Arlene sat watching Wattyson from the sofa. The object floated to his hand with ease, and he did it without chanting. That shouldn’t be possible. Alas, her line of thought ended when an aroma of spice hit her senses in a captivating explosion. Her mouth hung. “What are you making?”

  “Shashukah,” he replied as he stirred the thinly cut onions, diced tomato, and other assorted ingredients. For a man wearing in complete white, he stood close to the pan not thinking of how the oil splashed might dirty his attire. Perhaps he didn’t care.

  “Uh huh…” She could feel the heat, but it wasn’t from the sizzling pan. She could feel him, his focused gaze onto the matter at hand—cooking. He shifted his body meticulously. There wasn’t any wasted movement in stirring the pan.

  This intimidating feeling, she’d thought, was only found on the battlefield. She recalled when she held a last stand with the common soldiers until reinforcement arrived, those same feelings of the common people fighting with their all against overwhelming odds to survive, yet here was someone in a remote area far from danger was having one with their culinary skill.

  Was he always like this, or perhaps her being here spurred him on like that? Having to cook for a guest was perhaps something he didn’t expect in such a remote area.

  She shook her head and banished the thought. “Anything I could help?”

  “Yeah, sure can you throw me the eggs? It’s on the counter between us.”

  Arlene rose and strode to the counter. She spotted the basket itself, usually it was filled with fruits as decoration yet here it was eggs. Grabbing hold of an egg, it felt cold and smooth like it was polished up neatly.

  Her mind stalled. “You want me to throw it?” She had fought battles and faced deaths many times. Always the victor she was, not once had she wavered in that confidence on the battlefield. Yet here, it was just a simple mundane task—throw the eggs. What if she miscalculated her throw and the egg landed firmly on the floor? Why did something so mundane feel… imposing and terrifying?

  “Throw me a couple, maybe five of them.”

  She focused on the egg. Her arm swung backward then back forward, to lob the egg over the counter. It went! The egg spun around like it was resisting the air. It flew up high then low over the counter, to Wattyson.

  He didn’t turn as his mind was still fixed onto the pan. The egg fell behind the counter and out of her sight.

  Why wasn’t he catching it? Her bewilderment clouded her mind before filling it with annoyance. She clicked her tongue as she took hold of another egg. If he didn’t catch this one, she wouldn’t continue helping.

  Turning her sight for another throw, her eyes widened. The thrown egg was floating upward at a snail pace, then gently hovered onto the counter near him. Huh? So her tired mind wasn’t playing trick earlier. He was using magic without chanting, something that shouldn’t be possible. Her teaching said the opposite of that.

  “I don’t see the other eggs.”

  “Right, sorry.” She threw the remaining eggs. All of them went behind the counter and all of them floated up and hovered to him. Wattyson didn’t even turn for all of them.

  “Ok seriously,” curiosity was pricking at her as she lazily to point at him, “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Earlier! You didn’t turn at all, and the eggs just started floating!”

  “Uhh, telekinesis?”

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  “So it is magic! How are you doing it? How are you—“

  “Aralynn”

  “Arlene”

  “Arlene, I’m in a constant strain of mind right now. I don’t understand your question!”

  “Well, magic usually involves chanting! Like if I want to use mine, I have to chant it. How did you—“

  “I seriously do not understand your question.”

  “Okay, questions for later. Please continue your cooking.”

  She paced back and forth with a flustered face. She’d been taught that chanting was required in everything. It was like a wordplay to the world, and to will them out as an extension. That was what made it magic. How was he doing it like second nature?

  Each time she looped around the room, she noticed more and more how messy and cluttered the whole cottage was. Papers, scrolls, knives, wands, and clothes hangers were just hanging about. The sight kept eating at her as she paced.

  “Wattyson, can I help organizing your stuffs? It’s… all over the place.”

  “Sure, just arrange them by the hearth.”

  “Wouldn’t it catch on fire?”

  “Put them behind the stone. It’ll be fine.”

  Doing so would be a health hazard, but she decided to go with it. This was his cottage, so he probably knew what he was doing. Besides, the stone frame of the hearth was blocky and thick. It was fine, properly.

  She couldn’t make out any of the writings on the papers or scrolls. Given that he knew of this and didn’t speak of it any further, she took the liberty of just shoving them neatly into that corner of the hearth. Papers stacked high like toy blocks, and scrolls piled on one another into a pyramid.

  All the remaining was the weapons. “Wattyson, where do I put the… uhh, your intricate weapons? Do you have a storage room?”

  “Of course, it’s in the back. Straight down the hallway from the front door and to your left at the end.” The pan hissed as flame burst in front of him. He didn’t budge.

  Arlene walked along the hallway. Her footwork was light and barely made a sound despite wearing full plate armour. The path itself was minimalist at best. There weren’t any pictures or paintings hanging. Just texture of wood dominated the hallway. She had hoped to find any snippets into him, but alas what could she do with this?

  Arriving to the storage, she noticed an intricate design on the front. Two laurels stretching out beneath a blooming flower. An odd design for a storage unit for sure.

  The room itself was filled with weapons; glaives, swords, lances, spears and something resembling a small musket—runic weapon. All of them were rusty or not maintained at all. All of them were named. The handwriting was too gibberish for Arlene to understand.

  The room was wide despite being filled to the brim with weapons. She had no troubles walking around while hugging the sheathed knives and wands close to her chest. Making to the end of the room caused an eye roll from her. It was a long rack hanging the same type of clothes—the white robes with gold trimmed. In the corner beside it was the same staff he had outside, except there were dozens of them.

  She crouched down with a small smile to herself. This whole room was too eccentric even for her. Arranging the knives and wands neatly on a small metal box, she stood up, hands rested on her hip and puffed her chest out. She allowed herself this small moment of control.

  Arriving back to the main room, she found Wattyson already laid out plates on a red checker cloth over the table. No telekinesis this time it seemed.

  “Hey, you’re back. Come,” he beckoned to her. “sit down. Let’s partake dinner.”

  “Why are you speaking like that?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Never mind.”

  The smell of spices again tickled her senses. She could feel her own saliva building up inside. Taking a seat across of him, he nudged a bowl of rice and her own pot of shashukah. It bubbled out red like boiling magma. How many spices were in this pot?

  Noticing Wattyson already started to swoop the shashukah out of his pot with a ladle, she raised her hand to halt. “Wattyson,” she pressed her hands together. “Can I do something first before you eat?”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “It’s… just a custom from my family.” She murmured before clapping her hands and tilted slightly down. “Thank you for the meal.”

  Such a custom wasn’t that common in this part of the world, that much Wattyson knew. He eyed her being sincere and engrossed into her own custom, she was quiet like she was praying. He summarized Arlene must be from the East. He wouldn’t do the same as her, but he decided to wait, at least until she began eating.

  “Thank you.” She let a smile played before taking in a spoonful of rice and shashukah. Flavours burst in her mouth. She had expected some absurd level of spice, but it wasn’t just that. It didn’t feel that spicy at all. It was sweet and salty too, like all three flavours vying for dominance. It was a balanced meal.

  It wasn’t something she’d had since she began her quest, at least not something homely made. She took more and more bites, eating progressively faster. The two then ate in silence.

  The room lit up fully from the light bulbs atop. Night had arrived. Arlene finished her meal, leaned back with a satisfying smile. “Hey Wattyson,” she asked as she sipped down cold water, her eyes narrowed with curiosity, “Seriously… who are you?”