Morning sunlight spilled gently through the shutters of the inn. Hearthmere's bells chimed softly as the town woke to another bustling day.
Baker stretched, rubbing his eyes. The day before had been fruitful — repairs made, prayers offered, lessons learned from the gods themselves. But something tugged at his mind still — the orphans' faces, their shy smiles as they'd eaten his soup.
He rose quietly, slipping out of the inn before the others had stirred, a basket tucked under one arm filled with herbs and vegetables from the market.
The Temple of the Twelve was already awake when he arrived. Sister Amara looked up in surprise as Baker stepped through the doorway again.
"Ah, young master Cross," she greeted warmly. "You've returned."
"I wanted to show the children a few things," he said, smiling. "If you'll let me."
Her lips curved into a soft, knowing smile. "The kitchen is yours."
---
By midmorning, the small temple kitchen was bustling. Baker gathered the orphans around the stone counter — a dozen boys and girls ranging from toddlers to teens, their eyes bright with curiosity.
"All right," Baker said, rolling up his sleeves. "Who here knows how to make soup?"
A few hands shot up timidly.
He grinned. "Perfect. Then let's make something delicious together."
He showed them how to start with the basics — wildroot bulbs for sweetness, mistleaf for body, and a few pinches of herbal salt to lift the flavor. He explained how to layer ingredients: "Start with oil or fat first — helps carry the flavor. Then add your vegetables, let them sweat a little. You'll know it's ready when they smell like they're whispering to you."
The children giggled as he made exaggerated sniffing sounds, pretending to chase the aroma through the air.
They chopped, stirred, and tasted. A shy boy named Milo asked, "Mister Baker, what if we don't have carrots or herbs?"
"Then you use what you do have," Baker said, tapping his wooden spoon on the pot. "Cooking isn't about having everything — it's about making something good with what's in front of you."
He led them to the temple garden behind the orphanage, showing them how to identify safe herbs — sky thyme, bitterwort, and moon parsley — all common but useful.
"These three grow almost anywhere," he explained. "Sky thyme helps the taste, bitterwort helps your stomach, and moon parsley helps heal scrapes and sore throats."
The older orphans listened intently, memorizing his words as they gathered bunches carefully.
Back inside, Baker demonstrated how to prepare meat for stew. He'd bought a small cut of Zoar flank from the market. The children watched in fascination as he cut it into cubes, removing the sinew and showing how to sear it first for flavor.
"Don't rush it," he said. "A stew's like life — it gets better the longer you let it simmer."
He taught them to deglaze the pan with a splash of broth, how to scrape the bottom to gather the flavor, and how to add herbs in stages.
Before long, the aroma filled the temple halls again — rich and savory, tinged with sweetness and herbs. Even the nuns peeked in from the doorway, smiling as they watched the children working together, laughter echoing through the stone walls.
---
After lunch, Baker gathered the nuns around a small table. On it sat several jars, bundles of dried herbs, and a mortar and pestle.
"These," he explained, "are herbal spice mixes. Use them when you don't have fresh greens. You can make them ahead and store them for months."
He showed them how to grind frost-thyme with sun pepper flakes and a touch of salt. The result was a fragrant, slightly glowing powder. He handed them parchment sheets filled with handwritten recipes: Simple Broth for the Sick, Traveler's Stew, Herbal Bread Seasoning.
Sister Amara's hands trembled as she accepted the papers. "These are… wonderful."
"I also brought this," Baker said, placing a small leather pouch on the table. When she opened it, her eyes widened — ten gleaming gold coins lay within.
"M-my child… this is too much!" she gasped. "We can't accept such—"
"You can," Baker interrupted gently. "The gods gave me more than enough. Please… use it for the children."
The elderly nun covered her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. "Bless you… bless you, young master."
Two of the younger nuns began crying softly, their gratitude overflowing.
Baker flushed, scratching his cheek awkwardly. "Ah— no need for that. Just keep feeding them. That's all the thanks I need."
---
When he finally stepped outside, the sun was low in the sky. The orphans crowded by the temple gate, waving excitedly.
"Goodbye, Mister Baker!"
"Thank you for the soup!"
"I'll keep practicing!"
He waved back, smiling so wide it almost hurt. "Keep cooking, and remember — soup tastes best when you share it!"
As he walked down the cobbled road back toward the inn, the golden sunset wrapped Hearthmere in warmth. He could almost feel Lyra's gentle pride in his chest, Varun's quiet approval, and Cerys's whisper of satisfaction.
He had no grand title, no sword of legend. But he had changed a dozen lives that day — with little more than vegetables, warmth, and kindness.
And that, he thought, might just be enough.