The restaurant district lay several streets east of Maison Reverie, beyond a broad avenue where flowering trees divided the carriage lanes and musicians performed beneath painted awnings. Amor guided Valdor through the midday crowd with one hand resting comfortably upon the warrior’s arm, no longer pausing to consider whether the gesture attracted attention. Valdor’s new clothing continued drawing stares, but those looks now carried open admiration alongside curiosity, and the warrior no longer seemed inclined to measure himself against every polished nobleman they passed.
Master Edric’s work changed how the city perceived him without diminishing the presence that made people step aside. The dark, layered fabric moved around Valdor’s legs with every measured stride, while the openings across his chest and arms displayed his markings as deliberate symbols rather than unfamiliar decoration. Fur framed one shoulder, bone and mountain glass remained braided through his hair, and the medical pouch resting against his sash reminded Amor that refinement had not stripped away practicality. He looked like a foreign prince who had entered the capital by choice rather than a barbarian reluctantly dressed for acceptance.
Amor found himself admiring the result often enough that he nearly missed a turn.
"This way!"
He said, correcting their direction before Valdor noticed.
"You looked at me instead of the road."
"I was verifying that Master Edric’s seams remained intact."
Valdor glanced down at the fitted trousers.
"With your eyes on my chest?"
Amor’s steps faltered for half a heartbeat.
"The outfit must be evaluated as a whole..."
He replied, lifting his chin with admirable dignity.
"A poorly balanced upper garment can destroy the visual harmony of everything beneath it!"
Valdor’s gaze warmed.
"You are supervising again."
"Exactly!"
The warrior accepted the explanation with a faint curve near his scarred mouth, though Amor knew perfectly well he had not deceived him. He tightened his hand around Valdor’s arm and walked faster, using the increasingly busy street as an excuse to redirect the conversation. The movement drew Valdor closer, and the warrior shifted immediately to keep Amor shielded from passing pedestrians.
...
The restaurant district announced itself through scent long before they reached its central square.
Smoke from open grills mingled with the fragrances of toasted spices, baked bread, simmering broth, and sweet sauces caramelizing over heat. Colorful signs extended from nearly every building, painted in different scripts or decorated with symbols indicating regional cuisine, while street stalls filled the spaces between permanent establishments. Voices called out daily specials, musicians competed against one another from neighboring patios, and servers carried steaming dishes beneath shaded terraces crowded with hungry patrons.
Valdor slowed. His obsidian eyes moved across the stalls and open kitchens with a hunter’s attention, following cleavers striking wooden blocks and flames rising beneath suspended pans. Whole fish rotated above coals beside skewers of spiced poultry, while another cook shaved thin strips of roasted meat from a vertical spit and folded them into flatbread. Across the street, a woman poured broth over noodles and bright vegetables before finishing each bowl with fragrant oil.
"There are many ways to cook meat."
Valdor said. Amor smiled.
"An observation worthy of the capital’s greatest culinary scholars."
Valdor ignored the teasing and watched a chef brush dark glaze across several duck breasts.
"Blackstone cooking changes by season and settlement, but not like this."
"What do you usually eat?"
The warrior looked toward him as though the answer should have been obvious.
"Meat."
Amor waited. Valdor added.
"Vegetables."
"How adventurous."
"Grain when we have it. Roots. Berries. Eggs."
"A balanced diet, certainly, but you continue describing ingredients rather than dishes."
Valdor considered the distinction as they walked.
Blackstone meals depended upon weather, travel, and the success of the hunt, so food was usually discussed according to what nourished the body rather than how impressively it had been arranged. Large cuts of meat were roasted over communal fires, simmered with roots in heavy pots, smoked for storage, or dried until they could survive months of travel. Vegetables were cooked in fat, grain was stretched through broth, and berries became sauces or winter preserves when honey was available.
"We cook what we have..."
He explained.
"A hunter does not refuse meat because it lacks a different sauce."
"No, but one may still improve it."
"Yes."
Amor glanced up.
"You agree?"
"I cooked the ram differently for you."
The reminder warmed Amor’s cheeks.
"That was an exceptional circumstance."
He said.
"You liked it."
"I praised it extensively already!"
"You ate everything."
Amor opened his fan and stirred the air near his face.
"We have established that my appetite does not require continual documentation."
Valdor looked toward the row of food stalls again, though the warmth in his expression remained.
"What do you usually eat?"
"Whatever pleases me."
"That is not an answer."
"It is a complete philosophy!"
Valdor waited. Amor sighed with exaggerated patience.
"The household serves kingdom cuisine most often, though Father hires chefs from different regions whenever I become bored. I prefer delicate sweet pastries, fruit, creamy soups, well-seasoned poultry, tender beef, seafood when it is properly prepared, and almost anything containing honey or berries."
"You dislike hard food."
"I dislike food that requires a battle before swallowing."
"Some food should resist."
"Only enough to maintain dignity!"
They passed a stall where a cook struck a cleaver through a roasted bone and discarded several pieces into a bucket beside the counter. Valdor’s gaze followed the movement, his earlier curiosity sharpening into scrutiny. A second worker trimmed fat and skin from a cut of meat, throwing portions aside despite several still appearing useful. The warrior slowed again.
"They waste much."
He said. Amor looked toward the bucket.
The remains might be collected later for broth, animal feed, or other purposes, but the careless way they were handled offered no guarantee. Amor’s enjoyment of the district dimmed slightly. He had learned too intimately what food meant when there was not enough of it.
"Some do."
He admitted. Valdor watched a customer abandon half a plate at an outdoor table before leaving.
"That animal died for food no one eats."
"Yes."
"You say that easily."
"I say it because denying what you can see would be foolish."
The response drew Valdor’s attention back toward him. Amor’s expression remained composed, but something older and colder moved behind his pink eyes. The waste surrounding them did not merely offend his sense of proper estate management. It touched memories from a life in which a sealed packet of crackers could determine whether someone survived another day.
For Lovell, wasting food had never been possible. After the virus destroyed ordinary supply routes, crops rotted unattended and livestock either died or became infected by contaminated water and feed. Supermarkets were emptied within days, warehouses became battlegrounds, and unopened food carried more value than money or jewelry. Even when something appeared safe, mold, damaged seals, infected blood, or poisoned water could render it fatal.
Lovell had learned to scrape hardened food from the bottoms of cans. He had eaten stale grains after removing insects one by one, boiled suspicious water repeatedly, and divided single portions across days because another meal might never be found. Crumbs were collected from bags, bones were cracked for marrow, and every edible plant growing through ruined pavement became something worth memorizing. Hunger had stripped food of luxury and transformed it into time measured before death.
His parents had still taken the best portions. They handed Lovell whatever looked spoiled, made him taste questionable food first, and punished him whenever he attempted to hide emergency supplies for himself. The final bag his mother ripped from his shoulders contained several canned meals, dried fruit, and a sealed bottle of water Lovell had risked his life to collect. She had stolen it before leaving him to die.
Amor returned to the present with Valdor still watching him.
"Food should not be wasted..."
He said more quietly.
"Not when another person is starving."
Valdor’s expression became intent.
"You understand this."
"More than people here would expect."
Amor did not explain further. He had no intention of revealing his previous world in the middle of a crowded capital street, particularly when even the truth of transmigration sounded like madness. Yet Valdor seemed to recognize that the answer contained experience rather than abstract morality. He did not demand details.
"Are the restaurants the same?"
Valdor asked.
"It depends upon the establishment..."
Amor guided him away from the busiest stalls and toward a quieter lane where permanent restaurants displayed engraved notices near their entrances.
"Some discard nearly everything left behind because appearances matter more to them than usefulness. Others donate untouched portions, prepare community meals from safe excess ingredients, or sell the remaining animal parts to farmers, soap makers, tanners, and craftsmen."
Valdor examined a posted notice beneath one sign.
The kingdom script remained difficult for him to read quickly, so Amor translated the declaration explaining that the restaurant provided its surplus bread and prepared meals to a neighborhood shelter each evening. A small carved emblem beneath the writing marked participation in the capital’s voluntary food-recovery program. Valdor touched the symbol with one finger.
"This is required?"
"No."
His brows lowered.
"Why not?"
"Because noble councils enjoy debating whether helping starving people places an unfair burden upon wealthy businesses."
Valdor looked toward Amor.
"That is foolish."
"Yes..."
Amor closed his fan and tapped it lightly against his palm.
"The policy is voluntary for now, though several houses are attempting to make it law. My father has been one of its strongest advocates."
Valdor’s interest sharpened.
"Lanslet?"
"He funds food shelters, pays merchants to transport excess crops, and pressures restaurants receiving House Moons contracts to participate. He argues that reducing waste lowers disposal costs, improves public health, and prevents desperation from becoming crime."
"He makes kindness sound profitable."
"That is often how one persuades noble councils to permit it."
Valdor considered this. Blackstone leaders rarely needed to explain why food should be shared, because communal survival made hoarding dangerous to everyone. If one lodge possessed excessive meat while another family starved, the entire settlement treated the imbalance as failure rather than personal misfortune. Kingdom wealth created enough distance between people that some could ignore hunger occurring only streets away.
"Your father is wise."
He said. Amor smiled faintly.
"He will be insufferably pleased when I tell him you said that."
"He should be."
"The proposal is imperfect..."
Amor continued.
"Participating businesses choose how much they contribute, inspections are inconsistent, and some display the emblem only because generosity attracts customers. Still, enough people are doing it that refusing has begun to look shameful."
"Shame can be useful."
"Occasionally..."
Amor glanced around the district, noticing several restaurants carrying the food-recovery emblem.
"With enough pressure, the policy may become law. Father believes the capital should establish collection routes and require large establishments to document where usable excess goes."
Valdor nodded slowly.
"Choose one that follows it."
Amor looked up at him. The warrior’s expression carried simple certainty. He did not want to support a place that treated food carelessly, particularly after learning House Moons actively encouraged better practices. The request warmed Amor for reasons extending beyond shared ethics.
"I was already looking."
He said. They continued through the lane more slowly.
Amor examined signs and windows while Valdor watched kitchens, storage baskets, and how workers handled ingredients. One restaurant specialized in elaborate seafood towers but displayed no food-recovery emblem, while another donated bread yet appeared so formal that Valdor would likely spend the entire meal calculating which utensil served which purpose. A third prepared impressive grilled meats, though the narrow interior seemed barely capable of containing him.
Then Amor spotted a broad, open-fronted establishment at the corner of the next square.
The sign above the entrance depicted a copper pan resting over stylized flames, surrounded by vegetables, fish, mushrooms, and cuts of meat. Several long counters stood visible beyond the doors, displaying fresh ingredients over chilled stone, while individual cooking stations occupied tables beneath tall brass vents. Patrons selected precisely what they wanted and either cooked it themselves or requested assistance from one of the restaurant’s chefs.
Amor stopped.
"That!"
He said. Valdor followed his gaze.
The restaurant was called The Open Hearth, and several emblems beneath its sign announced participation in the food-recovery program, partnerships with local farms, and a policy allowing customers to take unfinished ingredients home. A notice near the entrance explained that scraps unsuitable for human consumption were separated for livestock feed, compost, rendering, or craft use. The establishment appeared unusually proud of producing as little waste as possible. Valdor read the symbols he recognized.
"We choose the food?"
"Yes."
"And cook it?"
"If we wish."
The warrior’s eyes sharpened with interest. Amor smiled.
The restaurant solved several problems at once. Valdor could choose meat, vegetables, and portions according to his own appetite without suffering through decorative servings too small to satisfy him, while Amor could select delicate foods and sauces suited to his preferences. Neither would be forced to order more than they intended to eat. More importantly, nothing needed to be wasted.
Amor had not expected that detail to matter so much when planning their outing, yet relief settled quietly inside him. Even surrounded by abundance, some part of Lovell continued calculating portions, tracking untouched food, and resenting every plate abandoned without thought. Choosing ingredients individually gave him control over that old unease without requiring him to explain it.
"This seems suitable."
Amor said. Valdor studied the visible cooking stations.
"You know how to cook?"
The question caught him unexpectedly. Amor knew more than the original nobleman’s life suggested.
Lovell had learned to cook over broken stoves, portable burners, fires concealed inside ruined buildings, and metal cans heated above scraps of wood, paper, fabric and anything else that could be burned safely. He could make questionable ingredients edible, stretch portions with water, and identify when spoiled food might still be safely salvaged. None of those skills belonged within a fashionable restaurant, but they had kept him alive.
"I think I can still manage..."
He replied. Valdor looked doubtful. Amor narrowed his eyes.
"You believe I survive only because servants place cakes within reach."
"I had heard you owned a theater and forgot it."
"That has no connection to cooking."
"It shows reliance upon servants."
"I will have you know that I am capable of preparing food!"
"What food?"
Amor paused. Valdor waited.
"Soup."
The warrior’s expression did not change.
"Eggs."
Amor added.
"How?"
"Heat is involved..."
Valdor’s scarred mouth curved. Amor tapped his arm with the folded fan.
"You are becoming far too amused with yourself."
"I will help."
"I did not request help."
"You said I must make you feel better at the next stop."
Amor remembered the demand issued after the fitting-room misunderstanding. His irritation had mostly disappeared already, replaced by the warmth created when Valdor understood that the new clothing was camouflage rather than correction. Still, allowing the warrior to fulfill his promise sounded pleasant. Amor lifted one brow.
"And cooking lunch will accomplish that?"
"I will prepare what you choose."
The offer echoed dinner. Amor’s heart softened.
Valdor had already demonstrated that his hands could transform an enraged ram into something sweet, tender, and perfectly suited to Amor’s tastes. Watching him cook again—this time beside Amor rather than hidden within the estate kitchen—held an appeal that had very little to do with hunger. The activity also sounded dangerously domestic.
’This is still not a date.’
Amor reminded himself. The thought was becoming increasingly ridiculous.
"Very well..."
He said aloud.
"You may assist me."
Valdor looked toward the restaurant.
"Assist?"
"Yes."
"I will cook."
"I intend to participate."
"You may choose."
"That is participation!"
The warrior’s expression suggested he considered ingredient selection insufficient, though he accepted the arrangement for now.
They approached the entrance.
A hostess dressed in dark green linen stepped forward and bowed first to Amor, then more cautiously to Valdor. Her eyes widened briefly at the warrior’s size and unusual clothing, but the restaurant’s diverse clientele had apparently prepared her better than most capital workers. She recovered quickly.
"Welcome to The Open Hearth!"
She said.
"Will you be dining with us for lunch?"
Amor nodded.
"We require one of your larger cooking stations."
The hostess glanced toward Valdor and understood immediately.
"Of course, Young Lord."
Her recognition of Amor produced no outward fuss, though several nearby patrons had already begun whispering. The story from Maison Reverie had likely not reached this district yet, but the sight of the beautiful Moons heir entering arm in arm with a Blackstone warrior created enough interest on its own. Amor ignored the attention.
Valdor examined the ingredient counters. Rows of neatly arranged produce gleamed beneath protective glass:
Leafy greens, bright peppers, mushrooms, onions, root vegetables, squash, herbs, grains, and fruits prepared for savory cooking. Separate chilled displays contained beef, lamb, pork, poultry, fish, shellfish, and less familiar meats imported from surrounding regions. Each item bore a label identifying its farm, price, preparation, and recommended cooking methods. Nothing appeared carelessly piled.
Trimmings were collected in marked containers behind the counters, while workers weighed portions according to customer requests rather than cutting standardized amounts that might be left uneaten. Valdor watched one chef place bones into a separate bin labeled for stock preparation. Another collected vegetable ends for broth and compost. His approval became visible through the easing of his shoulders.
"They use nearly everything."
He said.
"That is the intention..."
The hostess smiled.
"Our owner grew up on a farming estate and considers unnecessary waste an insult to both the producer and the ingredient. Anything safe for consumption enters our staff meals or community program, while the remainder is separated according to use."
Valdor looked toward her.
"Good."
The single word carried enough weight that the hostess straightened with pride. Amor felt strangely pleased, as though he had chosen the establishment himself rather than noticing a sign while walking past. He wanted Valdor to approve of the capital where approval was deserved, not merely endure it for Amor’s sake. The Open Hearth offered something both their worlds could respect.
The hostess led them toward a broad table near an open courtyard.
A circular cooking surface occupied the center, divided between a flat heated plate, a recessed grill, and a place for a shallow pot. Brass ventilation pipes descended from above, while comfortable seating surrounded the station at a safe distance from the heat. The largest chair was still too narrow for Valdor, so an attendant offered to remove it and provide a low reinforced bench.
Valdor glanced toward the floor. Amor saw the thought forming.
"You will not sit beneath the table."
"The floor is comfortable."
"We are in public!"
"I sat on the confectioner’s floor."
"That establishment had cushions!"
The attendant brought the bench before Valdor could continue arguing. It was wide enough to support him and low enough that his knees fit comfortably beneath the table. Valdor tested it cautiously, perhaps remembering the chair his father had nearly damaged beyond repair at House Moons, then sat after determining the construction would survive. Amor took the place beside him. Their shoulders nearly touched.
The hostess explained the process. They could walk through the ingredient displays, select items individually, and carry small tokens corresponding to each choice. Staff would deliver the portions to their table, provide seasonings and sauces, then either leave them to cook or assign a chef for assistance. Any unused raw ingredients could be packed safely for travel, while cooked leftovers could also be taken home.
Amor nodded approvingly. Valdor had already begun surveying the meats from across the room.
"You are listening?"
Amor asked.
"Yes."
"What did she say?"
"We choose food."
"And?"
"We cook it."
Amor looked toward the hostess.
"That is apparently sufficient."
She concealed a smile.
"Please take as much time as you need. Your waiter will be with you to take your drink orders shortly."
They rose together and approached the first ingredient counter.
Valdor stopped before the meats. Amor stopped before the sauces. The divergence lasted only a moment before they looked back toward one another.
"You should begin with what you like."
Amor said. Valdor glanced toward the delicate bottles and bowls attracting Amor’s attention.
"Together."
The word carried unexpected warmth. Amor returned to his side.
They moved along the display shoulder to shoulder, discussing each item before selecting it. Valdor chose a thick cut of beef, several lamb slices, dark mushrooms, onions, and greens sturdy enough to withstand high heat. Amor added tender fish, small portions of poultry, sweet peppers, thin noodles, and a berry-based sauce recommended for grilled meat. Valdor examined the sauce token.
"Sweet."
"Yes."
"For you?"
"For both of us, unless your Blackstone pride prevents experimentation."
"It does not."
Amor chose a second honey-and-herb glaze. Valdor looked at him.
"This one is also sweet."
"You cooked with honey yesterday."
"You wish me to repeat it."
"I wish to compare, that’s all!"
The warrior understood that Amor wanted another meal resembling the one prepared at House Moons, though neither man said so directly. He accepted the token and added it to their selection. Amor smiled.
They reached a grain display. Valdor chose barley. Amor selected fragrant rice.
"We will not eat all of that."
Valdor said.
"We may take the remainder home."
"You plan already?"
"I plan not to waste it."
Their eyes met. Valdor saw the seriousness beneath Amor’s casual tone and did not question him. He adjusted the selection so the portions remained modest, calculating what both could realistically eat despite his own substantial appetite. Amor noticed the care and felt another quiet connection settle between them.
At the final counter, a worker displayed several unusual cuts that most patrons ignored. Organ meat, marrow bones, skin, and other parts occupied separate chilled trays, each accompanied by preparation suggestions. Valdor examined them with interest. Amor did not recoil.
"You eat these?"
He asked.
"Yes."
"Which do you prefer?"
"Heart. Liver when fresh. And marrow. That’s my favorite."
Amor selected a marrow bone token. Valdor looked surprised.
"What?"
Amor asked.
"Kingdom nobles eat this?"
"Some do. Others pretend the animal consists only of elegant slices."
"You wish to try it?"
"I have eaten marrow before."
The words carried another truth from Lovell’s world. Amor remembered cracking scavenged bones with stones, boiling them until every remaining bit of fat and marrow could be scraped free. The taste had once meant survival rather than refinement. He wanted to experience it now without fear, prepared properly and eaten because he chose it.
Valdor studied his expression.
"You know more about hunger than you say."
Amor’s fingers tightened around the token. The surrounding restaurant remained lively, filled with laughter, clattering dishes, and the hiss of ingredients meeting heat. No one listened to them. Still, Amor felt exposed.
"I know food should matter."
He answered. Valdor did not demand more. He placed his large hand over Amor’s, enclosing both his fingers and the small token.
"Then we will use everything."
The promise was simple. Amor believed him.
They returned to their table with enough selections to create a generous lunch without becoming excessive. Staff delivered the ingredients in carefully measured dishes, arranging meat, vegetables, grains, sauces, and herbs around the cooking station. Valdor examined every portion and nodded once.
Amor tied back his flowing sleeves. The movement revealed the fresh bandage around his wrist, though it no longer throbbed as sharply after Valdor’s treatment. He reached for a small apron provided by the restaurant and fastened it over his elegant clothing, unaware of the way Valdor watched the domestic gesture. The warrior removed his mantle and folded it carefully over the back of the bench, leaving his marked arms and chest freer for cooking. Amor looked. Valdor caught him.
"Supervising?"
He asked.
"Constantly! Humph!"
The warrior’s mouth curved. He secured a darker apron around his waist, though the restaurant’s largest size barely reached around his body. The sight of a massive Blackstone warrior dressed in noble-adventurer clothing and a plain cooking apron should have been absurd. Amor found it unbearably charming. Valdor rolled up the fabric wraps near his wrists.
"What first?"
He asked. Amor looked across the ingredients. The nightmare from that morning seemed impossibly distant now.
Instead of ruined streets and stolen supplies, he stood beside someone who treated food with the same respect hunger had carved into Lovell. They would choose each portion, cook it with their own hands, eat until satisfied, and carry away anything left. Nothing would be contaminated, stolen, or used as leverage against him.
"Everything..."
Amor said, his smile softening.
"But slow... and carefully."
Valdor reached for the knife.
"Mm, carefully."
He agreed. The heated plate warmed between them, and Amor realized with quiet surprise that their lunch already felt more intimate than any formal date he had endured in the original Amor’s memories. There were no rehearsed compliments, servants arranging every bite, or expensive dishes ordered merely to display wealth. There were only ingredients they had chosen together, Valdor’s warm body beside him, and the promise that neither would allow anything valuable to be wasted.
For Lovell, that would once have been enough to define safety.
For Amor, it was beginning to resemble happiness.