"He just walked through the front door an hour ago!" Marco suddenly blurted out, completely ruining Lencar's attempt to look casual. The boy pointed an accusatory finger at Lencar. "He hasn't even slept! Rebecca told him to go to bed, but he wouldn't listen!"
Rebecca sighed, rubbing her temples. "Thank you for the betrayal, Marco. Your loyalty is truly inspiring."
Gorn's bushy eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. He leaned over the bar, fixing Lencar with a hard, uncompromising glare. "An hour ago? You traveled through the night, walked into town an hour ago, and your first thought was to come to my tavern instead of passing out in a warm bed?"
"I wanted to get back to work," Lencar said calmly, holding Gorn's gaze without flinching. "I prefer the kitchen to staring at a ceiling."
Gorn stared at him for a long, heavy moment. Beneath his gruff, intimidating exterior, the tavern owner possessed a surprisingly soft heart, especially when it came to his staff. He knew Lencar was a hard worker—perhaps the most efficient, tireless prep cook he had ever seen—but he also recognized the stubborn, self-destructive streak that seemed to run deep in the boy's veins.
"You're a fool, lad," Gorn finally grunted, shaking his large head. "You didn't have to come in today. I already adjusted the roster. Barl is covering the morning prep, and I can handle the afternoon rush. You should have stayed at the Scarlet house and rested your bones."
"I know I didn't have to," Lencar replied softly. He stepped closer to the bar, letting the mask of the stoic traveler slip just a fraction, revealing the genuine, earnest human underneath. "But I wanted to. Being here... doing the work... it's what I need today, Gorn. Please."
Gorn looked from Lencar's determined face to Rebecca's resigned, slightly worried expression. He let out a loud, dramatic snort, throwing his hands up in the air in mock defeat.
"Fine! Have it your way, you stubborn mule!" Gorn boomed, turning around to head toward the back kitchen. "But if you chop off one of your fingers because you're too tired to hold a knife properly, I'm taking the medical expenses out of your pay! Get an apron on! We have fifty pounds of potatoes that aren't going to peel themselves!"
Lencar let out a quiet breath of relief, a genuine, relaxed smile finally settling onto his features. "Thank you, boss. I'll be right there."
Rebecca nudged him playfully with her elbow as she moved past him to get to her waitress station. "Don't think this means you're off the hook. I'm keeping an eye on you all day."
"I wouldn't have it any other way," Lencar murmured.
He walked into the cramped, familiar back room where the staff kept their belongings. He took off his heavy traveling cloak, folding it neatly, and pulled a clean, white linen apron over his head, tying the strings tightly around his waist.
The fabric was rough and stiff against his hands. It was the absolute antithesis of the magical, adaptive skin he wore in combat, and the total opposite of the terrifying, crystalline armor he had stripped from the Diamond General. It possessed no magical properties. It offered no tactical advantage.
But as Lencar smoothed his hands down the front of the apron, he felt an overwhelming, profound sense of peace wash over his troubled spirit. The tension that had been coiled tight in his chest since the Venom-Haze Badlands finally, truly began to unravel.
He wasn't the Heretic right now. He wasn't the Sovereign orchestrating a shadow war, and he wasn't a ruthless predator harvesting souls in the dark.
He was just Lencar. He was a prep cook with a mountain of potatoes to peel, a boss who yelled too loud, and a "family" waiting for him in the dining room.
Lencar took one last, deep breath of the onion-scented kitchen air, letting the mundane reality anchor him firmly to the earth. He grabbed his favorite paring knife from the rack, stepped up to his designated wooden cutting board, and got to work.
He would rest later. For now, he was exactly where he belonged.
The kitchen of the "Rusty Spoon" was a symphony of orchestrated chaos, and Lencar Abarame was more than happy to play his part.
There was no hidden agenda, no desperate attempt to outrun lingering ghosts from his travels, and certainly no trauma haunting his steps. He had simply told Gorn and Rebecca that he would return to work after his time away, and Lencar was a man of his word. He liked the rhythm of the kitchen. He liked the tangible, immediate results of his labor. Out in the world, things were complicated, messy, and unpredictable. But here, a potato was just a potato, and if you peeled it, sliced it, and fried it, it became something good. It was honest work, and he genuinely enjoyed it.
"Lencar! I need three orders of the roasted root hash, and tell Barl to hurry up with that boar flank!" Gorn bellowed over the sizzle of a massive iron skillet. The large man was in his element, his face flushed red from the heat of the hearth, a grease-stained towel slung over his massive shoulder.
"Three root hashes, coming up," Lencar called back easily, his voice cutting through the din without having to shout. He moved with a relaxed but highly efficient grace. His hands, though calloused, handled the heavy chef's knife with fluid precision. He wasn't using any magic—there was no need to. The satisfaction came from the physical act of cooking.
Beside him, Barl—a scrawny teenager with a perpetual case of acne and a nervous disposition—was furiously trying to tenderize a thick slab of meat. He was out of breath and looking slightly panicked.
"I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying!" Barl squeaked, nearly dropping his wooden mallet. "But this meat is tougher than a gargoyle's hide!"
Lencar paused his chopping for a fraction of a second, offering the younger boy an encouraging smile. "You're holding the mallet too close to the head, Barl. Slide your grip down to the base of the handle. Let the weight of the mallet do the work for you, not your shoulder. You'll tire yourself out before the lunch rush even peaks."
Barl blinked, adjusted his grip, and brought the mallet down. The resulting thud was significantly heavier, flattening the meat perfectly. The boy's eyes lit up. "Oh, wow! Thanks, Lencar! Good to have you back, by the way. The kitchen's a nightmare when you're gone."
"Glad to be back, Barl," Lencar chuckled, sliding a massive pile of perfectly diced carrots and parsnips into a waiting hot pan. "Just don't let Gorn hear you say that, or he'll have you scrubbing the grease traps for a week."
As the mid-day rush hit Nairn in full force, the tavern filled to the brim. Merchants from the capital passing through, local farmers coming in for a hearty meal, and off-duty guards seeking a cold ale all crowded into the wooden booths and long tables. The air grew thick with the smell of roasting meat, spilled ale, and the loud, boisterous hum of a hundred conversations overlapping.
Because they were short-staffed on the floor, Gorn eventually shooed Lencar out of the kitchen to help Rebecca run plates. Lencar didn't mind in the slightest. He traded his heavy chopping knife for a large, round wooden tray, balancing four steaming plates of stew and a pitcher of ale with practiced ease.
He wove through the crowded tables, dodging a pair of arguing merchants and a very enthusiastic, wildly gesturing farmer without spilling a single drop.
"Here you go, gentlemen," Lencar said smoothly, approaching a corner booth occupied by three older, weather-beaten men who were regulars at the Spoon. He set the plates down with a friendly nod. "Three hearty beef stews, extra bread on the side, just how you like it."
Old Man Silas, a retired carpenter with a glorious, bushy white mustache, beamed up at him. "Lencar! Look at you, boy! Where have you been hiding? Haven't seen you around these parts in the past week. Rebecca said you went on a trip."
"Just took a bit of a vacation, Silas. Visited a few neighboring towns, stretched my legs," Lencar replied, wiping down a spot of spilled ale on their table with a rag. "But the food out there can't hold a candle to Gorn's cooking, so I had to come back."
The old men laughed, hearty and genuine. "You got that right, lad!" another man chimed in. "Nobody makes a stew like Gorn. Though my wife would string me up by my toes if she heard me say it."