The fire had burned down to a steady bed of coals by the time they finished eating. The air had cooled, turning the clearing sharp and clean, the night pressing in at the edges of the light. Crickets whispered from the underbrush. The sky overhead was a deep, polished black pricked by distant stars.

  Mira sat with her empty bowl on her lap, staring into the remains of the ragù as if it were some kind of miracle relic. Vhara had set her bowl aside, but her eyes still drifted toward the pan every few breaths, as though part of her refused to accept that it was truly empty.

  James poked at the coals with a stick, coaxing a few small flames back to life. Heat licked at his knuckles. The smell of tomato and wine still clung to the air, softened now, folded into the smoke.

  “Vhara,” he said at last, keeping his tone casual. “I have a question.”

  She looked up at him from across the fire, her eyes reflecting a dull ember-glow. “Ask.”

  “In orc culture,” James said, “what kind of food do you like? I mean… what is considered good? Or proper?”

  She did not answer immediately. Her gaze drifted upward, as if she were searching the stars for the right words. When she spoke, it was slow and precise, as if listing the pieces of a spear.

  “Hot,” she said. “Spicy. Strong. Food that fills the stomach and gives power to muscle. Meat, roots, grains. Food that fights back on the tongue.”

  “Protein-heavy and fibrous,” James murmured, more to himself. “All right. Makes sense.”

  He stirred the coals again, then glanced past her shoulder at the dark between the trees. “Where are you heading, anyway? Is there an orc settlement nearby?”

  “No,” Vhara said.

  Her voice cooled in a way that had nothing to do with the night air.

  “Vhara is in exile.”

  Mira’s fingers tightened around her staff. James straightened slightly. “Exile?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  For a moment, Vhara’s face was only shadow and scar and the faint gleam of tusk. When she spoke, there was no drama to it, just a blunt statement.

  “Vhara went against clan law.”

  James lifted an eyebrow. “What kind of law are we talking about? The ‘do not eat the chieftain’ type, or…?”

  “They tried to bind Vhara to a warrior who did not deserve her,” she said. “A weak one. Cowardly. With a soft chest and a softer heart.”

  James blinked. “Ah. So you did not want to marry.”

  Vhara’s eyes flashed. “Vhara wanted to marry. Vhara wants a strong mate. A worthy one. Vhara will not bind herself to someone weaker than her.”

  “Right,” James said. “Of course. That would be… difficult.”

  Mira’s gaze flicked between them, uncertain whether to be shocked or amused.

  He cleared his throat. “All right. Different topic. What do you usually eat for breakfast?”

  Vhara’s attention shifted slightly, as if she were adjusting to a less dangerous subject. “We prefer soups in the morning,” she said. “Stews. Broths. Food that can be made quickly and keeps the body warm. Something that sits heavy in the stomach in a good way. Fuel for the day.”

  James nodded slowly. In his head, ingredients began arranging themselves like pieces on a board. Lentils. Bones. Heat.

  “Good to know,” he said. “Then I will make something for breakfast that will not shame an orc warrior.”

  Vhara’s brow furrowed. “You will cook again. For me.”

  “Seems reasonable,” James said. “You have nowhere to go tonight, and the forest is not exactly friendly. It is safer if you stay by the fire. I am not going to send you away after you hunted dinner.”

  He paused, then added, “But I have one condition.”

  Vhara’s eyes narrowed. “Condition?”

  “Yes.”

  She leaned a little closer. “What is it?”

  “Nothing too dramatic,” James said quickly. “Just… do not do anything foolish.”

  Vhara frowned. “Foolish.”

  “As in, do not try to hurt anyone,” he said. “No surprise attacks. No collecting heads while we sleep. That sort of thing.”

  Vhara’s gaze shifted to Mira, then back to James. Her eyes were unreadable, but her voice stayed level.

  “Vhara has only harmed those who attacked her first,” she said. “Humans came with steel and insults. Vhara answered. Vhara has no need to fight tonight. No blood-debt. No challenge.”

  “Good,” James said. “Then tomorrow morning I will make a breakfast worthy of a warrior who is not trying to kill me.”

  Mira let out a breath she had been holding. “In that case,” she said, attempting a small smile, “I should probably take the first watch. I have done the least today. It is only fair.”

  Vhara turned her head and studied her, the way one might study a young animal that thinks it is bigger than it is.

  “You will rest,” Vhara said. “Your fear already scented the trees. Every beast for a mile knows a frightened heart sat here. That is enough.”

  Mira flushed. “I… I am not that scared.”

  Her voice wobbled, betraying her.

  Vhara’s expression softened by a fraction. “I gave my word,” she said. “No one will harm you tonight. You do not need to see the dark to know it is there.”

  Mira hesitated, then nodded, biting her lip.

  James watched the exchange and let out a small breath. “If she meant to hurt us,” he said quietly to Mira, “she would not wait for permission. Or for a better time.”

  “That is supposed to be comforting?” Mira asked, but some of the tension drained from her shoulders anyway.

  James let the fire settle into a low, steady burn and reached into his inventory. He pulled out the bedroll Villen had shoved into his arms back at the dungeon. It was thick and padded, more like a heavy sleeping bag than a simple blanket.

  He eyed the folded tent in the corner of his inventory, considered it, and shook his head. “Not happening,” he muttered. “The weather’s good and I’m too tired to mess with poles right now.”

  He unrolled the bedroll on a patch of soft earth a short distance from the fire, close enough for warmth, far enough that a stray ember would not eat his face in the night. His muscles loosened the moment he stretched out on it. Exhaustion pressed down, heavy and insistent.

  He lay on his back, staring at the stars, letting the quiet noises of the forest settle around him. The warmth of the food, the crackle of the fire, the soft murmur of Mira shifting her staff. Somewhere behind him, Vhara moved like a shadow, pacing the perimeter once before returning to the edge of the light.

  Sleep began to tug at his thoughts when footsteps approached cautiously.

  “James,” Mira’s voice whispered.

  He turned his head. She stood at the edge of his bedroll, staff hugged close to her chest like a shield. The firelight painted her face in nervous gold. Her ears, cheeks, even the line of her neck were bright red.

  “Yes?” he said.

  She swallowed. “I am sorry to ask but… I was wondering if…” Her words tangled. She tried again. “Would it be all right if I… slept next to you? Just for tonight.”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  James blinked at her, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

  “That was a good one,” he said. “You almost had me.”

  She did not laugh.

  Her eyes were wide and shiny, and the flush across her skin only deepened.

  He sat up a little. “You are serious.”

  Mira squeezed her staff so tight her knuckles went white. “I just… the forest is loud and my imagination is loud and the last time we were alone in the dark things went badly and…” She trailed off, staring at the ground. “I will not bother you. I promise. I will just be… near.”

  Before James could decide how to respond, another voice cut through.

  “Strong warrior,” Vhara said.

  James looked over. The orc woman was seated on a fallen log, one elbow resting on her knee, watching them with calm intensity.

  “Pardon?” James asked.

  “Strong warrior,” Vhara repeated. “Strong warrior has many mates. Many women. It is normal.”

  James stared at her. “I am sorry, what?”

  Vhara nodded, as if explaining simple arithmetic. “Strong warrior takes many women. Shares strength among them. This is orc way.”

  Mira made a strangled sound. “That is not what this is.”

  “Dawn comes early,” Vhara went on, apparently uninterested in Mira’s protest. “Strong warrior needs comfort. Needs warmth. Also needs to spread seed so tribe grows strong.”

  James held up both hands. “I have so many questions and absolutely none of them I want answered right now.”

  He ran a hand down his face. “Also, what does any of that have to do with me?”

  Vhara looked genuinely confused. “You are strong,” she said. “The female human is weak. You have food, weapons, strange magic inventory. She has none. Strong warrior shares his strength with the weak. It is simple.”

  Mira’s eyes went so wide they seemed to fill her whole face. “No. No. No. That is not why I asked. I just…” Her voice shot up an octave. “I just wanted to be nearer to the person who knows how to cook and stab things. That is all.”

  James blinked at her. “See? That explanation was available the entire time.”

  “I panicked,” Mira said miserably. “I am panicking right now.”

  “Apology accepted,” he said. “Just maybe do not shout your panic into the sky. The trees already think we are ridiculous.”

  Mira let out a helpless little noise that might have been a laugh or a whimper. “I am sorry,” she said again, louder than necessary.

  “Please stop yelling apologies,” James said. “The ghosts are going to complain.”

  He shifted to one side of the bedroll and patted the empty space. “If it helps you sleep, lie down. But that is all. No weird ideas. No orc customs.”

  Vhara snorted softly. “Humans make everything complicated.”

  Mira set her staff gently on the ground and sank onto the bedroll with exaggerated care, as if afraid sudden movement might shatter the moment. She lay on her side facing the fire, but her back pressed along the length of James’s arm and shoulder, tentative at first, then slowly relaxing as the warmth and proximity sank in.

  James stared up at the stars again, very aware of the soft weight along his side. His own face felt hot, and it was not from the fire.

  Just sleep, he told himself. This is normal. Perfectly normal. People share bedrolls all the time. Entirely innocent. No problem at all.

  Mira’s breathing evened out after a while. Her hand, relaxed in sleep, shifted until her fingers curled lightly around the fabric of his sleeve.

  James did not sleep for a long time.

  At some point, exhaustion won. His thoughts blurred, the stars smeared, and the world slipped away.

  He woke to someone shaking his shoulder.

  “Human,” a voice said. “Wake up.”

  James groaned into the bedroll. Every muscle complained at once. His eyes felt glued shut.

  “Five more minutes,” he muttered.

  “Sun is rising,” Vhara said. “You promised breakfast.”

  That cut through the fog.

  He pried one eye open. The sky was a pale wash of silver and blue, streaked with the first hints of dawn. The fire had burned down to gray ash and a few stubborn embers. The air was cold enough that his breath showed as a faint mist.

  Mira was already awake, sitting cross-legged near the fire pit, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her hair stuck up at odd angles. The memory of the night before flickered through her face in the form of a new, vivid blush.

  James rolled onto his back and regretted every life decision that had led to this exact moment.

  “All right,” he croaked. “Breakfast.”

  He pushed himself up, joints protesting, and clapped his hands together once to wake his brain. The ember-bed was still warm. He fed it with dry twigs until small flames began to lick upward again.

  From his inventory, he pulled out the rabbit bones he had set aside the previous night. Rib bones, leg bones, a few scraps of meat still clinging stubbornly to them. He dropped them into the pot with enough water to cover and set it directly over the rekindled flames.

  Mira watched, curious. “You did not throw those away,” she said.

  “Never waste bones,” James said. “Bones are liquid strength waiting to happen.”

  He added a roughly chopped onion, a few cloves of garlic, a pinch of salt. As the water heated, a pale cloud rose, carrying with it the first hints of something richer. The bones clicked softly against the sides of the pot as they shifted.

  Soon the surface broke into a gentle simmer. Fat and impurities began to rise in thin gray foam. James skimmed it away with the back of his spoon, watching as the broth grew clearer, deeper.

  Vhara sat on a nearby rock, elbows on her knees, eyes fixed on the pot with a hunter’s patience.

  “What is this,” she asked, “exactly?”

  “Rabbit bone stock,” James said. “Foundation. You do not build a fort on sand. You do not build breakfast on water.”

  The scent grew thicker as time passed, the sharp edge of rawness melting into something round and comforting. When the broth reached a strong, savory perfume, James fished out the bones and set them aside to cool.

  He reached into his inventory again and pulled out a pouch of dried lentils, their orange and brown specks muted in the morning light.

  “Lentils,” he said. “Small, stubborn, full of strength.”

  He tipped them into the pot. They sank beneath the surface, then slowly began to swell, drinking in the rabbit stock. The liquid shifted from clear gold to cloudy, then gradually to a creamy thickness as the lentils broke down.

  He added another chopped onion, a little more garlic, a touch of ground herb. The simmering sound deepened, a soft, steady bubbling like distant, satisfied breathing.

  The smell changed too. It lost its sharpness and settled into something round and dense and comforting, like a blanket for the inside of the chest.

  “That will take a little while,” James said. “We can wake up properly while it becomes soup.”

  Mira warmed her hands over the fire, eyes half-closed. “It already smells better than anything I have ever had in the mornings,” she said.

  “You have not tasted the important part yet,” James said.

  He pulled out a small pan and set it on a flat rock near the edge of the fire, where the heat was strong but not wild. From another jar, he scooped a solid piece of pale butter and dropped it into the pan.

  It melted quickly, pooling into a shimmering puddle.

  Next came a spoonful of crushed dried chilies, their flakes deep red and ruddy brown. The moment they hit the hot butter, they hissed, darkening slightly as they released their oil and heat.

  The air above the pan changed, filling with a sharp, smoky spice that curled straight into the sinuses and woke the brain more effectively than any slap.

  “Chili butter oil,” James said. “This is the part that will make you feel like someone lit a furnace in your bones.”

  He shook the pan gently, letting the chili swirl through the butter. A few tiny bubbles appeared along the edges as the aromatics bloomed fully, the scent going from simple heat to something layered and almost floral beneath the fire.

  He pulled the pan back just before the chilies could burn. The liquid inside was now a deep, glowing red-gold, almost like molten metal.

  “Do not breathe too close,” he warned as he carried it back to the fire. “Unless you want to sneeze yourself into the next province.”

  Mira leaned forward anyway, sniffed, then coughed lightly, eyes watering. “It smells… dangerous.”

  “Good,” Vhara said. “Breakfast should always be a little dangerous.”

  James stirred the lentil soup. It had thickened into a smooth, velvety consistency, each lentil broken down into the broth until the whole pot was like molten gold tinged with earthy brown. The scent of garlic and onion and rabbit bone had mingled into one single, coherent promise of warmth.

  He tasted a spoonful, closing his eyes as it spread across his tongue. Savory, deep, with just enough sweetness from the onion to keep it from being heavy.

  “Almost there,” he said.

  He added a small pinch of salt, stirred again, then took the pot off the direct flame and let it rest. The soup’s surface quivered softly, steam curling upward in thin white ribbons.

  He ladled it into three wooden bowls, each one filled to the brim with the thick, creamy lentils. Then, with slow precision, he took the pan of chili butter oil and held it above the first bowl.

  The moment the red-gold liquid touched the surface, the soup sighed. A faint sizzling sound rose as the hot fat met the cooler top layer, spreading in ripples of color. The butter traced bright, molten streaks across the pale surface.

  He repeated the motion with the other two bowls, each time watching the red streaks bloom and swirl, creating patterns like tiny storms on the surface.

  The smell that rose now was something else entirely. Comfort and fire. Hearth and battlefield. Home and challenge in the same breath.

  Mira swallowed audibly.

  Vhara’s fingers tightened on her knees.

  James handed the first bowl to Vhara. “For the warrior who likes her breakfast hot and dangerous.”

  He gave the second to Mira. “For the mage who needs to stop shaking at every twig.”

  He kept the third for himself.

  Vhara lifted the bowl to her face, inhaling deeply. Her eyes closed for a heartbeat. When she opened them, there was a new sharpness in them, a kind of recognition.

  She took a long sip.

  The heat hit her tongue first, bright and sharp, racing along the edges of her mouth. Then the depth followed: the slow, bone-rich warmth of the stock, the earthiness of lentils, the soft sweetness of onion and garlic, all held together by the silk of the butter.

  Her breath left her in a low sound from deep in her chest.

  “This,” she said quietly, “is real food.”

  She took another sip, slower this time, letting it sit in her mouth before swallowing.

  “It is like… drinking the start of a battle,” she said. “Heat in the chest. Strength in the arms. The kind of thing you eat before you lift a weapon and know you will not drop it until the work is done.”

  James allowed himself a small smile. “That is the idea.”

  Mira blew gently on the surface of her soup, watching the red streaks move. She took a cautious sip.

  The spice startled her at first, a sharp spark on her tongue that made her eyes widen. Then the warmth spread down her throat and into her stomach, blooming there like a small sun.

  Her shoulders, which seemed permanently tensed lately, loosened all at once.

  “It feels…” She searched for the word. “It feels like someone took all the fear I have left and told it to sit down and be quiet.”

  A small, surprised laugh slipped out of her. “It is hot, but in a way that makes me want more.”

  “That is how it is supposed to be,” James said. “If it hurts but you still want another spoonful, you did it right.”

  He took a taste from his own bowl. The chili hit, bright and sharp. The lentils soothed. The bone stock anchored everything. It was not elegant. It was not subtle. It was exactly what breakfast next to a forest, a fire, and two strangers needed to be.

  Vhara finished her bowl first. She set it down with a decisive little thud.

  “If my clan tasted this,” she said, “they would try to steal you.”

  James raised an eyebrow. “As a cook?”

  “As everything,” she said simply.

  Mira clutched her bowl a little closer to her chest.

  James looked at the two of them, the empty pan, the cooling fire, and the slowly brightening sky.

  For a brief moment, with soup in their hands and warmth in their stomachs, exile, danger, and uncertainty felt like distant problems. There was only the forest, the morning, and three people who were not dead yet.

  He let the quiet satisfaction settle in his chest.

  A feast for survivors, he thought again.

  Even at breakfast.

  Author’s Note

  Fantastic Beasts and How to Cook Them, so it wouldn’t even be that hard.

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