Shatter Noodles
The mess hall wasn't like the rest of the Lyceum.
It was loud.
Alive.
Not in chaos—but in rhythm. Laughter bounced off the far wall. Steam drifted like spirit threads through the air. The floor pulsed softly beneath each table—tuned to the harmonics of shared presence.
But at the back, in the corner booth that still had cracks in the wall from a Veilmark duel two years ago…
Sat Shatter Noodles.
Not a chain. Not official.
Just a booth.
A legend.
And a man behind it with shoulders like boulders, hair tied in a silver knot, and a voice that had shattered a training dummy once by yelling "Order up."
Zephryn stood still at the edge.
Kaelen nudged him. "He still runs it. Wouldn't let anyone else touch the broth system."
Yolti added, "Said the flame isn't a recipe. It's a memory."
They approached the counter.
The man looked up.
Paused.
Eyes locked on Zephryn.
And he smiled. Not wide. Not shocked.
Just deep.
Like a scar he hadn't touched in years just blinked back into place.
"I remember that face," he said.
"Took me two weeks to fix the counter you crashed through."
He set down the ladle. "Same cloak. Different eyes."
Zephryn didn't know what to say.
So he didn't say anything.
The cook turned. "Five bowls. One of them with the memory glass egg. You still take yours on the right side?"
Zephryn blinked.
"…Yeah."
He sat.
Kaelen slid in beside him.
Selka across. Yolti leaning against the edge of the booth.
They waited.
Not just for noodles.
But for breath.
For normal.
The bowls came.
Steam laced with starroot and citrus.
The broth shimmered gold.
The egg sat perfectly placed—glass-thin, humming slightly.
Zephryn stared at it.
Didn't move.
Didn't lift the chopsticks.
Not yet.
Selka reached across the table.
She didn't speak.
Just placed her hand over his.
"You're home."