press my lips together and pretend I understand just so I can move on and not get stuck theorizing.

“Next time,” I repeat his assurance from earlier.

The shadow leaves his face, at least enough for him to raise his head, the sunlight streaming in behind him leaving him in a darkness that makes his features deeper and his smile more profound.

“Next time.” He stands, grabbing our bowls and depositing them in the kitchen sink. He turns to lean against the sink. “You know, courage isn’t always about winning. Sometimes it’s about how far you’re willing to fall.”

***

I grab the yellow cloth apron from the wall and tie it around my waist, feeling its familiar fabric against my skin. The midday sun continues to stream in through the window, bathing everything in a golden glow, signaling the approaching lunch hour. The bowls we used earlier are neatly stacked away, and the kitchen fills with a comforting warmth, punctuated by the rich aromas of the new spiced broth bubbling in the large copper pot. Everything is just how I like it. I swat a strand of hair away from my face as I move efficiently behind the counter and pull down vial after vial of herbs and powdered spices that I methodically sprinkle into the broth. Any minute knocks will sound on the window panes, but cooking is the one thing that doesn’t require my conscious focus. My hands can move deftly in a practiced dance of routine while my mind can travel as far away as I need. Normally. But nothing feels normal when Nex is sitting in his chair watching everything I’m doing with a tilted head and curious look on his face.

“You stare a lot,” I point out, dishing out a taste of his own all too frank comments.

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

He smiles like he knows what I’m doing. “Didn’t think you’d notice. You cook like you’re trying to create your greatest hopes and dreams in that pot.”

“This is the only time you’ve seen me cook.”

“And you can tell a lot by how someone behaves in their usual environment. For instance, Leil doesn’t have any family, does he?”

I snap my head around with scrutinizing eyes. “Why do you—”

“You bring home a random guy in the middle of the night, and the very first topic he broaches with me is his fish and whom he named each one after.”

I stare at him like he’s the fish sitting at my dining table, then he waves off his comment like he’s erasing it off a blackboard. “He named his fish after either close friends or family members because I assume he doesn’t see his family anymore.”

My eyebrows furrow so deeply it makes me squint. “Did you hit your head during practice or something?”

Nex sighs as he rubs his temples. “Leil’s usual environment is the lakeshore, I assume. He invests a significant amount of time and care with the fish he herds. If he had family, he would talk about them when someone asks about them. Instead, he chose to tell me about his fish he named after his parents and sister. Probably because it’s how he finds escape and comfort without uncertainty. Fish herding is fairly dependable and predictable.” His smile widens. “How close am I?”

Pretty damn close, but I’m not about to tell him that. Yes, Leil did have parents and a sister, but Stormglass took them from him. So he named his first fish in his herd after them while growing his disdain for Stormglass. But if I told Nex that, his ego would completely overflow. So I wrestle my stare back to the pot and attempt at nonchalantly stirring the pot again while feigning absolute boredom.

“Close enough that you’ve proven that assumptions only get you more assumptions,” I say as monotonously as possible.

I don’t look, but it sounds like Nex is shifting in his seat. “That so?” He draws out the words like he’s tasting each one. “You want to know what I assume about you?”

“Couldn’t care less.” I busy myself with tasting the broth and tossing in another rosemary sprig so I don’t think about why his words make the side of my face prickle.

“Pity,” he states with implied ambiguity. “I’ll have to back my assumptions with some facts then. How long have you been doing this for?” He inquires after I sample the broth again and decide that it needs a bay leaf. If I keep stealing sips of the broth to distract myself, there soon won’t be anymore left for the customers.

“Since I could hold a spoon. I probably spent more time in this kitchen growing up than anywhere else,” I reply, another wisp of hair tickling my nose. I gather my hair and tie it up and out of the way. Nex leans back in the chair and folds his arms across his chest.

“Who taught you?” He asks. I pause briefly, my hand suspended above the warm pot, a sprinkle of salt sitting between the fingertips of my thumb and index finger.

“My mother,” I finally say. “The Copper Bowl was actually started by her. She used to say that cooking was how she connected with the world, how she showed love.“

There is a soft, contemplative silence from Nex as I drop the salt particles into the thickening broth and start to steadily stir.

“How long ago?” Nex asks, his voice suddenly more cautious than inquisitive.

“Three years,” I answer robotically. I add a few more dashes of spice, but my hands feel heavier, my heart a little more constricted. “I suppose I wanted to keep alive what she invested so much of her time into.”

Nex nods slowly. “I’m sorry,” he offers softly.

A hint of a smile forms on my lips as memories flood back of my mother bustling around the kitchen, yellow apron swaying with her, laughter mingling with the aromas of the food, switching between lifting a young me up to stir the pot and letting me practice my chopping skills.

Then, perhaps wanting to shift the mood, Nex brightens slightly. “You know, I can help with serving the broth. It sounds like fun.” He stands up a little too eagerly, flashing me a grin that lights up the space around him.

“No,” I decide tersely and continue stirring.

“Oh come on, I just barely saved your life. You can trust me to serve a few bowls,” he nags. I raise an eyebrow and cross my arms, skeptical.

“I’m not having you taint my good reputation. This is my livelihood, you know.”

“Let me be useful,” he insists, confidence replacing his previous hesitation. He waves his hands dismissively, as if ushering away any doubts I have. “Besides, I can’t promise I won’t go ransacking the cupboards again if I get too bored.”

After a flicker of doubt, I relent with a deep sigh. “Fine, but you do exactly as I say. And don’t spill everything on the floor, alright?”

Nex animatedly does a mock salute and stands at attention. His exaggerative movements get the best of me, and a bubble of laughter grows in my stomach till I let it escape.

“At ease, solider,” I cough out between waning giggles and trying to keep a consistent stirring pace.

Stars, that felt good.

I expect a snide remark or even an attempt at being humorous, but when Nex says nothing, I steal a glance at him and catch him looking at me. I almost flinch at how directly he’s staring, but I’m mostly puzzled by how utterly satisfied he looks with that crooked smirk plastered on his face.

Three loud taps sound from the window, luckily stealing the opportunity for me to call Nex out in his staring. Again.

“Here we go,” I mumble as I wipe my hands on my mother’s cloth apron and make my way to the window. I pause at the lock’s handle sitting on the metal partition in the middle of the casement window, and turn to Nex. “You ready?”

Nex’s cloak is now draped over the back of his chair with him still standing perfectly straight and attentive. He quickly tugs at his maroon waist coat and pushes his rolled-up sleeves further up to his elbows before rubbing his hands together expectantly. The sun light catches his tangled hair perfectly and accentuates an almost imperceptible sheen of lightness, making his hair more ashen than inky black.

“Born,” he chirps, his upturned chin not looking so arrogant anymore, but confident.

I roll my eyes and unlock the window, then push both panes open so they swing outward. A familiar crowd of Traders are congregated outside the house in a disorganized line, their green tassels visible on some area of their bodies.

I place my hands on my hips. “You know the drill; I want to see one line and some manners. No need to push and shove, I’ve got plenty for everyone,” I parrot the line my mother would use as the first thing when she’d open the very same window. Scattered chuckles rise from the small throng, but they adhere and slowly move into a single file. A tall and wiry man wearing a grey jumpsuit that’s been patched with mismatched pieces of fabric steps up to the window sill.

“What’s on the stove today, Ryn?” The man asks, his bright red hair poking out from under a metal Miner’s helmet.

“Vegetable broth,” I reply loud enough for the rest to hear. “Your usual amount, Girron?”

Girron wipes his hands off on his jumpsuit, which doesn’t do much as it’s also covered in smears of dust and dirt. He pulls out a smoky Tile from his pocket and drops it into his wooden bowl, then hands the bowl to me.

“To the brim!” he replies with gusto, and I smile at the lanky man’s excitement for a simple broth.

I walk back to the pot still simmering on the stove, drop the Tile into a glass jar beside it, then pour a steaming scoop of broth into the bowl. I hand it to Nex, who watches silently.

“You bring me the bowls and I’ll ladle,” I order, and Nex nods before taking the bowl from me and walking it back to the open window. I watch with narrowed eyes.

He’s proficient in scavenging and selling lies to Leil and Maven, but I have no idea if he’s going to scare away my customers. If he does, I’ll just redact our noodle deal, I scheme as Nex hands the bowl to Girron.

“To the brim, as ordered,” Nex announces dutifully. Then he leans down. “You know, if I were you, I’d get myself a bigger bowl. Especially on noodle days.”

I sigh and prepare to call Nex back when Girron bursts into laughter, the large gap between his front teeth plainly visible.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he chuckles before moving aside to allow the next person, a middle-aged woman wearing a deep blue shawl that contrasts her blonde hair, to step forward.

I observe Nex from the corner of my eye as he moves back and forth between the window and the kitchen, his demeanor shifting effortlessly from easygoing to actively engaging as he interacts with the customers. It’s becoming more and more apparent that he has a way with people. There’s an easiness to him, a magnetism that makes even the gruffest of the regulars crack a smile and lean closer.

I watch as he carries each bowl with a care that belies his size. His hair is still unkempt, his face still covered in tiny scars from something I still haven’t conjured the courage to ask about, and his saunter and the way he carries himself still screams ‘blithe’. But admittedly, I also notice that he is affable.

I dunk the ladle into the pot listening to Nex’s interactions, when I hear a familiar voice.

“Two bowls, please,” Kyrell instructs, and Nex promptly brings me the two bowls.

If Kyrell is here, that means—

I peek at the window, catching sight of Kyrell’s jet-black hair hanging loosely at his shoulders, and Kaida with her metal-rimmed goggles still sitting atop her head. The sight brings mixed feelings to my stomach. I didn’t think they’d come back after what happened at the Trial.

I haphazardly ladle a portion into each bowl, spilling most of the ladle’s contents onto the cutting table.

“You good?” Nex asks with a raised eyebrow, the two bowls still sitting on the cutting table between us.

“All good!” I squeak too quickly, a reflex, but opt for peering into the half-full pot rather than looking at Nex or the window. I hope he’ll brush off my response and resume serving, but I’m starting to learn that not only is Nex Avenell a relentless tease with a penchant for the sportive. He’s also inconveniently observant with a charismatic streak.

Nex stretches his arms in front of him. “You know, I think I pulled something during our practice. I think it’s best if I take over ladling and you go handle the customers.”

I press my lips together, still refusing to look at Nex lest he notice the uncertainty surely splayed on my face. The air near me moves and suddenly Nex is on the same side of the cutting table as me. His hand gently pries the ladle from my stationary hand that’s forgotten to keep stirring. He removed his gloves before we’d sat down to eat, but his hand is as warm as if he’d just barely pulled it out of his glove. With his other hand, he fluidly moves me away from the stove like he’s closing a door behind him.

Pangs of indignation shoots through me. “Now you listen here, this is my house, my job, and those are my broth! You don’t get to—”

“And those are your customers who are waiting. Better get going,” Nex dismisses with ease and with his back to me, showing absolutely no sign of distress or irritation at my outburst. But King Aramis didn’t title me Ryn Leander the Stubborn for nothing. This time my childishness clouds my judgment as I stomp my foot.

“You can’t just push me aside and make decisions for me. And you certainly don’t get to interrupt me.” My anxiety only feeds the anger simmering just below my skin.

The nerve of this man! I’ve never let indignation drive every muscle in my body like it’s doing now. Not when Leil wrestled the fish out of my kitchen because he might know them. Not even when Raiden followed me home for weeks after I broke things off with him. This noxious weed dares order me around when he has no right to not be in chains.

My entire frame stands rigid with my fists clenched and my mouth exceedingly dry. But I don’t say anything else, especially when Nex turns to me. He doesn’t look angry, not even surprised. He just has that blank look on his face.

“If you’d bother with looking at the window, you’d notice that it looks like someone wants to talk with you,” he clips every word with utmost control, but his face betrays nothing. “So if I were you, I’d quit yelling and just walk over there. Preferably with their bowls too.”

Whatever scalding steam filled my body before cools at his words. And when I glance at the window as briefly as possible, I see Kyrell watching me with a raised eyebrow.

Crap.