The remainder of the evening was peaceful, almost cozy .

  Verin was in and out of the back bedroom where Natham was lying in recovery.

  In the meantime, Kermit, Sven, and PL had woken up from their nap. Apparently they had been playing “an intense game of capture the flag,” at least according to Verin.

  Now that they were up, Sven attended to PL in the yard while Kermit took Arlene on a walk around the grounds to show her all the things he had discovered while they were out.

  Because Verin was occupied and Morwen had no interest in cooking, the duty fell naturally on Andy.

  In truth, he didn't mind it. In fact, it was nice being alone in the kitchen with a clear task. It enabled him to be useful to the group and also have time to go through his thoughts.

  The last few weeks had been a whirlwind, and some solo cooking was a welcome break.

  Andy looked around the kitchen area to see what ingredients were available: several breads and cheeses, a few varieties of sausage, and a pantry full of potatoes, onions, carrots, and dried beans.

  Hot dogs, he thought immediately.

  The stove in Natham's cottage was remarkably similar to the standard stove from back home: there was a magical device that caused a flame to rise through a metal grate, on top of which you could heat a pot or pan.

  For more intense heat, there was a hearth with a large stewing pot suspended above a wood-burning fire. At present, it seemed to be bubbling with broth and bones. Who knows how long that had been going.

  Andy opened a large wooden cabinet to find a meticulously organized assortment of cooking ware. He selected a cast iron skillet, a cutting board, and a large kitchen knife that fit his grip almost perfectly.

  He brought a few onions out of the pantry and chopped each in half. His eyes began stinging and watering as he removed the skins.

  The knife cut through the onions like butter. He chopped them and tossed them in the skillet, activating the flame underneath. He added some oil from a small jar, as well as a hint of sugar.

  These suckers are going to be caramelized as hell.

  With a wooden spoon, Andy continuously moved the onions around to prevent them from burning. It was almost a meditation.

  Once the onions began to sweat a little, Andy brought the flame down. They would need to cook low and slow to achieve the deep sweetness he wanted.

  As he continued to stir the skillet off softening onions, his mind began to wander over the events of the last few weeks.

  He had physically died and gone to... not-heaven... and, within minutes, entered a game that already felt more real and more meaningful than the life he had left behind.

  But if was also a lot more work, and a lot more pressure.

  Back home, he had faced boredom and listlessness… a lack of direction and a feeling of meaninglessness. Here though, there was almost too much to do with very little downtime.

  Intrusively, the thought flashed through his mind: the patrolling officer at the Cresthaven stables releasing a spikeshield beam through the chest of a helpless captive.

  Andy's hand began to shake, to his great surprise. He felt anger, fear, and… deep grief.

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  Why now? Andy thought as he struggled to calm himself. Why is that man's death suddenly a problem now?

  He knew the answer. Because for the first time in days he was alone and he wasn't busy, at least not in his mind.

  When you work with your hands, the mind is free to wander.

  And that's where his mind went.

  The violence he had witnessed, and the violence he had endured and enacted… it had taken a toll whether he realize it or not.

  Andy inhaled the sweet, fragrant onion… he allowed it to ground him.

  He calmed himself.

  He turned to the sausages and made a longways incision through the casings. The skillet could hold probably four at a time alongside the rapidly shriveling onions.

  He transferred the meat to the stove top, opening them along the incision and pressing them down hard against the skillet with the wooden spoon. The sizzle was utterly satisfying to hear. After a few moments of searing, Andy flipped them over to let them cook through slowly in the juices of the onions.

  Andy took a deep breath. As he turned to begin working on the potatoes, the image flashed through his head again. The callous tyrant had just blasted a hole in the captive without a second thought.

  Andy vividly imagined himself with his greatsword, standing over the officer.

  Andy’s hand was trembling again, and now he was breathing rapidly.

  “You OK?” came a voice from the doorway. It was Morwen.

  “Oh!” Andy replied with instinctive cheerfulness. “Yeah, just fine.”

  Morwen made her way to the counter, standing on the other side of it from Andy. “What are you making?”

  “Hot dogs,” Andy said.

  Morwen made a confused face. "Dogs?"

  “Oh… no, not dogs. It's just a name we have for sausage and bread.”

  “Ah,” Morwen said with a deep exhale. “Well it smells delightful.”

  “Thank you,” said Andy, now patting the sliced potatoes dry, making a special effort to keep his hands steady.

  He was mostly successful.

  Morwen stood silently as Andy began sprinkling a generous amount of salt over the potatoes.

  Andy felt he should say something to fill the silence, but he didn't know what. All he could think about was revenge… and his embarrassment at being seen shaking.

  “What is on your mind?” Morwen asked.

  “Oh nothing,” Andy said. “Just tired and hungry.”

  “Mmm.”

  Andy sifted through the pantry behind him, hiding his face from Morwen as he took longer than necessary to find a frying pan and oil for the fries.

  “You have seen many difficult things,” said Morwen. “I, of all people, know how that feels.”

  Andy filled the pan with oil and began to heat it before he finally turned around. A treat ran down his cheek.

  “You must speak,” Morwen said.

  It's was a simple, direct command, but Andy understood the compassion behind it.

  “I don't feel bad about anything I've done,” Andy said, coughing to suppress an involuntary sob.

  “And yet your body demands tears,” Morwen said. “And bodies do not lie. You must speak.”

  “I saw an execution,” Andy finally said. “A callous one, seemingly spontaneous.”

  Morwen nodded.

  “Back in Cresthaven, at the stables… there was a man in captivity. He was chained. They claimed he was a rioter and… they just blasted a hole in his chest. And laughed…”

  Morwen nodded again.

  “His name is Rinold,” Andy said.

  “Lead enforcer,” said Morwen.

  “I want to kill him,” Andy said without thinking. He instantly regretted it. “I'm sorry, I'm saying nonsense…”

  “Your impulse is for justice,” said Morwen, “But you must not allow it to mix with hatred.”

  Andy nodded. He picked up a potato slice and dipped it in the oil, which hissed upon contact. It was ready for frying.

  “I will be frank with you,” said Morwen. “There is a version of the future where you may need to shed blood, perhaps even Rinold’s blood.”

  Andy hated that the prospect excited him.

  “But you must remain under control. Impulsiveness will only hurt the cause of freedom.”

  Andy dropped the potatoes into the frying oil. They crackled like a fire.

  “I've been thinking it over,” Morwen said. “I think you may need to delay your progress in the fighter class.”

  “What?” Andy said. “What did I do wrong? I know I haven't kept up with my meditation. I know I–”

  “It's nothing you've done,” said Morwen. “It's a strategic decision. I would be delighted to have you in the fighter guild. You show extraordinary promise. But the Order needs an insider on the other side.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I'm suggesting you join a guild loyal to the Noble Court so we have eyes on the inside.”

  Andy paused. “Which guild?”

  “Warlock,” said Morwen.

  “No,” Andy said instinctively. “I mean… why?”

  “Antoine wants you,” said Morwen. “And a few levels of Warlock would work well with the Fighter class.”

  “Why me?” Andy said.

  There was a long pause...

  “Because I trust you.”

  Andy nodded. It was an unexpected turn of events. Warlock? The only feat he regretted taking–Drain–was a Warlock feat. Andy despised how it made him feel. He despised how it fueled his hatred. He despised what it did to him.

  “It's soul-destroying,” Andy said.

  “Only if you let it be,” said Morwen. “The choice is yours, of course. But please consider it.”

  Andy nodded. It was a jarring thought, but the least he could do for Morwen was to consider it.

  “Dinner’s ready,” he said.