CHAPTER 165: A DISH FROM HOME PART 1

A day later.

Inigo stretched his arms as he stepped into the main room, clad in a loose gray tunic and dark slacks, far removed from his usual gear. His body ached in subtle ways, not from injuries, but from fatigue—the kind that lingered in the bones after days of constant adrenaline.

Behind him, Lyra padded into the room barefoot, her hair slightly disheveled, eyes still a little heavy with sleep. She wore a simple linen shirt over leggings, and despite her warrior’s grace, she looked remarkably relaxed for once.

"You’re up early," she mumbled.

"I don’t think I ever fully slept," Inigo replied with a small smirk. "My brain still thinks we’re on alert."

Lyra yawned, dropping onto the cushioned bench beside the low table. "That’s because we usually are."

He nodded in agreement, then made his way into the modest kitchen section of the house. The shelves were neatly stocked—some dried herbs, barley, bread, and a few fruits. But Inigo was looking for something more specific today.

"I’ve been thinking," he said, running a hand along a small wooden spice rack. "We’ve been eating tavern stew and dry rations for days. It’s time for real food."

Lyra perked up. "You’re cooking?"

"Yeah," Inigo said, grinning. "Something from my world. A dish from my country—one of the staples. It’s called Adobo."

"Adobo," Lyra repeated slowly, testing the word. "Is that a kind of stew?"

"In a way, yeah," Inigo replied. "It’s meat braised in soy sauce, vinegar, garlic, and spices. Served with rice. Simple, savory, delicious."

Lyra leaned forward with interest. "That sounds amazing. And you know how to make it?"

"I’ve cooked it plenty of times back home," he said. "I’ll need ingredients though. Some of it I already have, but I’ll need fresh meat, garlic, vinegar, and rice. Lots of rice."

She smiled, eyes suddenly bright. "Then what are we waiting for?"

By mid-morning, they were out on the streets of Elandra, weaving through the cobbled lanes of the city’s bustling marketplace. The stalls were lively today—filled with the scent of freshly baked flatbreads, grilled meats, and sweet honeyed fruits. Merchants called out their wares, and customers haggled animatedly beneath colorful awnings.

Lyra kept close, occasionally brushing shoulders with Inigo as they moved from stall to stall. "This feels oddly... normal," she remarked. "Shopping for food after a mission."

Inigo nodded. "Normal’s good. We need more of it."

They stopped by a butcher’s stall, where racks of fresh pork hung behind a glass pane. The butcher, a burly man with a red apron and a twirled mustache, greeted them with a nod.

"Good morning. What can I get you?"

"Half a kilo of belly cut, if you’ve got it," Inigo replied.

The butcher arched a brow. "Planning a feast?"

"Something like that," Inigo said with a small grin.

Once the pork was wrapped and tucked into Inigo’s bag, they moved on to the spice merchant. A narrow stall lined with tiny clay jars emitted pungent scents of dried peppers, peppercorns, cumin, and more. Inigo asked for black pepper and bay leaves—close enough substitutes for his intended flavors.

They also stopped for garlic—fat, purple-skinned bulbs that Lyra held to her nose with a curious sniff—and vinegar, which the merchant described as "aged barley vinegar with a sharp bite." It wasn’t cane vinegar, but it would do.

Finally, they found rice. A local farmer was selling sacks of short-grain white rice, which looked surprisingly similar to the kind Inigo knew. He bought a modest bag, enough for several meals.

As they made their way back through the crowd, Lyra glanced at the contents of their haul.

"All this for one meal?" she teased.

Inigo laughed. "It’s worth it. Trust me."

Back at the house, Inigo set to work. He rolled up his sleeves, washed his hands, and arranged the ingredients across the counter. Lyra sat on the stool nearby, watching him with a curious gleam in her eyes.

"You look so serious," she said.

"Cooking’s like engineering," Inigo replied, slicing the garlic with practiced efficiency. "Get the ratios wrong, and everything breaks."

He started by sautéing the garlic in a bit of oil, filling the kitchen with its sharp, inviting aroma. Then he added the pork, searing it until the edges browned and crackled. The sizzle was music to his ears.

Next came the soy sauce and vinegar, poured with precise care. The scent shifted—sharper, deeper, richer. He dropped in bay leaves and cracked black peppercorns, then lowered the flame and let the pot simmer.

Lyra had drawn closer, her nose practically hovering over the pot.

"That smells insane," she said. "Like... salty, sour, meaty, and... comforting?"

"That’s adobo," he said proudly. "The smell means it’s working."

While the stew simmered, he turned his attention to the rice. He boiled it carefully, explaining the importance of proper water ratio and not stirring too much.

"Rice is sacred where I come from," he added. "We eat it with almost every meal."

"And you said this is from your country?" Lyra asked.

"Yeah. A place called the Philippines," he replied. "Tropical islands. Lots of rain. More beaches than cities."

She tilted her head. "Doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard of."

"I’m not surprised," he said. "It’s not on this world’s map."

Her smile softened. "Then thank you for bringing a piece of it here."

Once the rice was done and the adobo had thickened to a glossy, dark brown glaze, he plated everything. A generous mound of steaming rice beside chunks of pork glistening with sauce.

He slid the plate to Lyra first, then served his own. They sat together at the low table in the corner of the kitchen, the windows open to let the breeze in.

Lyra scooped a small bite with her spoon, watching the steam curl up.

And then she tasted it.

Her eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, she didn’t speak.

Then—"Holy gods," she said with reverence. "That’s incredible."

Inigo laughed. "Told you."

"It’s salty and tangy and rich, but not overpowering. The meat is so tender. And the rice—why don’t we eat more rice?"

He watched her devour the rest enthusiastically. For the first time in a while, Inigo felt a weight lift—not from his shoulders, but from somewhere deeper. He hadn’t just shared a meal. He had shared memory, culture, something real.

"This," Lyra said, pointing her spoon at him, "you’re making again."

He mock-saluted. "Yes, ma’am."

They finished their plates and washed up afterward, the kitchen still filled with the scent of garlic and vinegar. As the afternoon sun dipped low, casting amber light across the wooden floor, Lyra sat with her feet propped up and a warm mug of tea in hand.

"I get it now," she said quietly.

"Get what?" Inigo asked, slumping beside her.

"Why you talk about your world the way you do. That food—it’s not just food. It’s a piece of something bigger."

He nodded slowly. "Yeah. That’s exactly what it is."

They sat there for a while, saying nothing more. Just enjoying the quiet, the tea, and the way the house smelled like a home.

"I’m going to introduce some to you tomorrow."