The decision, once made, left no room for hesitation.
Arin rose from the table and made his way upstairs, the quiet of the tavern closing softly around him as he climbed. In his room, he unfastened the belt first — carefully, deliberately — and laid it beside the bed. The pistol followed.
For a moment, his hand rested on it.
Then he let go.
There would be time for that later.
He changed into something looser — simple, unrestrictive, the kind of clothing that allowed the body move without thought. Then he headed back down.
———
The kitchen was not quiet.
It was not calm.
It was alive — in the particular, combustible way that only happens when two people who are both always right find themselves sharing the same small space.
"You burned it again!"
"I did not burn it, you blind furball —"
"It's black, Kira. Black means burned. Even humans know that, meow."
"Maybe your eyes are broken."
"Say that again. Say it."
Arin stopped at the entrance.
…Right.
Kiri and Kira.
One loud. One sharp. Both entirely capable of turning a kitchen into a minor catastrophe, seemingly without effort or regret.
Kiri turned first — her ears catching him before her eyes did, twitching once as she registered his presence. Her expression shifted immediately, the argument dissolving into something far more interested.
"Oho~ what's this?" she said. "Our mysterious guest, wandering into the kitchen, meow?"
Kira glanced over from the counter, wiping her hands on a cloth. Her assessment was swift and uncharitable.
"You're lost."
Arin stepped in anyway.
"I asked for permission," he said, unhurried. "Miss Helgarth approved."
That gave them pause — brief, but genuine.
Kiri tilted her head, tail swaying in slow arcs behind her. "…You cook?"
"Yes."
Kira narrowed her eyes. "…We'll see."
Arin didn't argue. Instead, he reached into his pocket and set a silver coin on the counter, sliding it toward Kiri without ceremony.
"I need milk," he said. "As much as this covers."
Kiri's eyes lit up at once — the argument forgotten entirely, replaced by something far more enthusiastic.
"Oho~ now we're talking, meow." She snatched the coin with a grin and was already moving. "Don't ruin anything while I'm gone," she called back over her shoulder.
"Bring it back without drinking half of it," Kira called after her.
"No promises!"
The door swung shut behind her, and the kitchen went briefly, mercifully still.
———-
She returned with an earthen pot, a cloth tied firmly over its mouth, and the particular satisfaction of someone who has exceeded expectations and intends to be acknowledged for it.
"Fresh milk," she announced, setting it down with a small thud. "Didn't even spill it."
"Miracle," Kira murmured, not looking up.
Arin stepped forward. "Good."
He untied the cloth and poured the milk into a wide pot, settling it over the flame. Then he looked at them both — unhurried, certain.
"Watch closely."
Kira folded her arms. Kiri leaned in.
The milk began to heat. Slowly at first, then with gathering intention, a soft veil of steam rising from the surface like breath on a winter morning. Arin watched it without rushing it — the way someone watches something they have done many times, in another life, in another world, and have not forgotten.
"Now," he said quietly.
He took two lemons, sliced them cleanly, and squeezed the juice directly into the simmering milk.
For a moment — nothing.
Then the change began.
The milk seemed to flinch. To separate. White curds drew away from the pale liquid surrounding them, slowly at first, then with unmistakable purpose, the whole surface shifting and settling into something entirely new.
Kiri's ears shot upward. "Eh? It's breaking, meow!"
"It's supposed to," Arin said.
Kira had leaned in now — quietly, without comment, but she had leaned in.
"…Interesting," she said, almost to herself.
He lifted the pot from the flame and reached for a clean white cloth, pouring the contents through it in a long, steady stream. The pale liquid ran away and disappeared. What remained gathered in the cloth like something reluctant to be named — soft, white, dense with quiet potential.
He twisted the cloth slowly, pressing out the last of the water with patient, even pressure, then set it aside to rest.
Kiri stared at it.
"…You killed the milk."
Kira nodded once, slowly. "…And turned it into something else."
Arin allowed a faint smile. "Exactly."
After a short while, he unwrapped it.
The texture had settled into itself — firm at the surface, yielding just beneath. He drew a knife through it cleanly, forming small, careful cubes with the ease of long habit.
Without ceremony, he placed one in his own mouth first.
Then held two pieces out to each of them.
They stared. Suspicious. Curious. The particular expression shared by people who want to trust something but have not yet decided whether they will.
Then they tasted.
Silence stretched for the length of one full breath.
Kiri's eyes went wide. "It's soft— but not like curd! It doesn't fall apart!"
Kira chewed slowly and deliberately, the way she seemed to do most things. "…Clean taste," she said. Another bite. A pause. "…I like it…meow."
Arin nodded once. "This is paneer."
Kiri tilted her head to one side. "Pa-neer?"
"A type of cheese," he said. Then, after a brief pause — quieter now, carrying something that sat just beneath the surface of the words: "From my… homeland."
Outside, a chair shifted.
Footsteps, measured and unhurried.
Helgarth appeared at the kitchen entrance, arms folded loosely across her chest. Her gaze moved between the three of them, taking in the scene with the calm attention of someone who has long since learned that the most interesting things happen when she is not looking.
"I heard noise," she said. "And excitement."
Arin set a few cubes onto a small plate and offered it to her without a word.
She accepted it without comment. Took a bite. Paused.
Her expression held — steady, unreadable — and then, slowly, shifted.
"…This texture," she said, the words arriving with some deliberateness, as though she were still deciding what to make of what she was tasting. "It's… different."
Her eyes sharpened slightly. "How do you intend to cook with it?"
"Give me a moment," Arin said.
He moved with the quiet efficiency of someone following a memory rather than a recipe.
Capsicum and onion, sliced cleanly. A paste of spices assembled without hesitation — chilli, turmeric, salt, a suggestion of ginger — bound together with a touch of oil. The aroma shifted the moment it all came together: sharper, warmer, carrying the particular aliveness that spices release when they are treated with intention.
He coated each cube of paneer in the marinade, turning them carefully until every surface was covered, then threaded them onto skewers in alternating sequence with the capsicum and onion — unhurried, precise, as though the order mattered and he knew exactly why.
Kiri leaned closer. "It smells so good, meow…"
Kira said nothing. But she didn't look away.
Arin laid the skewers over the heat and left them to it — not hovering, not rushing. Turning them at the right moments, letting the edges catch and char just enough, the spices deepening with each pass until the scent had filled the kitchen entirely, rich and warm and entirely unlike anything this room had ever held before.
When he lifted them from the heat, they were ready.
He set four plates down without announcement.
They gathered — no ceremony, no delay — and ate.
The pause that might have come never did.
"MEOW — this is incredible!"
"…This is genuinely good."
Kiri was already halfway through hers, ears flattened with the specific focus of someone who has decided nothing else matters for the next several minutes.
Kira ate more slowly, more quietly — but she did not stop.
Helgarth took one bite, then another. Her expression changed — not dramatically, but clearly, the way the light changes when a cloud finally moves and you realize you had forgotten what the sun looked like.
She set the skewer down.
"…This works," she said.
A brief pause. Then, simply and without deliberation: "Add this to the menu."
Kiri froze mid-bite. "…Wait, really?"
"Yes." Helgarth's gaze shifted toward Arin, thoughtful now, measured. "We'll serve it today. Let's see how the adventurers respond."
She paused briefly, then added,
"Since it's your creation… what would you like to call it?"
Arin leaned back slightly, a faint smile forming—not loud, not proud, but familiar in a quieter way.
"Paneer Kebab," he said.
The name settled easily on his tongue.
A quiet, settled smile rested on his face — the kind that doesn't announce itself, but has been earned.
Something simple. Something that had once belonged to another world, another life, another version of himself.
And yet here, in this place, among these people —
It was entirely, unmistakably new.