Private How Not to Burn Dinner

[Iandre Athlea]

The scent of spice-rub and slow-burning wood coals drifted through the courtyard long before Kallous stepped into view.

Iandre stood at the stone pit, sleeves rolled neatly past her elbows, the long braid of ink-black hair resting over one shoulder—sleek, precise, and bound tightly enough that not a strand escaped. Her grey eyes, calm and steady as winter steel, reflected the subtle orange glow rising from the grill beside her.

No chaos.
No roaring flames.
Just controlled heat—exactly the way she preferred everything in her life.

On the table beside her, vegetables and marinated cuts of meat were arranged with military precision. The quiet discipline of the space made it obvious this was not the casual hobby of someone who "liked cooking." This was a skill. A craft. A martial art of its own.

She looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps—measured but unmistakably confident.

Kallous.

When he reached the edge of the courtyard, she greeted him with a composed, measured smile.

"Kallous, I presume."

No bow. No stiff formality. Just a respectful tilt of her head as she stepped aside, inviting him into the warm circle of firelight.

"You wanted a lesson."
"So—I'm going to teach you properly."

She lifted the grill lid with smooth ease, checking the coals beneath. Her braid shifted with the motion, catching the faint glow like a stroke of dark glass under flame.

"Most people think grilling is about fire," she said, voice even and almost instructional.
"They chase heat the way inexperienced duelists chase an opponent—loud, reckless, trying to overpower instead of understand."

Her grey eyes flicked up to meet his—direct, steady, and with a subtle spark of amusement.

"Uncontrolled flame is a weapon."
"And I don't teach anyone to use weapons by accident."

She gestured for him to join her at the workstation—an invitation, not a suggestion.

"Come here."
"First lesson: heat control."

She extended a hand over the grate, feeling the heat radiating upward, mapping the temperature the way a Force-sensitive maps a battlefield.

"Tell me," she said, gaze unwavering,
"when you grill…do you rely on instinct?"

A beat.

"Or improvisation?"

She already suspected the answer.

But it mattered that he said it.

Kallous

 

[Kallous]

Kallous had been... occupied, for the vast majority of his time with the Diarchy. Ever since his flight from Sith space he'd been busy in some way shape or form. This wasn't a wholly negative thing, he studied, he learned, he fought, and he found a great deal of satisfaction in the life he'd been leading. A life of purpose, but most importantly a life that he'd chosen for himself. He had spent almost all of the past few years with the Diarchy in the field, carrying out his Master's missions, acting on his behalf, fighting, infiltrating, spying, hunting and all other manner of works that the Diarch required of him. But that of course had its drawbacks. He had only a small number of people that he knew well, even within the Diarchy's boundaries.

Iandre Athlea was one such person that he'd seen, spoken to in passing. He knew her only tangentially, despite her closeness with his master. So when a brief few weeks of calm unexpectedly came he decided it was time he met her formally, and asked her if perhaps she would teach him how to cook. More specifically, how to grill. Field work denied him a proper kitchen most of the time, and he could boil fruit loops just fine anyway, so most often he would be working with coals, firewood, maybe a gas burner, and a metal grate. So grilling was likely to be his go to, now that he took a greater interest in experiencing life beyond simply being good at fighting and carrying out his duties.

Iandre had agreed to teach him, so when the time came he made his way down to courtyard where his lesson would be held. Iandre greeted him, and he gave her a shallow bow at the waist to greet her back. "Indeed I am. It's good to finally meet you Iandre."

Even as he spoke he stepped into the circle of firelight, ready to learn. And immediately the lesson was following a track that he could make some sense of. Iandre's use of a duellist as an analogy helping bridge the gap between what he knew and what he had no clue about. He could still remember back to a time when he was exactly that kind of duellist, young, inexperienced, eager. Attempting to simply overpower his opponent with brute force, no skill, no imagination, no cunning, no guile, no art, no finesse. Just barbarism at its worst.

So to evade such mistakes here he made sure to pay extra attention to this. After all, the fundamentals, were fundamental for a reason.

Then she asked of him a question. What did he rely on. Instinct or Improvisation. The answer came to him easily. One of the many lessons he'd learned, was to know himself, to honestly know himself. And to assess himself without bias. It was a hard lesson to learn but it stuck with him.

"Instinct. It is what I rely on for nearly everything. Though my instincts are not attuned to this particular art, so their trustworthiness is not what I am used to them being." He told her honestly, likewise trying to judge the heat of the coalbed. If he knew the right heat to keep them at, that would be an immense step forward.

 

[Iandre Athlea]

The courtyard fire crackled low and steady, casting warm orange light across the stone. Iandre stood already within its glow when Kallous stepped into the ring of light, her posture composed, her black hair neatly braided down her back, catching faint glints of copper from the coals.

She returned his bow with a small, warm nod.

"And good to finally meet you properly, Kallous," she said, voice gentle but carrying the confidence of someone who had long since grown comfortable standing in both command and quiet teaching roles. "I'm glad you came."

She motioned him closer to the firepit. The coals glowed in a bed of deep reds and ashy greys, their heat radiating steadily.

"Grilling," she began, "isn't very different from dueling. A novice tries to win with strength alone. Force the heat, force the flame, force the result." She shook her head faintly. "But the fire doesn't bend to brute will. It responds best to patience… and understanding."

She crouched beside the grill, running her hand over the rising warmth, never flinching, simply observing.

"Cooking, like combat, begins with knowing what you're working with. And that starts with the heat."

Straightening, she stepped aside so he could face the coals directly. Her expression did not expect perfection—only invitation.

"So," she said softly, "tell me what your instincts say. How hot does it feel to you?"

She lifted a hand before he could second-guess himself.

"There isn't a wrong answer," she assured him. "Instinct comes first. Refinement comes later."

Her gray eyes met his, steady and encouraging.

"Trust your senses. They've served you well in battle—they'll serve you here too."

She stepped back, giving him full ownership of the moment, the firelight painting soft gold along the curve of her jaw and the braids resting over her shoulder.

"Go on," she said with a faint, patient smile. "Show me what you feel."

Kallous

 

[Kallous]

Kallous stepped closer and held his hand over the coals. High enough to avoid injury, but close enough to get an accurate judge of the heat. For a brief moment he let his mind start thinking. But he was quick to rectify that mistake. Thinking wasn’t on its own a mistake, but he knew that it tended to clash with instinct. When your mind took the reigns, it had a tendency to ignore a lot, or become lost.

Overthinking was the opposite of instinctually deducing. So he let his hand feel the heat rising from the coalbed. And after a brief moment of consideration he gave his answer.

“I say it’s a little too hot, and too uneven. It’ll cook the exterior too quickly, and not reach the interior. Likewise it’s fluctuating too much, not controllable at the moment. If my instincts are indeed correct, then we need to let the coalbed develop a little more, let the flames die down until it’s mostly coals. That way the heat can be controlled better.”

He wasn’t certain, like he’d said before, his instincts were not attuned to this type of artistry. His instinct, his art, was war. And recently the contemplation of the force’s deeper mysteries and its true nature. So it was entirely possible that his instincts were off, especially since his knowledge of cooking wasn’t just incomplete, it was practically nonexistent. Just bits and pieces he’d heard from various people in varying contexts that he didn’t understand in the first place.

So he could be altogether wrong, and the opposite be true. But that was why he was here. To learn.

Iandre Athlea

 

[Iandre Athlea]

The firelight reflected softly in Iandre's gray eyes as she watched him work—not thinking, but feeling. It pleased her more than she showed. When he spoke, she listened without interrupting, letting his instincts carry him through the explanation.

And when he finished, she stepped closer, her presence calm and grounding beside him.

"Good," she said gently, and there was no hesitation in her tone. Only approval. "Very good, actually. Your instincts are sharper than you give yourself credit for."

She moved beside him, mirroring his stance, holding her hand over the coals just as he had. The heat rose in uneven pulses, too sharp in the center, too weak toward the outside. Her braid slid over her shoulder as she tilted her head slightly.

"You're correct. It's too hot, too wild. If we put anything on the grill now, the outside will burn while the inside stays raw."

She lowered her hand and folded her arms lightly.

"Fire wants to be tamed. Not smothered, not ignored. Just guided."

The corners of her lips softened into a faint smile—not indulgent, but genuinely impressed.

"Letting the flames die down until we have a full bed of coals… that shows you understand patience. Most people rush. They want the result now, and they ruin the food."

Her gaze drifted to the glowing charcoal, embers pulsing like a heartbeat.

"So we wait," she said, stepping back with the effortless poise of a duel instructor transitioning into the next movement. "Just a little longer. Until it stops fighting us."

She looked back at him, her expression warm, almost encouraging.

"In the meantime…tell me what you want to learn from grilling. Technique? Survival? Or simply the joy of making something with your own hands?"

Her tone carried an undertone of quiet interest—not prying, but inviting him to speak openly.

 

[Kallous]

He was a little surprised to hear that he’d gotten it right. Though he was certainly pleased that his instincts served him as well here as they did in a duel or on the battlefield. Mayhaps this wouldn’t be quite so hard as he’d been prepared for it to be.

Iandre moved to confirm his assessment for herself, articulated her agreement in more precise terminology than he had employed. But the consensus was as he’d originally deduced. The fire, as it was indeed still a fire rather than a bed of coals, was not yet suitable for its purpose. It needed to mature first, the larger pieces of wood needed to break down into smaller bits of charcoal, the flames needed to peter out into a soft glowing bed of black and orange coals, with a layer of white ash overtop and around.

Kallous couldn’t help but appreciate it however. Fire was something that spoke to humans as a species, they were hardly the only ones of course, but Kallous had always found himself appreciating the beauty of a good fire. It was both dangerous and indispensable. To think, this simple thing in front of him was the reason that society as a concept existed. Something so simple, so basic, was a cornerstone of civilization the galaxy over.

A strange thought to have when learning to cook, but a thought that crossed his mind nonetheless.

Iandre asked him a question then, why he wanted to learn this art. And the answer came quickly. It was something that had come to him when he had ventured into the maw, and something he carried with him even now.

“I wish to live life to the fullest. Recently my eyes have been opened to the truth, and that I have been living my life poorly up until now. A mistake I would like to rectify. I have no talent for preparing food, something I have been able to live with thus far. I’ve been living off of MREs for the past several years you see. But my time in the field is liable to deny me access to a proper kitchen, so a grill is something I’m able to carry with me. And then it’s just a matter of finding the food and fuel. So the answer is twofold. Both practical and personal.”

Iandre Athlea

 

[Iandre Athlea]

The fire was finally settling the way she wanted it to, the wild orange tongues shrinking into a smoldering bed of embers. The air smelled of woodsmoke and heat, and the courtyard around them had grown quieter, more intimate—just the two of them and the soft crackle of burning coals. Iandre watched the fire with the kind of patience that had been carved into her by years of war and centuries of discipline. But when Kallous spoke—truly spoke—her attention shifted to him with a slow, deliberate turn of her head.

There was no surprise on her face. No judgment. Only understanding, deep and unwavering.

She stepped nearer, her boots whispering over stone, the glow of the fire catching in the dark braid that hung over her shoulder. Her grey eyes softened as though seeing the man beneath the armor, beneath the duty, beneath every instinct he had ever been trained to obey.

"Then you aren't here to learn cooking," she said quietly, her voice a warm counterpoint to the cool night air. "You're here to learn living."

She let that truth sink beneath the weight of the silence between them. It was the kind of silence she never rushed—not on a battlefield, not in meditation, and certainly not here, where the soul was the thing being tended.

"There is nothing wrong with survival," she went on, her voice low but clear. "Most warriors spend their entire lives there. It's predictable. Efficient. It hurts less to exist than to feel."

Her hand drifted above the coals again, not testing this time, simply absorbing the warmth. A faint crackle echoed under her palm.

"But you want something more than that. You want a life that is yours." Her gaze softened further, a small proud smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "And admitting that—choosing that—that takes more courage than charging into any battle."

She walked around the grill with easy steps, motioning for him to join her on the side where the heat radiated evenly across the iron grate. Her movements were unhurried, almost ritualistic, like someone tending to a sacred flame.

"Cooking teaches patience," she said, sliding a piece of unburnt wood into place with her boot. "Attention. Care. It teaches you how to build something slowly… and how to enjoy the process instead of only reaching for the end."

The wood settled into its new place with a quiet pop, sending a ripple of sparks upward.

"You've spent years feeding your body with rations," she added, allowing a wry, almost amused note into her voice. Then she tapped a gentle finger against the center of his chest—right over the heart. "But this? This is how you learn to feed your life."

She stepped back to look at him fully, letting her expression grow solemn once more. His desire to learn, to change, to open the door to something softer—she respected it deeply. Not many who lived by the sword dared to reach for gentler things.

The coals glowed the perfect red now—steady, even, calm. Ready.

Iandre folded her hands loosely in front of her and tilted her head just slightly, studying the man who stood in the firelight beside her—not just as a student, but as someone standing at the edge of a different future.

"So tell me, Kallous," she asked softly, "when was the last time you did something simply because it brought you joy?"

Kallous