They blossomed in the sky, dotting it with colorful petals like a blue meadow crossed by the warm summer winds. Astra watched them, her eyes absorbed in those flashes, fleeting moments that became indelible memories with every dull sound that echoed through that luminous night.
She loved enjoying that view while she swayed, legs dangling from the open metro that snaked through the city like a lazy, sated serpent, its belly too full of passengers to go any faster, eager to finish its round and sleep under some rock. This moment of serenity and euphoria, with the crowds filling the streets for the town festival, would have been even more enjoyable if Astra wasn’t carrying within her the terrible awareness that weighed down her stomach with an unpleasant void.
She was late. Damnably late. Every moment of that slow journey only made the situation worse. In just a few minutes, she would be disastrously late. The Chef would make her clean every dish from here to Piazza dei PesciSauro. Another night cleaning up the place after closing. She’d never manage to carve out time to enjoy the festival—that much was certain.
The jingling of “Su-su,” her jump-and-burn portable (a flared Lemurian iron pan), jolted her from her brooding just in time to notice they were approaching her stop. The grand square buzzed with the excitement of children running in colorful groups from one stall to another, screaming and laughing as much as they could. The street kitchens sizzled and heated up, clouds of colored steam rising into the sky, wrapping around the floating lanterns that wandered aimlessly over the tents or lazily tried to free themselves from the grasp of some festoon they had become entangled in. In the main street, mobile cauldrons strolled by, bubbling cheerfully and offering cups of hot soup to cool the heat or freezing Ranosoffio stew, a famous recipe from the southern seas. With every ladleful served, they grew slower and sadder until, empty and tired; they returned to their kitchens to fill their bellies and hop cheerfully through the streets once more. A dream of colors and flavors.
But that wasn’t where Astra was headed. She took one last look at the lights of the grand square and then ran down the dark alley. The road led to the heart of the adjacent district, and as she ventured deeper, the people became more and more sparse, adding a sense of emptiness that the various dark signs and closed shutters certainly did nothing to improve. It wasn’t that it was an ugly neighborhood—far from it—but everyone knows that when things start to slip away little by little, quietly and without much noise, you find yourself on the ground without even knowing why. Or rather, the why was known, but it seemed too difficult and tiresome to face.
That’s why, peace to the soul and inevitable destiny, the lovely streets of the “Scaldatella” district were emptying more and more every year. Except for one young woman who was running through its streets as fast as she could with a pan on her shoulder. After one last turn, she finally arrived on the main street and there, on her right, squeezed between two old houses with red walls, the small neon sign of “Tasso Blu – Baretto Pensioncina Bibi” sparkled. The moment had come. She knew this was going to end very badly. She took a deep breath and, placing her hand on the double black wooden door, read for the thousandth time the plaque that said, “Karva also welcome.”
According to Monsieur Bibi, the Karva were a kind of winged men from the eastern lands, famous for their dream-reading arts. Being rare and noble but not always accepted, it was important to make clear that the inn would be a welcoming and open place for them. Astra had never seen one.
An unusual scene greeted the girl as she entered. No shouts of reprimand and the dining hall was half-empty, without the usual complaints from hungry guests waiting for their meals. Monsieur Bibi was engrossed in conversation with a stranger at the wooden counter of the small bar/cash register/reception/any other financial and non-financial function, all located on the first floor of the inn.
The figure wasn’t particularly tall and wore a felt hat and a poncho worn by time, under which a kitchen apron with various straps could be seen, holding, to Astra's surprise, worn kitchen tools. A Chef of the Waves.
Bibi momentarily diverted his attention from the guest and turned toward the latecomer, a joyful expression on his face.
“Ah, Astra, there you are!” he exclaimed, smoothing the long, well-groomed white mustache that decorated his massive face, tinged with dark red hues. Strangely, he didn’t say a word about her lateness; in fact, he sounded more affable than usual. It must have been her lucky day.
“Fly to the kitchen right away; the service starts soon, and we wouldn’t want to starve our guests.”
Bibi was an imposing figure but not frightening. Broad-shouldered and ruddy, he seemed the perfect synthesis between a wall and a soft sofa. A “Wallfa,” as his wife playfully called him. The slightly pointed ears covered in rings and the small tusks protruding from his mouth, the only elements besides his skin color that betrayed a magical ancestry, were the legacy of his Jin ancestors (on his mother’s side, as he liked to emphasize).
“Absolutely not, sir,” she said as she quickly crossed the room, heading towards the small door leading to the kitchens behind the counter, casting a glance at the stranger. At first glance, he seemed to belong to the Home race, Humans from the lands of the eternal sea. Again, no feathers. Beneath the hat, he had a bronzed face kissed by the sun but not weathered, with an unkempt and patchy beard, a furrowed brow (the classic look of mysterious wanderers), and he was holding in his mouth what appeared to be a cigar (she’d soon remind him of the no-smoking and fire rules indoors).
He would have been the classic cliché of the silent, brooding wandering chef if not for one detail: his eyes. Astra would have expected piercing blue eyes, cruel yet beautiful, or perhaps dual-colored and seductive as her vast knowledge from books, role-playing games, audio novels, and televised dramas suggested, but instead… they were dark, brown with hints of gold. They were kind, smiling. This wasn’t in the player’s handbook.
“This gentleman will be our guest for a few days. Mr.?”
“I haven’t said,” replied the man kindly, with a faint smile to his interlocutor.
Well, at least the taciturn stereotype remains, she thought with some relief; it’s always helpful to have some familiar ground to stand on.
Bibi, a seasoned man in his profession, didn’t press the matter, adjusting his bowtie nonchalantly and smiling in return.
“Of course, of course, well, if you’d like to settle into your room while we prepare dinner, I’ll accompany you.”
“Actually…” said the man, glancing at the door to the back. “I’d like to go to the kitchen if that’s possible,” he directed a requesting look at Astra, who had remained by Monsieur Bibi’s side, awaiting the verdict.
A living cliché, she just hoped this wasn’t one of those stories where she’d end up caught in the middle of a duel.
University of Pollenzo
The world's first university entirely
dedicated to food sciences
The Chef's kingdom was a jungle of pots and pans that roared amidst the mist of smoke and flames. A lover of constant experimentation, he would try and try again, endlessly changing ingredients, temperature, and process.
This, of course, resulted in a mountain of dishes and utensils to be washed, which Astra had to promptly clean up after cutting vegetables, serving tables, pouring wine, and so on. The inn had no more than five regular guests (one of whom only ate liquids), but every service felt like they had served a hundred. Despite his exhausting and objectively unpleasant obsession, he was a decent creature. As a giant salamander, he had a natural affinity for fire and hot water, and he knew exactly when something was perfectly cooked or not. He had taught Astra a lot about steaming, boiling broths, and more.
When she entered through the small door with the stranger, the Chef was already on his twentieth attempt, and two large stacks of pots teetered dangerously above them.
“Good evening, Chef, forgive me for being late; I’m ready for service,” she said as she set aside her jump-and-burn pan and tied on her work apron. Behind her, the stranger silently observed the scene.
“Astra, about time.” A large, black-scaled head with yellow spots emerged between the shelves, topped with a white toque adorned with the Royal Academy’s pin.
“We’re behind on all the preparations, and I still haven’t figured out the right amount of salt for the water—I have to start over!” he exclaimed nervously, moving with a slow, turtle-like grace to place yet another dirty dish on the pile.
The salamander spotted the stranger behind the girl, eyed him for a moment in silence, and then, without missing a beat, returned to the stove.
“We’re not hiring, and I don’t accept help from anyone who isn’t at least a graduate of the academy. No drifters.” His voice was calm and hissing, with a slight hint of irritation as he grabbed a ladle with his long tail.
“Actually, he’s a guest. He’ll be staying with us for a few days and asked to see the kitchen,” Astra explained hesitantly as she got to work.
“Well, now that he’s seen it, he can let us work. If he’s interested in cooking, there’s always a place for drifters or troublemakers down the road.”
The stranger moved deeper into the kitchen jungle without knocking over a single pile and hung his hat and poncho on the coat rack on the wall, revealing the apron Astra had glimpsed earlier, worn and glittering with all sorts of kitchen tools—even a beautiful jump-and-burn pan on his back, made of black metal as dark as ebony. Predictable.
“It wasn’t my intention to hinder or offend you. Please allow me to help you finish this service. I am at your complete disposal, Master Chef.”
At the sound of those last words, Chef’s yellow throat swelled slightly. Master. So, he could speak… and quite well, too.
“Give Astra a hand and prep the vegetables, but know this: at the slightest distraction or mistake, you’re out. Get to work!”
From where Astra was standing, she could see Chef’s tail wagging joyfully. He was gloating. They all got to work immediately. Astra quickly tidied up the mess and stayed right behind Chef, assisting him at every turn. The stranger, meanwhile, calmly and precisely carried out every task assigned to him. He was damn fast—at this rate, they might actually make it.
As he was peeling the last of the carrots, the stranger spoke.
“Master, if I may, what did you mean when you said if I was interested in cooking, I should go down the road?” Chef, too focused on measuring the exact amount needed to finish his masterpiece, brushed off the question quickly.
“Don’t you know? The neighborhood’s been at the center of a restaurant feud for years now. Dangerous stuff. Recipes… there’s even been a death. Astra! Move the pot off the fire immediately!” He placed the final spicy tulip petal on the plate he was holding with his tail.
“Barbarians. That’s not cooking anymore—that’s a real war. Now, get back to chopping those onion-pigs, we’re almost done.”
Astra had listened to the conversation in silence. Now, that was a grim tale.
A long time ago, in the center of the main street, not far from the Bibi Inn, stood one of the most esteemed trattorias in the city of Toma: Osteria Du Risate da Nacar. It was a family-run place, like many others, but with the energy and joy of its hostess, Signora Nacar, it brought happiness and comfort to the souls of all who visited. The place had become the beating heart of the neighborhood, drawing tourists from all over the world and gradually turning Scottatella into one of the jewels of the capital. Even after the beloved founder mysteriously disappeared, the trattoria continued under the leadership of her two sons, Luccio the Lucky and Piotor the Tireless, and the future seemed bright for the Bonara family.
The two brothers had literally grown up on the kitchen counters and were determined to carry on their mother’s legacy—and for a long time, that’s how it was. Things began to change a few years ago when Luccio decided to strike out on his own. The split was inexplicable and sudden. No one knew what had happened between the two brothers, but their gaze changed from that moment on; where once they were friendly and smiling, they became cold and hard. The same could be said of their two establishments, which became locked in fierce competition, battling with every last dish.
At first, it brought even more people to the neighborhood, eager to experience the cuisine of the two brothers. The food papers had even built up a story of rivalry and competition, painting them as boxers in the ring, each the champion of their own faction. This created a following among the people, which eventually spiraled into fan clubs—sometimes even violent ones. Riding the wave of attention, an annual “gastro-battle” show was organized, pitting the two against each other in the city’s central square during the town festival. Their signature dish was the most controversial: the legendary Pasta alla Nara Carbon, a creation of their mother’s, jealously guarded, imitated but never equaled. The two offered different interpretations of it, and this soon became the focal point of a dispute that spread from the neighborhood to the city and eventually to the whole nation (Astra had heard it had even reached other parts of the world).
A storm was brewing in the neighborhood, and soon, it would strike with all its force. It happened the week before the annual duel. A fire broke out at the historic Osteria di Nacar. Little to nothing was saved from the establishment, though fortunately, no one was injured. But this marked the end of it all. The origin of the fire seemed to be the result of vandalism by some drunken hooligan roaming the neighborhood at the time, but the two brothers accused each other of causing the incident. A scuffle broke out in front of the ruins of the osteria, accomplishing what the fire had failed to do—a young man was killed in the brawl.
The surge of bitterness and blame reached its peak, spilling over everywhere and poisoning everything it touched. Piotor opened a small restaurant across from his brother’s, which quickly became a hangout for hotheads and adventurous foodies. The brothers had gone from being rivals to mortal enemies, and it seemed their sole purpose was to completely ruin the other’s business. Soon, there were mutual accusations of poisoning, attacks on staff, contamination of food supplies and drinks, and brawls.
Little by little, the laughter that had once filled the area faded entirely. People began to avoid the main street, and those residents who could afford it moved away or sold their homes before property values completely collapsed. Gradually, Scottatella became a desolate, dusty wasteland inhabited by wild beasts, lost souls, and the few who clung to their existence in the inevitable misery. Many blamed that fire for it all. But Astra knew it was just the result of a flame that had ignited in their hearts long before.
Dinner that evening was miraculously served on time, despite Chef's attempts to make one last change. They ate calmly in the kitchen once everything was finished, joined by Monsieur Bibi. The stranger seemed to have quieted his curiosity and finished his meal in silence before excusing himself and heading to his room upstairs. Astra, in the end, didn’t have much to clean; an extra pair of hands really made a difference. The business wasn’t going well at the inn, and it was already a miracle that Chef Mander had managed to get Astra as an assistant.
As she left to catch the last metro home, she thought about passing by the remains of the old osteria—a blackened, withered heap. Since that day, no one has bothered to fix it up or tear it down completely. As she stood there, she could still see the flames of that night. She had been there. Her family was one of many that lived in the neighborhood, and Astra had spent her childhood roaming its streets, sometimes dining with her parents at the osteria where an old woman, laughing, would always give her an extra ladleful of soup or offer her a second helping of spaghetti. Maybe that’s where her passion had started. Du Risate, in her mind, had become the place her own cooking should aspire to a place of joyful conviviality. A place where different people could come together for the same meal.
Eventually, her family moved to another part of the city, but Astra regularly came back to visit that place, to the ruins of her childhood memories. It was on one of those days that she ran into Monsieur Bibi, exasperated by Chef's absurd demands. After a brief chat in front of those ruins, she ended up at the inn and, shortly after that, helping in the kitchen for her first service. She was fresh out of the academy and needed to complete her training with an apprenticeship—what better place than the neighborhood that had given birth to her dreams? Sure, reality had turned out to be more challenging than she had imagined, but deep inside, she hadn’t lost hope that one day the place would flourish again.
With that thought, she turned and headed toward the metro stop. Just in time, though, she caught a glimpse of a familiar figure in a hat and poncho walking toward the end of the main street.
“Where could he be going?” she wondered, curious. She immediately dismissed the thought of finding out—she’d had enough for one day and just wanted to go home and take a shower. She only hoped she wouldn’t hear bad news on the morning radio, something like Another victim in Scottatella, a tourist caught in a gang war. The reality there was already tougher than she had imagined.
The next day, and in the days that followed, Astra was relieved not to hear anything like what she had feared. Yes, there was talk of a stranger, but not in the way Astra had imagined. Word spread that a mysterious man had shown up at Luci’s restaurant and, in a single night, had defeated all his warrior chefs, becoming the new head chef of the establishment. Naturally, this caused quite a stir. It wasn’t long before Piotor made his move, and in no time, an astonishing piece of news reached everyone’s ears: an official challenge—a duel in the grand square. Perhaps Piotor thought he could seize the opportunity, believing Luci to be in a bind with only one man, even if he was a formidable one? No one could come up with a reasonable explanation for such a sudden decision. The only certainty was that the atmosphere of those years past had returned, and with it, the fear that another tragedy would follow the tension. It would be the final blow to a neighborhood already on its last legs.
In no time, the space for the duel was prepared. As per the customs and traditions of culinary arts, the battle would be fought between two teams, ranging from one to ten people. Both sides would compete in preparing a dish, and its success would determine the winner. The duelists would sign a contract outlining the stakes and the consequences in case of any violations. And everyone knew it was never a good idea to break a contract sealed by the notaries of the culinary guild, written with ink from the Malaseppia—a sea creature used in spells and curses. Bad things would happen—nasty things.
The duel was set to take place on the last day of the city festival, precisely at noon. To add a twist of difficulty, the food prepared wouldn’t just be tasted by the jury but by all the spectators who wanted a plate. In this way, victory would be decided by the people’s vote, finally determining who was the best. Needless to say, the chosen dish was Pasta alla Nara Carbon.
In the days leading up to the event, many curious people began to visit the neighborhood and stop by the inn, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious stranger who had set all of this in motion. They were always disappointed, as the man either stayed locked in his room or was busy with his own affairs. “He must be preparing for the duel,” Astra thought. Despite Monsieur Bibi’s joy at the influx of new customers and the burst of life that had filled the neighborhood, Astra felt something was off. Her mind became distracted and distant, which got her into trouble in the kitchen a few times—and earned her a couple of tail-whips to the head from Chef.
It was due to this distraction that, on the afternoon before the fateful duel, she was sent on an errand to the market.
“Nooo, my precious Pori Pori seaweed! Astra, where’s your head? You’ve let it burn! Get to the market right now and buy some bundles from the vendor in the square!” Chef’s desperate screams still echoed in her mind as she trudged back to the inn, loaded down like a mule.
“That damned stranger… this is his doing… indirectly, of course,” she thought. She couldn’t help but picture his gentle yet mocking smile, his focused gaze, the battle apron. The battle apron looked an awful lot like the one she saw on a man at the end of the alley, talking to some thugs she recognized as Piotor’s men. “It must be a trend to wear it under a worn poncho… a worn poncho… wait, that’s his worn poncho… and that hat. It’s definitely him!” There was no doubt. But what was he doing with what seemed to be his rivals for tomorrow’s duel?
Astra knew something was wrong. She needed to get back to the inn immediately and maybe talk to Monsieur Bibi. The only problem was that the alley was narrow, and there was no way they wouldn’t see her if she tried to pass by. She had to turn around and leave quickly. But just as she turned, she heard a voice,
“Hey, girl.”
She knew she had to stay calm. She should have turned around, pretending nothing was wrong, saying, “Oh, fancy seeing you here, I was just heading to the inn,” or something like that. That would have been the smart thing to do, and she knew it. But making smart decisions had never been her strong suit. So, she started running.
It was a bold move, a daring escape worthy of the heroes in the novels she read. A breathless flight that would end on the rooftops of the neighborhood, with wall-walking and death-defying jumps. It was... for a moment. Then it became, undoubtedly, the shortest action scene in history because running at full speed, loaded with groceries, down a narrow and uneven street could only logically result in her tiring quickly, tripping, and falling flat on the ground. Not that she had expected some epic performance.
The stranger’s figure appeared shortly after, standing in front of her. He looked down at her with his usual smile and offered his hand, which she promptly refused. She knew better than to trust him—she had seen everything. Or rather, she hadn’t seen exactly anything, but from her books, she knew that in situations like this, “they” made you disappear, and that was that.
“Know that I can neither confirm nor deny what you’re thinking. You’re free to believe whatever you want.”
Great start.
“The only thing you’re right about is that now, you’re involved.”
I knew it! Shady dealings!
“At first, I wanted to avoid all this, but given the situation, I thought I might as well take care of it once I got back to the inn—and do the same with Bibi and Chef.”
Oh no, because of her, Monsieur Bibi and Chef were going to disappear too. She was about to burst into tears. The stranger paused for a long moment.
“Miss Astra… would you care to help me in the kitchen?” he said, taking off his hat and giving a slight bow.
This was unexpected. Astra slowly stood up, a little dazed by the strange request. Something inside her told her not to trust him that none of this made sense. But making the right choices had never been her strong suit. This was definitely one of those stories where she’d end up caught in the middle of a duel.
The square was in an uproar under the midday sky, and the challengers were at their respective stations, which were composed of gravitational stone tables with undine sinks for prep work and portable salamander stoves for cooking. The Carbon brothers were both broad-shouldered, sturdy men. Piotor, the eldest, had a shaved head, a sparse and graying beard on a rough but still handsome face, and a prominent belly rounding out from under his apron. Luci, on the other hand, was slimmer than his brother, with thick black hair that was neatly cut. Both were waiting for something—or someone.
The event’s host, a wiry fellow with blonde hair and an elegant but worn suit, approached the brothers, asking if they were ready to begin. They rudely replied that they were still waiting for their respective champions, who, strangely enough, were nowhere to be found.
“What’s wrong, Luci? Your amazing chef not showing up?”
“And what about yours? I wouldn’t be surprised if he bailed on you, considering it’s obvious you’ll lose, fat Piotor.”
The brothers continued exchanging insults while, in the crowd, their supporters shot each other glares as sharp as knives. The host and the judges were growing genuinely concerned that the duel might turn into a brawl.
“Gentlemen, please, I’d kindly ask you to lower your voices. Let’s maintain the decorum of the duel. I’m sure we’ll be able to start shortly,” the host said, addressing the crowd. At that moment, Piotor’s voice rang out with excitement.
“There he is, finally!”
The stranger strode across the square, wearing his battle apron covered in tools and his black jump-and-burn pan on his back.
Luci immediately snapped at his brother,
“What are you talking about? That’s my guy!”
Piotor grinned wickedly.
“Seems like you didn’t get it. He’s working for me.”
Luci smirked in return,
“That’s what you think. I told him to go to you to make you think he was on your side, but he’s really on mine.”
Piotor retorted,
“No, I sent him to you to make you think he was on your side, but he’s with me.”
As the brothers tangled themselves up in words, the host’s brain was as twisted as a plate of overcooked spaghetti, watching the man approach the stage. What the brothers hadn’t noticed was that he wasn’t alone—he was accompanied by an odd crew: a young girl (or maybe a dwarf, it was hard to tell, but definitely not tall), a strikingly handsome man with dark red skin, and a giant salamander proudly dressed in the chef’s uniform of the academy. The three followed the man, pulling a levitating cart loaded with various equipment, including an enormous cauldron. The situation was quickly spiraling out of control.
“Excuse me, sir, but whose champion are you?” asked the now thoroughly confused host.
“Both… and neither,” the man smiled.
At these words, the brothers jumped up, shouting in unison,
“Don’t joke around, stranger! You made a deal with me!”
“In fact, I made a deal with both of you. But the advantage of keeping one’s name to oneself allows for certain loopholes, even in the tightest contracts… if you know how of course. Don’t worry, I’ll compete if that’s your concern. But I’ll do it for both of you at the same time. It’ll be like cooking for all three of us together, and since I can’t technically beat myself cooking the same dish, it’ll be you who makes the difference.”
Everyone fell silent, their minds more scrambled than before, including the crowd, which was utterly confused about what was happening.
“I refuse to cook with that guy, directly or indirectly—I don’t care, I won’t do it!” shouted Luci, visibly angry.
“Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t break a binding contract you signed. You know the bad things that can happen.”
“I don’t care about the contract. I’m out,” Luci snapped.
But as soon as he said that, a precious jar of pickles from the Qing dynasty at a nearby stall slipped out of the vendor’s hands, crashing onto the head of a man, who stunned, fell into one of the mobile cauldrons. Panicked by the squirming person inside, the cauldron lost its balance and began rolling down the slight slope toward the square. It hit a wooden ramp left by workers repairing a nearby building, launching into the air and landing right on stage, nearly toppling over if not for the stranger’s quick intervention, moving the man out of the way.
The cauldron smashed part of the wooden planks but stood back up, a little dented but unharmed. Fortunately, its passenger was intact, though the soup had probably cushioned his fall. The vase, however, was broken. Bad things. Luci silently returned to his station.
“Well, then, let’s begin.”
The stranger was lightning-fast. By the time the brothers had started, he was already prepping their ingredients, salting the water, and choosing the right pasta. Speed was crucial in a duel—it earned points with the hungry judges waiting for the service. Of course, presentation and portion size mattered too, but the timing was everything in a dish as simple as Pasta alla Nara Carbon. His hypnotic speed prevented the brothers and the crowd from noticing what was really happening. No one saw that his strange assistants were working on something at a small portable kitchen they’d brought along. No one realized that the man, moving between both brothers’ stations, was swapping their preparations, blending them into a single recipe, seamlessly filling in the gaps in each brother’s work.
The sizzling of the guanciale di Elepighant hybrid in the oil-free pan, the eggs mixed with ramigiano—by the time the brothers realized what was happening, it was too late.
“What are you doing? That’s not my recipe, stop!” yelled Piotor.
“You madman, you’re ruining everything!” exclaimed Luci.
Too late. The man pulled out his black jump-and-burn pan, raised it to the sky, and shouted,
“Make room!”
He threw it onto the fire his assistants had prepared. The moment it landed, the pan grew enormous. With a movement worthy of the best martial artists of culinary combat, the man lifted the pots of pasta into the air, draining them into a single colander pulled from his apron. Monsieur Bibi and Chef swiftly grabbed it and poured the contents into the giant pan. In one quick motion, the man grabbed the brothers’ preparations, reached the giant pan, and, glancing at Astra, said,
“Now, girl!”
At his signal, she began stirring the pasta as the man poured the mixture rhythmically while the others laid out plates on trays. The crowd was stunned—it looked like they were all dancing together to the rhythm of the kitchen.
“Ready!” shouted the man.
The girl immediately turned off the heat, and within seconds, a series of dishes containing what looked like a delicious and inviting meal were placed in front of the judges.
Time seemed to start moving again. The brothers barely had time to protest before the man appeared beside them, holding two plates and handing one to each. They glared at him, ready to pounce. But the aroma of the pasta stopped them. There was something familiar in that smell.
“Before you do anything, wouldn’t it be better on a full stomach?” the man said with a smile.
They took the plates and, as if enchanted, tasted the dish. And they cried. Their strong, smiling mother was there with them. She was in all those happy memories of meals shared together, laughing. She was there in her final moment, entrusting them with the recipe. The recipe lost in the fire, the one neither of them could recreate. The one neither wanted to remember. She was there, in front of them—grown, consumed. She was there, holding their hands. She was there, eating with them. They cried all the tears of years of resentment, and finally, with eyes cleared of darkness, they looked at each other and truly saw each other for the first time in so long. And they laughed.
That day, it wasn’t just the Carbon brothers who cried. After serving the judges, Astra and the others began handing out plates of pasta to the whole square, and everyone—without exception—after an initial wave of emotion, burst into joyful laughter, letting go of their rivalries and grudges. What had once been a crowd ready to tear each other apart had become a joyful banquet among friends. It was an incredible celebration and one of the happiest days Astra could remember.
The rest is history. The duel was declared a draw, and Piotor and Luci closed their restaurants and opened a new one on the ashes of the old inn, calling it Du Risate in Compagnia. Astra worked there for a time, years later. Slowly, the neighborhood was reborn, and the laughter that had once faded returned to echo along the main street. There was still much to do, of course—old wounds and decay don’t disappear magically—but it was a good start, Astra thought, as she watched the fireworks dance in the sky, sitting on the tram that swayed gently through the streets of Toma. On her back, a black jump-and-burn pan was illuminated by those colorful flashes. Just as expected, the stranger vanished into the crowd soon after performing his miracle, and no one saw him again. Even his belongings at the inn had disappeared.
A few days later, Astra received a package from the Salt Sea region containing that very item. There was no note or explanation, only an inscription on the handle in the language of the Wind Dervishes, which translated to “Through adversity to the stars.” When she read it for the first time, she smiled and whispered,
“Predictable.”
Yes, she was certain. She would create that place of conviviality and joy she had dreamed of, one dish at a time, under those fiery flowers blossoming in the sky.
