Page 13 of Sanctuary and Spices (Tales of the Ardent Veil #1)

JANI

I flipped through my grandmother’s worn cookbook, breathing in the lingering scents of spices that clung to its pages. The café’s kitchen felt different during the night cycle—quieter, more intimate. Only the soft hum of environmental systems and the crystal formations’ glow broke the stillness.

“Your grandmother’s recipes?” Ronhar’s deep voice made me jump. I hadn’t heard him enter from the garden.

“Yes.” I exhaled, pressing a hand to my chest. “I thought some of her blends might work well with your herbs for the festival.” I touched one particularly stained page. “This one used to draw crowds at the night market back home.”

He moved closer, reading over my shoulder, the heat of him noticeable even in the cool kitchen. The markings on his skin cast shifting patterns across the weathered paper, mesmerizing in their movement.

“What are these characters?”

“Traditional Chinese. My grandmother refused to convert her notes to Trade Standard.” I smiled at the memory. “Said the old writing held the soul of the dish.”

“Smart woman.” His fingers brushed mine as he turned the page, sending a spark through me. “These measurements... they’re imprecise.”

“‘A handful.’ ‘Until it feels right.’ ‘The amount that fits in your palm.’” I laughed softly. “She said exact measurements killed the spirit of cooking.”

“Like gardening.” He pulled a sprig of something from his pocket—delicate purple leaves that released a sharp, sweet scent when crushed. “Sometimes you have to trust your instincts more than instructions.”

I took the sprig, rolling it between my fingers. “What is this?”

“Drelka root. Just harvested. I thought it might complement your festival menu.”

The herb’s aroma shifted as it warmed against my skin—first pepper-sharp, then honey-sweet. “May I?”

At his nod, I touched the edge of a leaf to my tongue. Flavors bloomed—sunshine and rain, earth and air. “Oh. That’s...” I closed my eyes, savoring. “The crystals in your garden enhance the natural properties?”

“They do.” His voice was quieter now, almost thoughtful. His markings pulsed brighter. “But I’ve never seen it respond quite like this. Usually it takes days to develop such complex notes.”

I grabbed my tablet, already planning combinations. “What if we infused it into the base sauce? Your crystals could amplify the?—”

“Wait.” Ronhar’s markings brightened as he studied the cookbook more closely. “This recipe. Baozi, right?”

“Yes.” My heart ached as I looked at the page, the smudged handwriting more familiar than my own. “It was one of my grandmother’s best sellers. I’ve been thinking about adapting it—maybe using the valthorn preserves.”

“Drelka root could balance the sweetness,” Ronhar said, his voice steady as though he’d already imagined the flavors.

“And Kyreth leaves for depth,” I added, surprised at how easily the idea came. I looked up to find him watching me, his golden eyes warm.

“Let’s try it,” he said.

“What, now?”

He was already moving toward the prep station, gathering ingredients with quiet efficiency. “Show me how your grandmother made baozi.”

I hesitated for only a moment before joining him. The familiar rhythm of the kitchen wrapped around me like a blanket as we worked. I guided Ronhar through the steps of kneading the dough and mixing the filling, adjusting measurements as we tested new combinations.

The first batch was a disaster—the dough refused to rise properly—but by the third attempt, we’d found the right balance.

“This one,” I said, holding up a perfectly shaped baozi. The aroma of drelka root and Kyreth leaves filled the air. “This feels right.”

Ronhar popped the dumpling into his mouth, his markings flaring with approval. “Your grandmother would be proud.”

Something in my chest loosened. For the first time in years, cooking felt like love again.

The kitchen plunged into darkness.

“Ronhar?”

“Power fluctuation.” His markings provided the only light now, casting everything in an ethereal green glow. “The garden’s environmental controls...”

We moved together toward the plants. Without the usual soft glow of the crystal formations, shadows turned familiar spaces strange. I bumped into the prep counter, swore under my breath.

“Here.” His hand found mine in the dark. “Follow me.”

His skin was fever-warm against my palm, grounding me. I focused on that contact as he guided me through the darkness, trying to ignore the way my heart pounded at his touch.

“The Jhyra.” His markings flared brighter with concern. “They’re the most sensitive to temperature changes.”

I heard leaves rustling, felt the brush of petals against my arm. “What do you need?”

“Help me move them closer to the remaining active crystals. Carefully—their roots are delicate.”

Working by touch more than sight, I slid my hands under the pot he indicated. His fingers covered mine, adjusting my grip, the weight of his presence pressing close.

“Like this.” He guided my movements, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel how the root mass shifts? That tells you the plant’s health.”

The pottery felt warm beneath my palms. Something hummed through it—maybe the crystal resonance, maybe just my imagination.

“There’s more backup power.” His breath stirred my hair as he reached past me to check another plant. “But the garden’s systems are isolated for protection. We need to stabilize the most delicate specimens manually.”

“Tell me how to help.”

For the next several minutes, we worked in near-darkness. His hands guided mine to feel temperature variations, texture changes, subtle vibrations that indicated stress. The small space forced us close—his chest brushed my back as he demonstrated proper lifting technique, his arms bracketing mine as we repositioned sensitive specimens.

I tried to focus on the technical aspects—moisture levels, crystal resonance patterns, root stability. Not on how his markings pulsed in rhythm with our movements. Not on the herbal-earth scent of his skin. Not on how naturally we fell into sync, anticipating each other’s actions without words.

“This one’s showing signs of shock.” He placed my fingers against trembling leaves. “Feel that?”

I nodded, then realized he might not see the movement in the dark. “Yes. The edges are curling.”

“Good.” His approval sent warmth through me. “Now here...” His hands covered mine again, guiding them to the soil. “Press gently. The crystals embedded in the growing medium will respond to your touch.”

I did as instructed, amazed when tiny points of light bloomed beneath my fingers. The plant’s leaves uncurled slightly.

“They like you.” His voice held something softer now. His markings brightened. “I’ve never seen them react so strongly to someone else’s energy.”

“Is that unusual?”

“Very.” His thumb brushed across my knuckles, an absent, intimate motion. “The garden’s particular about who it trusts.”

I held my breath in the dark, hyper-aware of Ronhar’s presence beside me. The environmental controls hummed, a discordant rhythm without their usual crystal resonance.

“And what about its keeper?” The words left my lips before I could stop them.

His markings flared brighter, casting intricate shadows across my skin. In the darkness, I felt, rather than saw, him turn toward me.

“Even more particular,” he murmured.

The space between us seemed to shrink, charged with something neither of us had the words for.

The moment balanced, teetering between possibility and hesitation.

Should I lean even closer?

Like a chicken, I drew back.

“How long until backup power kicks in?” I whispered.

“Could be minutes. Could be hours.” His markings cast shifting patterns across the leaves. “These blackouts have been happening more frequently.”

We sat close together on the garden floor, backs against the wall. His arm brushed mine with each breath, sending sparks along my skin.

“Tell me about your home world,” I said, desperate for distraction from his proximity. “What made you leave?”

He was quiet so long I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then: “I was supposed to follow tradition. Stay on Sylnith, guard our sacred groves, keep our knowledge pure and untouched.” His markings dimmed. “But I saw us becoming stagnant. All that wisdom locked away while the galaxy changed around us.”

“So you left?”

“Not at first. I tried working within the system, suggesting controlled sharing of techniques.” A soft laugh. “The Council was... unreceptive.”

“Did you join Solace right after leaving Sylnith?” I asked, watching the way his markings shifted in the darkness.

“Not immediately.” His voice held a smile. “First I tried wandering on my own. Learned quickly that the galaxy’s a big place when you’re alone.”

The environmental systems hummed discordantly behind us. In the garden, tiny points of light flickered as crystals responded to power fluctuations.

“Ran into Soryn on a mining colony.” Ronhar shifted, his arm brushing mine. “He was leading a Solace team - protection detail for some xenobotanists. Took one look at what I could do with plants and offered me a contract.”

“Just like that?”

“Well, there may have been an incident first.” His markings pulsed with amusement. “Colony had these native vines - nasty things that would strip flesh from bone. Local thugs thought they’d shake down the scientists. I... convinced the vines to object.”

I tried to picture it - Ronhar, younger and angry at being cast out, using his gifts to protect strangers. “Bet that made an impression.”

“Soryn said anyone who could turn hostile flora into allies was worth recruiting.” He laughed softly. “Didn’t hurt that I could cook better than their field chef.”

“So you worked together after that?”

“For years. Specialized missions - anywhere Solace needed someone who understood both combat and conservation.” His voice turned thoughtful. “Soryn taught me there were ways to protect what mattered without cutting yourself off from everything else.”

A sudden surge in power made the crystals flare. I blinked against the brief brightness, caught the shadow that crossed Ronhar’s face.

“What happened?” I asked quietly.

“Nothing dramatic. Just...realized I was tired of fighting. Wanted to build something instead of just defending it.” His fingers brushed mine in the renewed darkness. “When Soryn mentioned retiring to open the café, it felt right. Still get to protect what matters, just...differently now.”

There was longing in his voice. And something else.

“And are you happy here?” I asked softly.

He hummed, quietly. “I don’t know yet. But I think I could be.”

The way he said it made me wonder what—or who—he considered worth staying for.

In the shadows of the café, the silence stretched between us. My skin tingled where Ronhar’s fingers rested against mine.

His free hand came up, fingertips barely grazing my cheek. My eyes fluttered closed at the touch.

“...” His breath whispered across my skin.

A crash from the kitchen doorway shattered the moment. Light blazed as Pix burst in, trailing cables and glowing components.

“Found it!” they announced triumphantly. “The backup crystal matrix just needed a little percussive maintenance!”

Emergency lighting sputtered to life, harsh and blue-white after the intimate darkness. I blinked against the sudden glare.

Ronhar’s hand dropped from my face. He stood in one fluid motion, pulling me up with him. His markings had dimmed to barely visible.

“Good timing,” he said, voice carefully neutral. “The kalvyme was starting to show signs of stress.”

“Oh! Was that why you two were...” Pix’s antennae waggled suggestively.

“Checking the plants,” I said quickly. Too quickly. “During the blackout.”

Pix bounced excitedly. “The crystals should be stable now, though I had to bypass three subsystems and possibly ignore a few safety protocols. But hey, no explosions! Yet.”

“Maybe we should check the rest of the garden,” I suggested, trying to slow my racing heart. “Just to be safe.”

“Oh! Yes! Safety first!” Pix’s antennae wiggled knowingly. “I’ll just go... calibrate something. Somewhere else. Far away. Take your time!”

They disappeared in a whirl of cables and enthusiasm, leaving awkward silence in their wake.

Ronhar’s markings pulsed softly as he looked down at me. “We should probably...”

“Check the plants,” I finished. “For safety.”

“For safety,” he agreed, his lips curving into a smile that made my breath catch.

The garden’s crystal formations hummed back to life around us, but somehow the darkness had felt more illuminating.