The forest clearing was quiet, but not empty.
Wind rustled the treetops overhead, stirring scent trails from pine sap and old, sun-warmed bark.
Marron set her pack down beside the flattest stone she could find and began arranging ingredients.
The snakekin crouched beside her, close but cautious. Her fingers twitched with nervous energy, glancing more than touching.
"Do you know how to knead flour?" Marron asked.
The girl shook her head.
"That's okay. Here." Marron poured a small heap of the soft, ground flour onto the stone and added a little water from the skein. "We'll start small."
The snakekin hesitated, then mirrored her, slowly mixing with her hands. Her movements were quick.
Even a little panicked?
She was trying to replicate the motions rather than understand them.
"Gentle," Marron murmured. "Let the flour take the water first. Don't force it."
She reached over, laid her hand briefly atop the girl's, and together they slowed. The dough began to take form beneath their joined palms, tacky but willing.
"Like this?"
"Exactly."
Something faintly shimmered in the air. It was as bright as the sun catching dust motes, but it startled the snakekin enough to pull her hands back.
"W-what was that?"
Marron smiled. "That's the aura. It shows up sometimes when the food listens."
"…Listens?"
"Cooking is memory. Emotion. It doesn't just absorb ingredients—it absorbs us."
The snakekin blinked, wide-eyed. "You mean that light wasn't you?"
"No," Marron said softly. "That was you. You want this."
For a moment, neither spoke. Then, as if newly reverent, the girl returned her hands to the dough and resumed kneading, this time with care.
They worked slowly and carefully. Marron showed how to bind the flour with egg and oil, forming a pliant dough that could be shaped or fried depending on the pan's heat.
The meat came next—slivers of cockatrice browned gently over low flame, sprinkled with plum salt and a little syrup she coaxed from her leaf pouch.
"It smells warm," the snakekin murmured, nose twitching. "Like something safe."
"That's a good sign," Marron replied.
The wind shifted again. This time, something changed in the air—like the pressure before a summer rain, or the hush before laughter.
A faint glimmer rose from the pan. Pale pink at first, then a silvery sheen that shimmered over the edges of the meat and into the rice. It didn't glow—it remembered.
And Marron understood: the dish was starting to hold not just flavor, but instruction. It was imprinting with purpose, not just feeling.
The snakekin reached forward and shaped the first onigiri herself. Her hands were hesitant but clean, her touch guided by instinct as much as Marron's quiet words.
When she placed the finished rice ball onto the leaf, something extraordinary happened.
The aura around it shifted—not the usual pink or lavender of Marron's work, but a color somewhere between jade and dusk. Muted. Patient. With no urgency to be eaten.
It felt… hopeful.
"Why is it different?" the snakekin asked.
Marron knelt beside her. "Because you made it. And because you didn't make it for hunger."
The snakekin looked down at her creation with wonder.
"I made it to share."
They ate the first one together, seated on moss-warmed stone, with the fire's crackle low and slow.
The jackalkin boy reappeared some time later, empty pouch in hand and wide-eyed.
"She really did it," he breathed.
"She did," Marron confirmed.
He grinned and slipped a small handful of orchard seeds into her hand. "For you. For your teaching. She says they're better when grown from trust."
Marron tucked the seeds into her pouch, heart full in a way no reward had managed before.
She hadn't fed the snakekin to quiet her.
She had taught her to make meaning.
And the food, in turn, had listened.
+
The sun had slipped behind the pine ridge by the time Marron made it back to Whisperwind's inn, her pack lighter, her hands still faintly scented with plum salt and smoked meat.
She stepped into the cool wooden hallway and exhaled—slow, full, content.
Ding!
[New Skill Acquired: Field Cook - Instructor (Lv. 1)]
You may now teach others to prepare dishes you have personally created, allowing emotional resonance to carry through shared preparation.
Limitation:Recipes must be made at least once by hand.Tier:LocalPotential:Cross-cultural culinary imprinting pathway detected between Human and Beastkin.
Do you wish to pursue this long-term goal?
[Confirm later][One step at a time]
Marron tapped the second option without hesitation.
"One thing at a time," she whispered, smiling to herself. "Let me just enjoy this first."
The inn's soft lantern light spilled into the hallway as she entered their shared room. Mokko sat on a cushion with a partially eaten root flatbread in one hand, Lucy snuggled beside him in her orb, contentedly projecting a sleepy warm-yellow pulse across the woodgrain floor.
The moment Marron stepped in, Lucy blinked into alertness, her orb bobbing.
Mokko glanced up and frowned—not with suspicion, but with something closer to observation. "You smell like river ash, plum salt, and... that same calm the trees have before it rains."
Marron laughed, untying her sash and stretching her arms above her head. "That's a new one."
"You're different," Mokko said bluntly. "Not in a bad way. Just… settled."
"Had a good walk," she replied easily. "One of the wolfkin walked with me for a bit. Kept me company while I got to know the forest trail better."
Lucy tilted slightly, glowing an amused mauve.
"I'm fine," Marron said again, softer. "I just… taught someone how to cook something. That's all."
Mokko blinked. "And you came back more relaxed than you were after that bath yesterday?"
"Strange, right?"
He shook his head. "No. Makes sense."
Marron smiled to herself as she sat by the window, listening to the wolf clan's dinner songs carry gently through the dusk air. She pulled her pouch close and ran her fingers over the orchard seeds gifted to her.
They were smooth and cool, full of potential.
She closed her eyes.
One step at a time.
+
Elsewhere…
+
Beneath a woven canopy of leaf and vine, the Snakekin Cove glowed softly with bioluminescent moss and firefruit lanterns. Crickets sang from the water's edge. Frogs hummed from the deeper marsh.
In a small clearing where farmland and freshwater met, a girl with pale-green scales crouched over a fire basin. Her expression was focused, but radiant.
Around her, a small group of other snakekin—youths and a few wary elders—watched in fascination as she prepared something new.
She explained each step in hushed tones. Showing how the flour could stretch when kneaded gently. How oil coated the meat so that fire wouldn't burn it too fast. How plum-salt was more than flavor—it was memory, sealed into crystals.
She wrapped the finished rice triangle with practiced hands and offered it to her younger brother, who took a bite.
He blinked.
"…This doesn't taste like stolen food," he whispered.
"No," she said, quiet but proud. "Because it isn't."
She looked toward the forest trail beyond the clearing—where the pine met the mist—and thought of the human who had shown her how to listen to what she cooked.
The forest was still watching, but now it also learned to listen.