The kitchen moved around her in steady circles, ladles and knives and footsteps weaving past her stolen patch of board. Heat pressed against her back from the stoves, cool stone met her palms at the table, and for the first time since waking in this body, Ritsuka felt like she was standing exactly where she was supposed to be.
She chopped the tomatoes, onions, and peppers and dropped them into the mortar, then leaned her weight into the pestle. The crush and grind of seeds and flesh filled her ears. Red juice slicked the stone, and the air around her thickened with the sharp, green-edged scent of fresh peppers and the tang of tomato.
Good, she thought. If I can land even half of Master Papaite’s beef stew with this, it will feed everyone and prove I still know what I am doing.
“Put a wide pot on a medium flame and add a thin layer of oil,” Ritsuka said.
Ritsuka stepped around the prep table to give the stove hands room. From where she stood, she watched Bram nod once to Ruar. The boy moved fast, setting a clean pot on an open stove and pouring in oil under Bram’s eye.
When the surface began to shimmer, she scraped the rough paste in. It hit with a hiss that cut through the kitchen noise. Steam rushed up past her face, carrying acid and sweetness and smoke.
“Let it fry, not boil,” she thought. “Build the base first, then everything else.”
She stirred until the raw bite eased and the paste darkened, the oil starting to bleed up around the edges in a red sheen. She pinched dried herbs between her fingers and let them crumble into the pot. Bram lifted the spice bag when she glanced over; she nodded, and he measured a careful spoon of the darker mix in at her signal.
The scent shifted, less sharp, more layered.
“At this point we would already have the meat in,” Bram said quietly at her shoulder. “You are putting all your faith in the base.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw him watching the pot, not her.
“That is the point,” she said. “If the base is weak, the meat is just trying to save it.”
From where she stood, she saw the head cook go still. Across the table, Isolde’s knuckles tightened on the towel again. Neither of them spoke, but no one reached in to change her flame.
“Meat,” Ritsuka said.
She reached for the bowl of reefback she had already cubed and set aside, drawing it closer to the stove. Dark, dense pieces filled it, the cut edges still glittering faintly with their natural salt the same way they had when she first carved them from the round.
“Salty by nature,” she thought. “I already saw it on the knife. Let the meat bring that on its own. Season around it, not over it.”
She dusted the cubes with only the cracked pepper-spice and a light smear of oil, turning them with her fingers until the surface caught the seasoning. The chill of the bowl bled into her fingertips as she braced it against the table.
“Pan,” she said.
Bram already had one waiting. From where she stood, she watched him slide it onto a hotter flame and step back so she could take the handle. The first contact gave her the sharp, hungry sizzle she wanted. Fat began to render, edges browning. The smell shifted from raw iron to roasted, savory heat.
She worked the pan with her wrist, tossing the cubes so each side kissed the metal, then shifted half a step to keep clear of a passing tray.
Behind her, from somewhere near the table, she heard one of the younger helpers let out a low, involuntary, “Saints above…”
This is close to Master Papaite’s stew, she thought. Different cut, different beast, same bones. Stew that sticks to ribs and still lets them walk after.
When the boar had taken on enough color, she tipped a ladle of the frying tomato base into the pan, let it catch and coat the meat, then scraped everything back into the main pot in one smooth motion.
“House broth,” she said. “Enough to cover the meat, not drown it.”
From where she stood, she watched Bram dip the ladle himself and pour the thin stew broth over the boar and sauce. The surface shifted from raw red to a deeper, glossy shade.
“Low flame,” she added. “It should barely move. If it is jumping, it is angry, not cooking.”
Bram crouched to adjust the fire under the pot. She watched the surface settle into a slow, lazy roll. Heat pressed gently against her shins; she shifted her weight back a little and wiped her free hand on her apron.
Around them, the kitchen eased back into its usual pace. Voices rose and fell. She heard a quiet laugh from the far table. Knives found their rhythm again on the boards. Curiosity still brushed her skin every time she moved, but no one stepped in her way.
Isolde hovered near the table, cheeks pink, hands still clamped around her folded towel.
“My lady,” the head maid said softly when Ritsuka paused to wipe her hands on a cloth. “I do not pretend to understand it, but… if this is Leah’s blessing, I am glad she finally turned her eyes to you. You were fading before.”
Ritsuka’s fingers drifted to the relic at her throat. The metal pulsed faintly warm against her skin, the name settling in her ears. Leah. The same voice that dragged me out of the dark, maybe.
“If I tried to explain, I would only raise more questions,” she said. “Maybe it is Leah. For now, let us just call it a good day and a good stew.”
The stew thickened as it simmered. Every so often she lifted the lid, stirred, and checked the bottom of the pot for any sign of sticking. The sauce turned glossy around the boar, dark red and fragrant. She tasted, adjusted spice with a careful hand, then held out a palm.
“Vinegar?”
Bram passed her a stone bottle without question. She added a small splash, stirred, and tasted again. The heaviness cut clean, leaving the spices bright.
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“Well?” the head cook asked, curiosity plain on his face now.
“Close,” she said. “It needs one more thing. Do we have any of the hotter peppers dried?”
From where she stood, she saw Bram signal without looking away from her. Ruar hurried to a side shelf and came back with a tiny jar of crumbled red flakes.
Ritsuka took it, shook a small measure into her palm, and sprinkled a thin veil over the bubbling surface. She stirred once, twice, then tasted again. Heat bloomed at the back of her tongue, threading through the richness instead of smothering it.
“There,” she thought. “Winter heat in a bowl. Eat this in summer and it would knock you flat.”
“There,” she said aloud. “Now it is ready to feed us.”
He let out a slow breath that sounded almost like a laugh.
“All right,” she said, stepping back from the heat. “Plates. We are not going to stand here smelling this and pretend we are not all suffering.”
From where she stood, Ritsuka saw Isolde jump to fetch dishes. Others followed her lead, setting out bowls and spoons with quick, eager hands.
Ritsuka ladled a shallow layer of the old stew into each bowl first, letting the familiar broth form the base. Then she nested pieces of the reefback boar on top with a spoonful of the thick red sauce from the new pot. Fat shimmered on the surface, catching the light. The first breath of steam that rolled up smelled like comfort instead of desperation, like a festival dish that had wandered into a lean winter by accident.
“Let me,” Bram said, reaching for a spoon.
She nodded and watched him take a careful taste from the edge of the pot.
He took one mouthful and stopped breathing for a moment, eyes shut, shoulders sinking as the heat and flavor hit. When he opened his eyes, they were bright, almost offended at how good it was.
“My lady,” he said, voice low and rough. “This is… I have never tasted anything like this. Not in this house. Not in any kitchen I have worked in.”
He dipped the spoon again, as if to make sure it was real, swallowed, and let out a short, disbelieving huff.
“The spice bites, but it does not burn,” he said. “It warms you all the way down. If we served this on a feast day, they would think we had stolen a mainland chef.”
He looked at her properly then, not at the pot, not at the ladle.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” he asked. “You have never set foot in this kitchen before.”
Ritsuka glanced down at her hands, then at the relic resting against her collarbone.
“Years of watching and dreaming,” she said. “And two very stubborn masters who would not let me waste a good dish. I cannot explain all of it. Maybe it is Leah’s hand on my shoulder. Maybe it is just something that would not die even when the rest of me tried to.”
Isolde accepted a small spoonful next, blowing on it before tasting. Her eyes went wide the instant the flavor hit. Her free hand came up to her mouth as if she needed to hold the sound in. A faint sheen of sweat broke along her nose from the heat, but she kept chasing the taste with her tongue.
“Leah keep me,” she whispered around the spoon. “It bites and it hugs at the same time. If this is what you call ‘helping,’ my lady, the house has been starving for it.”
At the nearest station, someone swallowed loudly. Another cook inched a bowl closer without quite daring to ask. The smell pulled at the room like a tide.
“Ruar,” Bram said, without looking away from the pot. “We will not let this sit in a corner. Once the first bowls are served, we fold what is left into the main pot and adjust the rest to match as best we can. This is the kitchen’s stew now, not a test.”
“Yes, Chef,” Ruar said, already moving.
Ritsuka scooped a taste for herself and blew on it.
The boar was tender, the long simmer and tomato base having bullied the toughness out of it. The sauce layered with warmth that spread down her throat and settled in her chest. The heat from the pepper nudged sweat toward the back of her neck without tipping into pain. The broth underneath carried the flavors outward, stretching what could have been a thin meal into something that tasted like it belonged on a good day.
She swallowed.
“This is it”, she thought. “This is what I am keeping, no matter what name the give me”
Pale blue light flickered at the edge of her vision.
A translucent panel blinked into place over the cutting board, letters crisp and sharp against the smoky air.
[Cooking Skill increased.]
[Class: Cook]
[Level: 1 → 2]
[Experience: 100 / 100 → 150 / 200]
[NEW RECEIPE LEARN]
[1 Ability Skill Available]
The words were not painted anywhere she could point to. They sat at the edge of her sight and sank straight into her thoughts, as if someone had spoken them inside her skull.
“Reads like something a game would… I wasn't much of gamer back at home but I always heard my staff speak on it” Ristuka Thought noticing non reacting to the floating boxes of blue.
Another panel unfolded beside the first, hovering neatly over Bram when she let her gaze rest on him.
[Relationship Updated: Bram Jaro]
[Trust: 0 → 5]
[Status: Neutral]
I guess earning his trust will be through my cooking.. I wouldn't ask anything less from a Chef”
she gave a small grin excited to see what this system brought to cooking.
Her gaze shifted to Isolde. As soon as she focused on the maid, a smaller tag bloomed into being near the woman’s shoulder, pale blue and too sharp to be a trick of light.
[Relationship: Isolde Maren]
[Trust: 65]
[Status: Trusted]
“Of course,” she thought. “Make sense the person taking care of Julia all this time trust her so much. I want to keep it that way.”
She twitched her fingers experimentally at her side. The panels shivered and slid to the edge of her vision, still there but no longer blocking faces.
“If this is Leah’s goddess really has a reason why I’m here I can’t ignore it,” she thought, “I will deal with it later.”
Before she could do more than file the new information away, the main kitchen doors slammed open hard enough to rattle on their hinges.
“Julia!!!”
From where she stood by the table, Ritsuka saw a young man in the doorway, chest heaving as if he had run the length of the estate. His dark hair was mussed, his coat thrown on without care, and his eyes matched the boy in the portrait upstairs, only wider now with shock.
His gaze swept the kitchen, skimming over stoves and staff until it caught on her on the knife in her hand, the tattoos along her arms, the relic glowing steady against her skin, the bowls lined up with steaming stew and seared boar.
“Julia…? Sis?” he said, voice cracking on the last word.
At the edge of her vision, a tiny new panel flickered into being near him, half-formed, as if whatever system clung to her sight was still deciding what to call him.
The kitchen staff went still. Even the simmer of the pot felt quieter.
Ritsuka met his stare and let a real, tired smile curve her mouth.
“Morning,” she said. “You are just in time. This is not really a breakfast dish, so call it an early lunch and sit down before the food gets cold.”
END OF CHAPTER 5