CHAPTER 166: A DISH FROM HOME PART 2

The morning sun filtered softly through the wooden slats of the window shutters, casting golden stripes across the kitchen floor. The scent of yesterday’s adobo still faintly lingered in the air—now mingled with the faint aroma of freshly steeped tea. It was quiet, peaceful, and for once, the weight of the world outside felt far away.

Inigo stood at the counter again, hands folded, gaze drifting thoughtfully toward the closed pantry door. He glanced over his shoulder at Lyra, who sat cross-legged at the table with her chin resting on her palm, watching him with sleepy curiosity.

"You’re planning something," she said, half-amused.

"You’re damn right I am," Inigo said. "I made you dinner yesterday. Today, you’re having breakfast from my world."

Lyra blinked. "Another one?"

"Another one. I promised."

She smiled and stretched her arms over her head. "Alright then, show me what breakfast looks like where you’re from."

Inigo turned back to the shelves, rummaging carefully. "It’s something simple, but it hits hard when made right." His voice carried a mix of fondness and determination. "We call it ’silog.’"

"Silog?" Lyra repeated.

"Yup. It’s a portmanteau. Garlic fried rice, eggs, and some kind of meat. Tapsilog is with beef tapa. Tosilog is with sweet pork. Longsilog uses longganisa, which is a garlicky sausage. But I’m improvising today."

He pulled out the remaining rice from yesterday and placed it in a bowl. Then, he reached for a small pouch of local sausages they bought from the market on a whim.

"It won’t be exactly the same, but it’s close enough."

Lyra stood up and walked over to observe. "You fry the rice in garlic again?"

"Oh yes," Inigo said, tossing chopped garlic into a hot pan. The crackling sound filled the air, instantly releasing its sharp, familiar aroma. "Garlic fried rice is the heart of the dish. It’s called ’sinangag’ back home."

"Sinangag," Lyra echoed, carefully sounding it out.

"Good. You’re getting the hang of it," he said with a grin.

He moved with rhythm and ease, adding a spoonful of oil to the rice and tossing it expertly in the pan. The grains took on a golden sheen, and the garlic bits began to crisp. Next, he moved to a second pan and dropped in the sausages, which sizzled and spit as they caramelized.

The final step was a pair of eggs. He cracked them carefully and let them fry with sunny yolks gleaming.

"You always cook like this?" Lyra asked.

"I used to do it every Sunday," Inigo replied, flipping one egg. "It was a tradition back home. Wake up late, cook silog, eat slow, drink coffee. A small moment of peace."

Lyra was quiet for a moment, then nodded. "That sounds... comforting."

"It was," Inigo said softly. "I didn’t realize how important those routines were until I lost them."

She watched him closely but said nothing more as he plated the food. One scoop of garlic fried rice. Two glistening sausages. A fried egg with a runny yolk on top. He garnished it with chopped herbs and handed her a plate with pride.

"This is my version of longsilog," he declared.

They sat down across from each other at the small table once again, the warm plates between them and a faint breeze wafting in through the open window. Lyra wasted no time. She sliced into the sausage and took a bite.

The sweetness of the meat hit first, followed by the strong garlicky backdrop of the rice and the creamy egg yolk that mixed into everything like a sauce.

"Oh wow," she mumbled through her bite. "It’s like... breakfast with attitude."

Inigo laughed. "That’s one way to describe it."

"It’s savory and sweet and heavy enough to fill you up. I like this more than the bread and soup we get at the Guild canteen."

"Glad you think so," Inigo said, already halfway through his own plate. "There’s a whole range of silog combinations back home. Each family has their own way of preparing it."

"I can see why. You’ve got me addicted to your world’s cooking now," Lyra teased.

He leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. "Food was always a big deal for us. It wasn’t just survival—it was connection. Something you shared with people. A form of love."

Lyra’s smile softened. "I think I’m starting to understand that."

After the meal, they washed the dishes together, sharing quiet conversation over running water. When the last plate was cleaned and dried, Lyra turned to him and asked, "What else do you miss about your world?"

Inigo paused. "The little things. The smell of rain on hot concrete. The sound of jeepneys and tricycles honking during rush hour. Weekend karaoke parties. Street food vendors yelling prices... and my mom’s cooking."

Lyra touched his arm gently. "You bring your world here through every story, every dish. It’s not lost."

He looked at her, eyes meeting hers. "Thanks."

They spent the rest of the morning lounging—Inigo sketching ideas for future upgrades in his notebook, and Lyra tending to her weapons. Occasionally, they’d talk about future hunts or wonder aloud if the Lord of Destruction was truly laying low or planning something greater.

By midday, Lyra stood and stretched. "Alright, chef. What’s next?"

Inigo raised a brow. "Hungry already?"

"No," she said with a laugh. "I mean for today. Are we heading back to the Guild? Another job?"

He thought about it, then shook his head. "Let’s take the rest of today off. We’ve earned it. Maybe I’ll teach you how to cook sinigang next."

"Sinigang?" she asked, curious again.

"A sour tamarind-based soup," he replied. "Usually made with pork, fish, or shrimp. Hearty. Comforting. The kind of thing you want during stormy weather."

Lyra grinned. "I look forward to it."

She walked to the window, gazing out at the sunlit streets below. "You know," she said softly, "if this world ends tomorrow, I’d still be glad I got to taste your memories."

Inigo smiled, standing beside her. "Then I’ll make sure you taste as many as I can."

And for a while longer, the war could wait.