chapter 28: The kitchen

INDOLYN

“You burnt it,” a quiet voice said.

She nearly jumped out of her skin. In the doorway he stood, the Demon Lord, dressed in a loose silk shirt left open at the collar and tailored shorts cut cleanly at the knee, the kind of housewear reserved for private halls rather than court. The fabric fell smoothly without creasing, light against his frame. The marks of Tenebros wound across his legs and along his face as always. At his side, his hellhound’s flames had quieted to a low green glow.

“My lord, to what do I owe the pleasure?” she stammered out.

He stepped inside, warily looking in all directions. “I could smell it all the way down the hall.”

Indolyn followed his gaze before she meant to.

A knife lay crooked near the edge of the counter, its blade sticky and dulled with use. Bundles of dried herbs hung from hooks along the wall, some already stripped unevenly where she had torn at them in frustration. One string had fallen and now rested half in a puddle of oil. The mortar sat overturned beside the hearth, crushed seeds ground into the cracks of the floor. She had meant to keep it tidy, but had lost herself in the cooking.

Her arms crossed tighter over her chest. She had not noticed it had looked this bad until he walked in. “It’s experimental,” she said stiffly.

He peered into the pot. “Are you trying to make poison?” The flame beneath the pot burned high, licking greedily at the iron. Smoke curled toward the ceiling, staining the stone above it darker than it already was. The stew inside bubbled unevenly, thick in some places, watery in others.

Indolyn groaned and turned away. She had wanted to keep his respect, to show him he was following his way.

Lucarion continued to stare around. “You’re doing this yourself?” he asked.

“….”

“That’s great!” he exclaimed.

“I just wanted to…” she stopped as she realized a small part of her had wanted to see the surprise in his face when she gave him a meal.

“Learning how to cook is the first step to independence,” he said, his words sounding like another’s. He would do this occasionally, talking from someone else’s advice, though he would never say who.

Silence. The pot popped ominously.

Maybe this is my chance.

Indolyn sighed, exaggerating. “It’s impossible. The fire’s too hot and everything burns, the knives don’t cut how I want them to. Stop laughing!” she scolded before being able to stop herself, as he doubled over laughing.

“Sorry, sorry,” he gasped as he looked over the counters again, stone darkened with spilled broth, uneven chunks of root scattered across the surface, examining the chaos. “You’re cutting too large. And your flame’s too high.”

He rolled up his own sleeves and stepped forward. His slightly scrawny arms showed the same markings as his face, though his left arm was more covered than his right.

“What are you—?” she asked, bewildered.

“Helping,” he said simply, retrieving a clean pot. “We might as well start fresh.”

Indolyn hovered beside him as he worked. His movements were steady, unhurried, clumsy at moments, but confident. He chopped smaller than she had, much more consistent sizes.

His hellhound padded after him as he grabbed herbs from the hooks and spices from cabinets, almost tripping him up. He didn’t even scold it for getting in his way.

“Cooking isn’t about perfection,” he said, dropping diced roots into a bowl. “It’s about patience. My mother says the food remembers your mood. So cook happy.”

This is the first time he’s spoken about Earth. Indolyn frowned. He said says. I wonder if he misses her.

“Your mother cooked?”

He nodded. “Yes, she taught me how.” Lucarion gestured toward the pot. “Stir gently. Don’t let it stick to the bottom.”

She obeyed, awkwardly at first, trying to imitate the way his hands moved. The spoon still felt unwieldy, the heat still too much, but it was tolerable.

“You’re doing fine,” he said, watching her stir.

This was going better than she thought.

They worked in rhythm after that, the counters gradually cleared. Neater piles replaced scattered scraps. The cuts were smaller now, more uniform, arranged instead of flung aside. The mortar was righted and wiped down. Oil was pushed back into its jar.

The fire lowered further, no longer greedy. It held steady and bright beneath the pot, a controlled heat instead of a reckless one.

Flicker lay down near the doorway, chin resting between its paws. The green glow dimmed even more, its breathing slow and steady, watching them with half-lidded eyes.

When they finally set the finished stew to simmer, Indolyn sank onto a stool, fanning herself with her hand. “This is exhausting.”

“It gets easier,” Lucarion said, peering into the pot. “Once we figure out what all these herbs are, I don’t recognize most of these ingredients.”

The stew was… fine. Nothing special, but they were able to eat it without issue. Lucarion even put a bowl down for his hellhound to drink some. It dug in quite quickly, even though demons do not require food, and half of it ended on the floor. It seemed to enjoy the stew.

She looked at him, the Demon Lord with ash on his sleeves and a burn mark on his thumb, and couldn’t quite suppress a smile. Indolyn blinked, wondering whether she could pry more.

The kitchen had grown quieter. The fire popped softly in the hearth. Steam drifted upward and dispersed. The earlier chaos felt distant now.

“Did only you and your mom cook back on Earth?” she asked as casually as she could.

“No, we all cook as a family…” he paused, then stared at his bowl.

***

Lucarion

“No, we all cook as a family…” I began before I caught what she truly asked.

Earth. That’s where that demon priest had said I was from. I can’t let them know I’m from Solivara, but how do I talk about a land I know nothing about?

“Er…” I started, but Flicker began growling, low and warning.

The stone along the far wall shifted with a grinding scrape. A seam split down its center and slid apart, revealing a narrow gap.

Heat came first.

Not flame. Not light. Just dense, dry warmth that settled over the counters, over the spilled stew, over us. The air tightened, as if the room itself were bracing.

Then it stepped through.

Four thick pillar-like legs lowered one at a time onto the stone floor. Each landed with the weight of kiln brick settling into place, the impact rebounding in my chest. It advanced slowly and deliberately, each step hissing as the stone heated beneath it.

A massive domed furnace body towered above us. Sparks and ash jumped from it, scattering across the floor and staining the ceiling. Iron bars arced over its back, scraping faintly against the stone overhead. Hooks lined its flanks, bundles of dried herbs and tied spice packets hanging in neat rows. Long jointed arms unfolded from beneath the dome, metal-tipped and precise, more like extended tongs than hands. Cracks veined the surface, dark with soot. When it breathed, smoke slipped from its vents in thin threads that never fully dispersed.

Indolyn did not seem to notice the size disparity.

“I ordered the room be cleared” she stated haughtily.

“Neither of you are permitted here.” The voice crackled like banked fire, steady and dry.

Only then did I realize the voice came from a clay brazier the size of a barrel, suspended beneath its bulk. Fire churned within it, constant and contained. The square opening at its front glowed white at the edges, orange deeper inside. Small round vent holes peppered the clay. Flame shifted behind them, brightening in some, dimming in others, like attention narrowing.

Indolyn straightened, spine rigid. “I work directly for Dormathis.”

The brazier head swayed slightly as it came to a stop, fire shifting within. “Dormathis holds no authority in these kitchens.” The flame behind the upper vents brightened.

The words landed like a slap.

The demon’s gaze shifted to me.

“Curious.” The words crackled. “And who are you?”