Brikka woke in the small chamber she shared with Sivvy and three other younglings. Her ribs ached where she'd hit the ground during the draugr attack.

  She sat up slowly, breathing through the soreness.

  Sivvy's pallet was empty—already gone to the mines with that Calen stranger and Kraggir. She'd heard them talking last night. Something about reading energy under stone.

  Brikka didn't understand it.

  Didn't need to.

  Sivvy liked the strangers. That was enough to make her wary.

  She pulled on her patched tunic and wrapped her scarf twice around her neck. The central hearth would be warmer, but the tunnels were a bit cold.

  Outside, the settlement moved with purpose. Goblins hauled debris. Kobolds reinforced damaged sections. The gnolls kept watch at the walls.

  Everyone had a task.

  Brikka needed one too.

  She headed toward the eastern shelters where Ygrana tended the wounded. The violet-gold tonics the strangers brought had helped, but they needed rest, food and warmth now.

  Brikka could help with that.

  The passage opened into the makeshift infirmary. Ygrana knelt beside a kobold bundled in furs, checking his pulse with practiced hands. An empty vial sat on a wooden tray beside her.

  Brikka stopped at the entrance, uncertain.

  Ygrana glanced up. "You're awake."

  "Yes, Matron."

  "How do you feel?"

  Brikka touched her ribs. "Sore. Nothing broken."

  Ygrana nodded, returning her attention to the kobold. "Good. Check on the others. Make sure they're warm."

  Brikka moved through the shelters, adjusting blankets, adding wood to the braziers. The wounded slept or rested quietly—too weak to do much else.

  When she finished, she returned to Ygrana.

  "Is there anything else I can do?"

  Ygrana studied her. "The kitchen. The visitor, Bran, is there. He's making food for the wounded. Go help him."

  Brikka hesitated.

  Bran. The quiet stranger with broad shoulders and big hands. The one who'd brought that impossible oven—the magical item that baked bread without fire.

  She didn't know what to think of him.

  Or any of them, really.

  Doc had saved her and Sivvy from the draugr—she'd seen that with her own eyes. But she'd only heard whispers about the rest of it. The orc woman fighting. The Greater falling.

  Powerful. Dangerous.

  But Sivvy trusted them.

  And Sivvy didn't trust easily.

  Brikka exhaled slowly, then nodded. "I'll go."

  She found Bran in the kitchen alcove near the central hearth.

  The space was small—barely more than a carved shelf in the stone wall with a cooking pit and storage nooks. Bran stood at the counter, kneading dough with steady, rhythmic motions. His hands were large and calloused.

  The bronze oven sat beside him, humming faintly.

  Brikka stopped at the entrance, watching.

  He worked without hesitation, pressing the dough flat, folding it over, pressing again. His breathing was even. Calm.

  Like he'd done this ten thousand times before.

  Finally, he glanced up.

  "You need something?" His voice was low, gravelly.

  Brikka straightened. "Ygrana sent me. She said you're making food for the wounded."

  Bran nodded once. "I am."

  "Can I help?"

  He studied her for a moment.

  Then he gestured to the counter. "Come here."

  Brikka stepped closer, her fingers curling against her palms.

  Bran pointed to a clay bowl filled with mashed ashroot. "Mix that with water. Slowly. Don't rush it."

  She reached for the bowl, then paused. "How much water?"

  "Enough to make it smooth. Not thick, not runny. You'll feel it."

  Brikka poured carefully, stirring with a wooden spoon. The ashroot resisted at first, then loosened as the water soaked through.

  Bran watched without speaking.

  When the mixture smoothed out, Brikka looked up. "Like this?"

  "Good. Set it aside."

  He returned to the dough, shaping it into rounds. Each one identical—same size, same weight.

  Brikka's gaze drifted to the bronze oven.

  It hummed softly, its surface warm but not hot.

  "What is that?" she asked quietly.

  Bran didn't look up. "An oven."

  "But it doesn't have fire."

  "Doesn't need fire. It's powered differently."

  Brikka frowned. "Magic?"

  Bran paused, then shook his head. "Somewhat, it just… built different."

  He straightened, wiping his hands on his tunic, then gestured to the device. "Come here. I'll show you."

  Brikka approached cautiously.

  Bran opened the oven door, revealing three tiered racks inside. The heat radiated outward—gentle and even.

  "See these?" He pointed to the racks. "You put the bread here. Close the door. Adjust the vents to control the heat. That's it."

  "No wood?" Brikka asked.

  "No wood."

  "No coals?"

  "No coals."

  She stared at it, trying to understand. "How does it work?"

  Bran tilted his head slightly. "Honestly? I don't know all of it. Carl and Calen built it. Something about energy storage and controlled release. I just know how to use it."

  He tapped the side of the casing. "This battery holds the power. When it runs out, you replace it. Until then, it bakes."

  Brikka reached out, fingers hovering near the bronze surface. "Can I touch it?"

  "Go ahead."

  She pressed her palm against the metal. It felt warm, like a sun baked stone.

  Brikka pulled her hand back slowly.

  Strange. All of it was strange.

  An oven without fire. Bread without smoke. Light that came from metal instead of flame.

  Bran placed the shaped dough rounds onto the racks, spacing them carefully. "Watch. When the bread's ready, the smell changes. You'll know."

  He closed the door and adjusted the vents with small, deliberate movements.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  The oven hummed.

  Brikka stepped back, still staring.

  "It's strange," she said quietly.

  Bran grunted. "Strange works."

  They worked in silence after that.

  Bran mixed hearthgrain with the ashroot paste, adding water and ashsalt in careful measures. Brikka watched, then helped when he gestured—holding bowls, measuring portions, kneading dough under his direction.

  His hands moved with the same steady rhythm.

  The scent began to rise—warm, filling, impossible to ignore.

  Fresh bread.

  Bran opened the oven door. Six golden-brown loaves steamed on the racks, edges crisp and perfect.

  He set them on a stone slab to cool.

  Brikka stared.

  "It's done already?" she asked.

  "It's done."

  "That fast?"

  Bran nodded. "Oven holds steady heat. Bakes clean."

  He tore one loaf in half, steam curling upward. The interior was soft, pale gold, flawless.

  He handed her the smaller piece.

  Brikka took it carefully, turning it over in her hands. Still warm.

  She bit into it.

  The taste hit like warmth spreading through her chest. Not just food—something more. Something that reminded her of safety. Of home.

  She looked up at Bran.

  He watched her quietly, his expression unreadable.

  "It's good," she said.

  "It's meant to be."

  Brikka took another bite, then another. When she finished, Bran handed her a second piece.

  "Eat," he said simply. "Then help me carry the rest to Ygrana."

  She nodded, still chewing.

  Together, they gathered the loaves and the pot of ashroot soup Bran had simmering on the fire. Brikka carried the bread carefully, cradling it like something precious.

  They walked back to the eastern shelters.

  Ygrana looked up as they entered, her yellow eyes settling on the loaves.

  "You brought bread," she said.

  Bran set the soup pot down. "And soup. They'll need both."

  Ygrana tore a piece from the nearest loaf, chewing slowly. Her expression didn't change, but something in her posture softened.

  "This is good work," she said quietly.

  Bran inclined his head. "It's just food."

  "No," Ygrana said. "It's more than that."

  She handed pieces to the wounded, one by one. They ate slowly, gratefully.

  Brikka watched from the doorway.

  Sivvy trusted them.

  Maybe she could too.

  Bran watched the wounded eat, their hands steadier now as they tore into the fresh bread. The goblin woman with the bandaged arm managed a small smile. The gnoll beside her nodded once, slow and sincere. Even the fevered Kobold man at the far end took three careful bites before settling back against the wall.

  It was good, simple work. The kind that mattered.

  Brikka shifted beside him, her small fingers still sticky with dough. She didn't say anything, but her eyes followed the same path as his—watching each person eat, watching color return to pale faces.

  When the last plate was clean, Bran gathered the empty bowls. Brikka helped without being asked, stacking them carefully in her thin arms. Together they carried everything back to the kitchen alcove, the warmth from the oven still radiating into the cold stone corridor.

  Bran set the bowls aside and turned back to the workbench. His hands found the rhythm again—reaching for flour, checking the water barrel, testing the heat of the bronze oven with one palm hovering above the surface.

  "What are you doing?" Brikka asked.

  "Making food for the rest of the village." Bran reached for a sack of hearthgrain flour, running his fingers through it to check the texture. "Everyone's out there working. Fixing walls. Clearing debris. They'll need something hot when they come back."

  Brikka tilted her head. "But we already some made bread and soup."

  "Bread's good. But they need more than that."

  He walked to the storage area, Brikka following close behind. The crates from the trade wagon sat stacked against the wall.

  Bran opened the first crate. Hearthgrain, already milled into flour. The second held ashroot, firm and dry. Perfect for roasting or mashing. He pulled out a deeproot next, its orange flesh still firm despite the cold.

  "What's all this?" Brikka peered into the crates.

  "Crops," Bran said. "From our settlement. Hearthgrain. Ashroot. Deeproot. Stonebulb." He lifted a rounded stonebulb from another crate, turning it over in his palm. "Moonbulb. Firebud. Even some pulsebean."

  Brikka's eyes widened. "That's… that's a lot."

  "It is." Bran set the stonebulb down and surveyed the rest. Silverleaf bundled in dried sprigs. A small clay jar of ashsalt. Even a pouch of what looked like dried mushrooms, though those might've come from the settlement's own stores.

  His mind was already working through it. Hearthgrain for thickening. Ashroot and deeproot for body. Stonebulb added sweetness if you cooked it slow. Moonbulb and firebud for flavor. Pulsebean for weight and staying power.

  "Could make a stew," Bran said, half to himself. "Something that'll stretch. Fill bellies. Keep people warm while they work."

  Brikka watched him, her small hands clasped in front of her. "You know how to make all that?"

  "I know how to feed people." Bran pulled a handful of ingredients from the crates and set them on the workbench. "That's what matters."

  He glanced at the oven, then at the supplies, then at the empty corridor beyond. Somewhere out there, goblins and kobolds and gnolls were hauling bodies and patching walls. They'd be cold. Tired. Hungry.

  His eyes moved from the small cooking pit to the ingredients spread across the workbench. Too much for this space. Too many people to feed from one small pot.

  Bran rolled up his sleeves and began gathering the vegetables into a large basket.

  "Come on," he said to Brikka. "We're moving to the central hearth."

  Brikka blinked. "Why?"

  "This alcove's fine for bread and small batches." Bran hefted the basket of ashroot and deeproot. "But we're feeding the whole settlement. Need a proper fire. Room to work."

  He gestured toward the corridor. "Grab that sack of hearthgrain. We'll do the prep work out there where people can see what's coming."

  Brikka lifted the grain sack, staggering slightly under its weight. "All of it?"

  "All of it." Bran picked up the clay jar of ashsalt and tucked it under one arm. "I'll show you how it's done. But we'll need space to do it right."

  They carried the ingredients out toward the central hearth, where the fire burned steady and the stone floor opened wide enough for serious cooking.

  Bran set the basket down beside the central hearth and surveyed the space. The fire burned steady in the wide stone pit, flames licking at charred logs. The iron pot hanging from the tripod arm was large enough to feed fifty—plenty for what he had in mind.

  He knelt beside the basket and began sorting. Ashroot. Deeproot. Stonebulb. Moonbulb. A small bundle of firebud. The pulsebean could wait—needed soaking first. But the roots would build the foundation.

  Brikka hovered nearby, watching him work.

  "Pull that pot down," Bran said, nodding toward the tripod. "We'll need it clean before we start."

  Brikka grabbed the pot's rim and tugged. It swung free with a dull clang, heavy enough that she needed both hands to lower it to the stone floor. Soot darkened the inside, but the metal was sound.

  "Good." Bran handed her a rag. "Wipe it out. Then fill it halfway with water from that barrel."

  While Brikka scrubbed, Bran pulled out his knife and started prepping the roots. He worked methodically—peeling the ashroot first, cutting it into uniform chunks. The deeproot came next, its orange flesh firm under the blade. Then the stonebulb, sliced thin so it would soften faster.

  The moonbulb and firebud went last. He diced the moonbulb fine and crushed the firebud cloves flat with the heel of his hand. The smell hit the air immediately—sharp and clean.

  Brikka returned with the pot, water sloshing inside. "Now what?"

  "Hang it back on the tripod." Bran stood and adjusted the arm so the pot hung directly over the flames. "We'll get the water hot first. Then build the stew layer by layer."

  He tossed the ashroot chunks into the water and stepped back to let the fire do its work. Heat rose in waves, warming his face.

  Footsteps echoed from the eastern corridor. Bran glanced up to see Calen and Sivvy emerging from the mines, both dusty and tired. Sivvy's face brightened when he spotted Brikka.

  "You're cooking?" Sivvy bounded over, peering into the pot.

  "Stew," Bran said simply. "For everyone."

  Calen nodded a greeting and crouched beside the fire, warming his hands. "Smells good already."

  Bran didn't respond. The water was starting to bubble around the ashroot, the chunks softening at the edges. He added the deeproot next, then the stonebulb, stirring everything with a long wooden spoon.

  "Can I help?" Sivvy asked.

  Bran pointed to the basket. "Dice those moonbulbs. Small pieces. Keep your fingers clear of the blade."

  Sivvy grabbed a knife and set to work, his small hands surprisingly quick. Brikka leaned over to watch, then started crushing the firebud cloves the way Bran had shown her earlier.

  Calen stayed by the fire, quiet but present. After a moment, he pulled out his radio and spoke into it. "Bran's making stew at the central hearth. Smells like it'll feed the whole village."

  A crackle of static, then Mazoga's voice came through. "Good. Tell him I'll send the work crews his way when they're done clearing the north wall."

  Bran stirred the pot again. The ashroot was soft now, the deeproot starting to break down. He added the diced moonbulb and crushed firebud, then reached for the ashsalt. A careful pinch. Not too much.

  The smell shifted—richer, fuller. The kind of warmth that made tired people stop and pay attention.

  Sivvy finished with the moonbulbs and stepped back. "What else?"

  "Sit. Rest." Bran adjusted the pot's position over the flames. "This needs time now. Can't rush it."

  Brikka settled beside Sivvy, her shoulders finally relaxing. Calen stayed by the fire, watching the stew bubble.

  Bran didn't say anything more. Just stirred. Tasted. Adjusted. The work was simple. The result would speak for itself.

  The scent began to spread through the tunnels. Footsteps echoed from the corridors—first a few, then more. A group of kobolds emerged from the eastern passage, dust still clinging to their work clothes. They slowed when the smell hit them.

  "What's cooking?" one asked, nose twitching.

  "Stew," Sivvy said proudly, gesturing toward the pot. "Bran's making it for everyone."

  The kobolds settled on the stone benches around the hearth. More people drifted in—goblins from the repair crews, gnolls returning from patrol. They didn't ask permission. Just found places to sit and waited.

  Bran ladled a small portion into a wooden spoon and tasted it. The ashroot had broken down, thickening the broth. The deeproot held its shape but yielded when pressed. Good. He added a few sprigs of silverleaf, their bright green leaves wilting instantly in the heat.

  Ygrana appeared at the edge of the circle, her yellow eyes taking in the gathered crowd. She settled beside two wounded goblins who'd managed to make their way from the eastern shelters.

  "Smells like home," one of them said quietly.

  Bran stirred once more, then stepped back. The stew was ready.

  People began producing bowls from somewhere—wooden, clay, even a few carved gourds. Bran filled them one by one, the ladle moving in steady rhythm. Steam rose from each serving, carrying the rich scent of roots and herbs.

  The first taste brought silence. Then soft murmurs of satisfaction.

  Rurrak appeared with three other gnolls, all of them settling cross-legged on the stone floor. Bran handed him a bowl without a word. The gnoll nodded his thanks and ate slowly, deliberately.

  "More coming," Calen said, pointing toward the southern tunnel. A group of workers emerged, tools in hand, faces smudged with stone dust. They'd been reinforcing the damaged sections all morning.

  Bran filled more bowls. The pot was large, but so was the crowd. Twenty people. Thirty. More arriving as word spread.

  Brikka leaned against Sivvy, both of them quiet now, focused on their food. The goblin girl's shoulders had lost their tension. Her breathing was even.

  "Good?" Bran asked quietly.

  She nodded, not trusting her voice.

  The conversations started slowly. Quiet words about the repairs, about who was working where, about small things that mattered. The kind of talk that happened when people felt safe enough to rest.

  Kraggir arrived with a few more kobolds, their pickaxes slung over shoulders. He accepted a bowl with a grunt of thanks, then settled beside Rurrak. The two of them ate in companionable silence.

  Bran refilled the pot from a second batch of prepared vegetables, keeping the stew flowing as more people found their way to the central hearth. The fire burned steady beneath it all, casting warm light on faces that had been too tense for too long.

  This was what kitchens were for. Not just the cooking, but what came after. The gathering. The sharing. The quiet moment when people remembered they weren't alone.

  Bran ladled another bowl and handed it to the next person in line. The work continued.

  When the crowd finally dispersed, Brikka stayed behind to help clean up. She moved differently now—less guarded, more sure of her place.

  "Will you teach me more?" she asked, scrubbing the ladle clean.

  Bran considered this, watching her work. Careful hands. Patient attention. "You've got the feel for it."

  She beamed and headed off to find Sivvy, the bronze oven humming quietly behind her.

  Bran smiled to himself and began planning tomorrow's bread.

  Thanks for reading!

  Chapter 73 Tuesday!