SHIPP—SNAP.
I took out a headband — pure white, the brightest one I had — and tied it around my head.
"LET ME COOK!"
"OI! THRAN, STOP SHOUTING!"
Elris's voice echoed from the bathroom, muffled slightly by the sound of water splashing.
"SORRY, RIS!"
Very well. Let's begin.
I started by sweeping through the cabinets, my hands brushing past cold stone and dusty wood as I searched. The inventory was not promising.
Barely any meat. Almost nothing fresh.
What I found was mostly baking supplies — sacks of flour, a small jar of beet sugar, some nearly withered onions and garlic.
Flour, sugar, aromatics…
I let out a breath of frustration.
Then my hand closed around something coarse. Something familiar.
Oh. Is it—
…It is. Rice.
I smiled.
This is all I need.
It was a stash of long-grain rice from the southern part of the empire — likely bought at market months ago, cold and dry, useless to anyone hoping for porridge.
Lorden's Crossing is about to taste its first top-ranked dish of the future.
Indonesian Fried Rice.
I looked for the closest thing to a wok the kitchen had. It was, unfortunately, just a cast iron skillet.
No meat. More problems…
Though I can work with it perfectly.
I opened the lids of the nearby containers one by one — and found a slab of fat.
I won't need all of it. But this will do.
I built a huge fire and got to work immediately, slicing the fat into pieces and dropping them into the skillet.
KSHHH— KSHHH— KSHHHH—
The fat rendered down fast. As soon as it had melted, I grabbed the onion and garlic. My knife moved without thinking — clean, precise cuts, the kind of muscle memory that doesn't disappear no matter how long you've been away.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
First — the base.
I swept the garlic and onions in. The scent hit the air instantly, sharp and rich and warm.
…Fahh. I forgot to cook the rice.
I scrambled to find clean water, set a cooking pot to boil, and got the rice going. Not ideal. Not perfect. But I had a technique for that.
While the rice finished, I turned to the sauce.
I didn't have kecap manis — sweet soy sauce, the backbone of the whole dish. So I had to improvise.
I cleared a small spot in the pan and threw in a handful of beet sugar. I watched it dissolve — bubbling slowly, deepening, pulling toward a dark amber — and just before it could scorch, I splashed it with malt vinegar and a dash of ale from the table.
SSSSS— POP.
The glaze thickened immediately, coating the onions in a dark, syrupy cover. Savoury. Sweet. Close enough.
I dumped the rice into the skillet.
The sound was like musketry — a rapid, crackling volley. I gripped the heavy iron handle and worked it hard, tossing and folding, my knuckles grazing the edge on every push. A wok this was not. Smooth it was not. But it was moving.
And then, mid-battle, my eye caught something in the cabinet.
Dried herbs.
Perfect.
It looked like a mix of thyme and rosemary — dusty and greyish, dried out by months of sitting in market air. I didn't sprinkle them in. I crushed the leaves between my palms directly over the rising steam, releasing the oils that had been locked inside for months.
The kitchen changed.
The smell was no longer that of a dusty old kitchen sitting on a quiet street. It was the smell of home. It was the smell of somewhere professional.
The bathroom door creaked open.
Elris stepped out, hair damp, a towel draped over her shoulders. She stopped mid-step. Her nose wrinkled. Then her expression shifted into something harder to name.
"Thran… I've never seen you cook like this. You're handling that skillet like it's a weapon. And this smell — I've never smelled anything like this in my life."
I wasn't finished. I didn't look back. I simply flicked my wrist, watching the rice dance in the orange light of the fire.
"Dish is done. Get your portion."
I watched her face.
It was the face of someone who had just witnessed something they couldn't fully explain. Astonishment. Shock. The expression of a person recalibrating.
"I never thought you could excel like this. You could genuinely be the royal cook. How did you even manage this — we barely had anything left in here."
"It's not much, Ris. I just used what we had."
"Thran. You could open a shop with this."
"Good idea. But I'm not feeling like it."
After all — I won't have the time once I'm a Veridian.
I kept that part to myself. If my life hadn't been dragged in the direction it was being dragged, maybe cooking would've been the path. A quiet one. A good one.
"Thank you, Thran. This is a beautiful meal."
"Happy to serve."
"…What is this dish, exactly?"
I smirked.
"One of the world's great wonders. From the southeast. It's called fried rice."
"Well — the smell is one thing. That doesn't tell me what it tastes like."
"Go on then. We'll eat together."
We both took our spoons and ate.
Elris's eyes did something I hadn't seen in a while. They lit up — genuinely, completely, in the way that only real surprise can produce.
"This taste… it's perfect. The saltiness. The sweetness. Stand proud, Thran — you might be the best cook in the continent. Perhaps the world. You could be a royal chef with skill like this."
"I could've done better with more ingredients."
"This is the best food I've had in my life."
The night went on.
Morning arrived.
Bright and warm, same as any other. The birds outside were going through something melancholy. Somewhere around 9 or 10 — the city was starting to move, people filing out to work.
I should look into that peak. Ascend until the earth dissolves… the only thing I can picture is the highest summit. But I don't remember which mountain that is, or how far. That might be a problem.
Hmm. Actually — I should go to the university. I've skipped too much.
I let out a quiet laugh.
Sealfort Branch University. I wonder what happened to my classmates.
I went downstairs, bathed — because after a lifetime in the modern world, going without at least two baths a day in this city was simply not an option — and came back out.
"Hey, Ris — you don't have anywhere to be today, right?"
Elris thought about it.
"I suppose not. Why?"
"I'm going to the university. It's been too long."
"Alright then, Thran. Goodbye. And — please teach me how to make that fried rice later."
"Yeah, yeah. Sure."
I went upstairs, got dressed.
The only clean thing I had left was a light brown leather duster over a leather-based vest and a white collar shirt. It would do.
I came back downstairs, said another goodbye to Elris who was cleaning up the kitchen, and stepped outside.
The spring wind greeted me immediately — warm, easy, carrying the faint smell of the street waking up.
Maybe this much layering is too thick. I'm going to sweat the whole way there.
And so I walked toward the university.
Sealfort Branch University.
A branch of what was, by reputation, one of the top universities in the Sealran Empire. Built by imperial decree — a royal institution, technically. Branches like this one were scattered across major cities throughout the empire, each one competitive in its own right.
Lorden's Crossing was important enough to have earned one.
Sealran. The Immovable Fortress. Even the empire's name has weight to it.
Twenty minutes passed.
It felt farther than I remembered. Maybe it was just me — not having been here for decades, even if the world didn't know that.
The road stretched toward the sun, warm and direct, the sky layered with clouds. Ahead, the silhouette of tall buildings began to cut into the skyline.
There it is.
The campus rose into view — tall and broad enough to cast its own shadow, giving it the look of something carved rather than built. It wasn't as large as the empire's main universities, but for a single campus it was the size of a small village. Not small by any reasonable measure.
I reached the gate.
"Good morning, sir."
"Good morning," the officer said. "Are you a student here?"
"Yes. Here are my credentials."
I handed over the plaque — light, hard, with the feel of something metallic but not quite. The officer checked it and handed it back.
"Sorted. You may enter."
"Thank you, sir."
The front of the campus was a small garden, quiet and well-kept. The buildings beyond were brick, the architecture carrying something of a castle's weight — imposing, deliberate, the kind of design meant to last centuries. It reminded me, faintly, of a wizarding school from a film I'd watched in another life.
Inside, the aesthetic shifted — darker, warmer. Deep brown wood panelling and red carpets running through the halls, the kind of interior that made footsteps sound more important than they were.
I walked.
And quickly realised I had absolutely no memory of the layout.
Twenty minutes of wandering later — taking wrong turns, doubling back, standing in hallways that all looked identical — I spotted a familiar figure moving through the corridor ahead.
A brief flash of memory. A gambling table. A lost bet.
Maru.
"Maru. Good morning."
He turned. "Oh — Thran. Good morning. How have you been?"
"Getting better. You?"
"Thankfully good. Don't you have a couple of final lectures left before graduating? One of them starts in about five minutes, doesn't it?"
"I don't remember. I've also somehow forgotten where the archaeology department is entirely. Mind helping?"
"How do you forget? You've been here four years."
"I've been buried in old scrolls so long the hallways started looking like catacombs. I honestly got turned around."
"…Fair enough."
Maru led me northwest across the campus. We arrived at the classroom with almost no time to spare.
It's been decades. Please don't make me unable to remember anyone.
I do remember the lecturer, at least. We were close. She helped me more than most during my research.
I gathered myself, cleared my head, and pushed open the heavy wooden door.
The lecture had just begun.
"Excuse me—"
The room stilled.
"Well. If it isn't Mr. Thran Klurette."
The lecturer looked up from her notes, one brow slightly raised, the particular expression of someone who has been waiting for exactly this moment.
"Where on earth have you been all this time?"