Oathran stood at the counter of his mountain aerie's kitchen, the stone hearth crackling behind him as he moved through the rhythm of preparation.
The knife in his hand rose and fell precisely, each cut clean, each slice uniform. For the untrained eye, it looked like talent. Well, of course it was. He was the Dragon Lord.
But the truth was, it felt more like an old habit. Old skills, skills that didn't belong to this world. Strange that muscle memory could transfer across worlds.
Serayu sat at the long stone table, her eyes still wide with shock.
"As expected of His Majesty," she breathed, staring at the spread before her. "He just learned a couple of basics from Miss Bessa, and he's managed to make such good food this early!"
She was genuinely moved. So moved that she'd nearly collapsed from shock when Oathran had first presented the dishes. She knew that she would lay down tonight with tears in her eyes, replaying this moment in her head like a treasured memory.
