The mornings in Elderwood had taken on a different rhythm.
Gone were the echoing footsteps of Elias bringing bundles of firewood at dawn, the clatter of mismatched boots on the back porch, the warm voice teasing her about using too much ginger. Now, there was silence. Noura had to adjust to it—slowly, painfully, but surely. The absence was deafening at first, like a beat skipped in a familiar song. The kitchen felt bigger, emptier.
Still, the fires needed to be lit. The broth needed to boil. And so, she cooked.
Noura had always believed food could comfort. It could speak for her when her voice faltered, carry memories across distance and time. So she leaned into her craft, not to fill the silence, but to rediscover herself inside it. Each morning, she tried something new: a twist on a rice dish, a dessert made with Elderwood berries, or a vegetable curry that vaguely resembled something her mother once made.
Children often came to visit now. Aari was the first, offering to help wash vegetables. Soon Mina and Rolo followed, giggling as they tried to knead dough or stir soup. Their laughter didn't replace Elias's voice—but it gave the kitchen a heartbeat again.
She had not expected what came next.
***
One sun-drenched afternoon, a tall man in a deep blue cloak arrived in Elderwood. He bore a letter sealed with the insignia of the Eastern Markets—a falcon grasping a cooking knife. Word spread fast. The man was a festival courier, and Elderwood had been chosen to host the upcoming Regional Culinary Festival.
Two weeks from now, chefs from three surrounding territories would arrive. There would be contests, exhibitions, and judging panels. Local food stalls would be encouraged. The event promised trade, attention, and prosperity.
But the real buzz didn't start until the man mentioned a name: Chef Varek.
He was a culinary star from the Eastern cities, known for his precise plating and immaculate technique. Some whispered he'd trained with royal cooks. Others claimed he could sear meat with just the heat of his gaze. What all agreed on was his pride.
And it didn't take long for that pride to show.
When Varek arrived in Elderwood with his small entourage, he visited the local eateries. Most, he ignored. But when he came to Noura's stall, he paused, sniffed the air, and let out a theatrical sigh.
"Experimental," he said, glancing at her clay stove and banana leaf-wrapped rice. "Charming, in the way children's drawings are charming."
The words were said with a smile, but they struck like knives.
Villagers bristled. Aari clenched his fists. Noura, however, remained still. Her hands stayed folded in front of her apron. Her heart beat loudly in her chest.
Varek turned to the crowd. "I challenge this... charming newcomer to a cooking duel. Opening day. One dish each. Same ingredients, same time. Three judges from three regions."
The crowd gasped.
"Unless, of course," he said, his tone thick with mock sympathy, "you'd rather focus on your experimental rice."
Noura said nothing that day. She returned home with her hands trembling and didn't light her stove for the first time in weeks.
But the next morning, there was a knock on her door.
Old Marna stood there, basket in hand. "We've tasted your food," she said, simply. "We know who you are."
Then came Aari, holding a pile of herb bundles. Mina and Rolo followed with baskets of river fish.
"We believe in you," Aari said. "Just like Elias did."
The mention of his name brought tears to her eyes—but also strength. Noura breathed deeply, looked down at the ingredients, and finally nodded.
***
The days leading up to the duel were filled with fire and focus.
Noura transformed her kitchen into a laboratory of memory. She thought of the meals that spoke of comfort, home, and boldness. Pecel Lele came to mind: deep-fried catfish with sambal terasi, served with raw vegetables and rice. It was rustic, humble—but packed with intensity.
She didn't have catfish, but the river fish brought by the children was firm and earthy. She experimented with a batter of crushed nuts and grain, adding a touch of wild forest pepper for kick. For sambal, she combined red flame chilis, fermented root paste, roasted shallots, and a pinch of zireh salt.
Then came the rice—fluffy, fragrant, cooked in spiced broth with lemongrass-like stalks from the Whispering Grove. She topped it with fried shallots and shavings of smoked butter fruit.
She cooked. She failed. She tried again.
The villagers cheered her on. Some watched from the doorway, others tasted and gave honest feedback. She welcomed it all.
When the festival morning finally arrived, the village square was transformed. Colorful banners fluttered in the breeze. Stalls overflowed with goods. Drums sounded. Children danced.
In the center stood the duel arena—a large circular cooking platform with two identical sets of basic tools and ingredients. Three judges sat at a wooden table: a spice merchant from the western plateau, a culinary historian from the coastal libraries, and a retired palace cook with sharp eyes.
Varek arrived in a tailored chef's coat, knives glinting at his side. Noura wore her apron and a scarf tied around her hair, her divine cooking tools neatly arranged. She placed her hand briefly on the magical pan from the gods and whispered, "Let's show them."
The signal was given.
The duel began.
Varek moved with fluid efficiency, slicing with perfect rhythm, searing meats with a controlled flame. He muttered instructions to himself in a language no one else knew. His dish appeared to be a tower of layered meats, roots, and foam—elegant and exact.
Noura worked steadily, calmly. She crushed her spices with the stone mortar, letting the aroma rise. She marinated her fish in wild citrus juice and fire salt. Her sambal roasted slowly over coals, the air tinged with heat and tang.
Varek occasionally sneered. "That scent… what is that? A field fire?"
She didn't reply.
The crowd leaned in as the final moments ticked down.
Noura assembled her plate on a banana leaf: rice, golden-fried fish, sambal in a clay dish, and a side of pickled forest shoots. It wasn't fancy. It didn't shimmer. But it looked alive.
Time was called.
The judges stepped forward. They examined, they tasted. They whispered among themselves.
The merchant looked surprised. The historian took notes furiously. The palace cook narrowed his eyes, then nodded once.
Then, silence.
The head judge stood. "This was not an easy decision. Both dishes displayed incredible skill."
Varek smiled smugly.
"But the winner, by virtue of flavor harmony, creativity with local ingredients, and emotional depth… is Noura."
The crowd erupted.
Varek stiffened. His jaw twitched. "Her dish was… simple."
"It was unforgettable," said the palace cook.
Varek turned to Noura. For a moment, his eyes were fire. Then, begrudgingly, he offered a short bow. "Well played, chef."
Noura returned the bow, her chest rising with pride.
Cheers continued long after the judges left. The villagers swarmed her, lifting her in the air, singing, laughing. Someone tossed flowers. Mina tried to hug her while holding a sticky rice ball.
Later that night, after the crowd had dispersed and the stars hung quietly above Elderwood, Noura sat by her stove, feet aching, hands still tingling.
She had done it. Without Elias by her side, without certainty, without flash.
She had cooked with her soul.
She glanced at the flame dancing beneath her pot and whispered, "I hope you saw that."
The fire flickered—just once.
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