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

 

[Kallous]

Iandre saw more than he had said. To be expected, she was force sensitive like he, trained in its use, and he wasn’t exactly trying to suppress his true thoughts. He didn’t really come for a therapist, but he certainly didn’t mind talking like this. It would be good for him.

He was sure that there was something he’d missed, didn’t understand or had yet to learn. There always would be. He wouldn’t know everything, never. And he’d made peace with that. But what he did know is that he had grown, and moved beyond the wanton violence of his early youth.

Iandre paced around the fire absently. Making conversation and asking questions of a philosophical nature. He had heard that she was a Jedi prior to her being brought into the brotherhood, and this type of contemplation was definitely Jedi-like. A method he himself had found himself partially adopting.

“Never.” He said with a shrug, unbothered by the admission. “The academy on Korriban taught us to pursue our passions. But it also told us what passions we should have. And likewise to cast aside morality in pursuit of them. And for the longest time my passion was slaughter. Cutting people down in swathes, and basking in the agony I inflicted. Even after I left the Sith behind, that hunger followed me. It wasn’t until a few months ago that I finally shook it loose altogether. I had… an experience, you could say. I saw the force for what it was, raw, unfiltered and pure. And it is not what I had previously understood it to be. It changed me. So now I’m here, as you say, trying to learn how to live. That and Master Rellik told me to make friends instead of meditate.”

This final sentence was said with an amused grin. His Master had been a guide since his arrival on Bastion all those years ago, and not altogether without humor. He owed him much.

Kallous watched the wood break down into smaller pieces of charcoal. The beauty of the fire again capturing his attention. It looked like it was almost ready.

“Though I didn’t mean to trauma dump you.” He finally said with a chuckle. “How about yourself? I’m told you were a Jedi once ago. While plenty of Sith are liberated by the Diarchy, I understand that Jedi are oddly harder to convince of our cause. What brought you to us?”

Iandre Athlea

 

[Iandre Athlea]

The fire cracked softly as Kallous finished speaking, the rising heat casting shifting gold across Iandre's features. She didn't interrupt him, didn't rush to meet his eyes — she simply listened, truly listened, with that still, attentive presence she carried from older Jedi teachings. When he fell silent, she drew in a slow breath and exhaled as though releasing something from the center of her chest.

"You didn't overwhelm me," she said gently, her voice low but steady. "Speaking honestly about who you were… that's not a burden. It's a gift."

She stepped away from the immediate glow of the flames, letting the warmth trail over the black braid draped across her shoulder. Her armored boots brushed softly against the dirt as she began a slow, thoughtful circle around the firepit — the kind of pacing done not from restlessness, but from deliberation. The movement of someone preparing to open a part of themselves rarely seen.

"You asked what brought me here," she continued, her eyes narrowing slightly as memories rose like ghosts summoned by firelight. "To answer that… I have to start with what was taken from me."

She paused only long enough to steady her breath.

"I don't know what world I was born on. The archives didn't have that answer, and the galaxy's records were already dissolving even before the Clone Wars reached their height. But I know who raised me — who shaped everything I became. My Master was Aisha Drayen."

There was reverence in the way she spoke the name, not fragile or sentimental, but grounded — solid enough to hold centuries of meaning.

Her gaze drifted toward the treeline, the shadows beyond the fire reflecting in her grey eyes like old storms.

"She was the kind of Jedi the Order liked to speak about, but rarely produced. She taught me patience without cruelty. Discipline without suppression. Compassion without naivety. If there was a light in that war, it was her."

The fire popped, as if punctuating the memory. Iandre's jaw tightened, just slightly.

"Order Sixty-Six came for us on the ground. We were escorting a refugee caravan — families, wounded soldiers, people who had nothing left but each other. The clones turned on us in an instant. Aisha fought like the Force itself moved through her veins… but even she couldn't stand against the numbers."

She swallowed hard, but her voice didn't falter.

"She died protecting them. Protecting me."

And then, after a long moment:

"I buried her with my own hands."

Not a whisper. Not a sob.
A fact carved into her bones.

"There was no time for ceremony. No Temple. No Masters to stand witness. Just me, the wind, and a grave dug into soil that hadn't asked for any of this."

She closed her eyes briefly, shutting out the firelight. When she opened them again, she looked older — not in years, but in history.

"The escape pod was damaged during our retreat. I'd meant only to get clear long enough to regroup… but the systems failed. I drifted. And the galaxy kept turning without me."

Her voice softened, the weight of nine centuries settling into her posture.

"I woke up almost nine hundred years later. Gem was the first face I saw. Zinayn the second."

A faint, grateful warmth touched her expression.

"They saved my life. But they also saved me from waking up alone in a galaxy that didn't remember me — where the Order was gone, the Republic fractured, and everything I knew had become myth."

She moved back toward the fire, the glow catching along the black plait of her hair and the gold trim of her armor.

"The Alliance offered me a place. But their Jedi were… different. Their wars were not my wars. Their expectations reminded me too much of a time I hadn't healed from yet."

Her shoulders lifted slightly, a hint of vulnerability breaking through her composure.

"I wasn't ready to be a symbol again. Not so soon. Not after losing everything."

She looked down, finally, at the bed of coals — now glowing low and level, exactly as they needed to be.

"The Diarchy didn't demand anything from me. They let me breathe. They let me learn the galaxy at my own pace. They let me choose what I wanted to be instead of telling me."

Then, quieter still:

"And… I stayed because I didn't want to be alone anymore."

Her hand hovered over the grill, testing the heat. She nodded with satisfaction.

"Your instincts were right. It's ready."

She reached for the first piece of meat, offering him the faintest, genuine smile — the kind that appeared only rarely, but warmed everything it touched.

"Come on. Let's make something worth eating."

Kallous

 

[Kallous]

The story behind how she got here was different from his. But the reason she stayed was an answer that many had given. A purpose, a cause to dedicate oneself to that didn’t require the sacrifice of one’s whole self to it. A home that kept its doors open, had strict rules to follow, had a clear code and mission. But did not yoke its people in uncompromising dogma or pervasive degeneracy. In the end she stayed because the brotherhood was exactly that, a brotherhood.

A family.

He found himself smiling as she told her story. It was small, but it was there. It was a reason he’d heard countless times, a reason he himself had given to many. And one that always warmed his heart to hear. It reassured him to hear others share the sentiment. It told him that unlike so many before, the Diarchy succeeded in its goal of presenting an alternative solution to the age old problems that plagued the Jedi and the Sith. A Bastion, pun intended, against the endless turmoil those two sides propagated. And a home that takes in the lost and gives them purpose, shelter and healing. It was what had saved him and so many others from a dark path that would have consumed them.

He listened without interruption as she gave him her answer. To hear that she had seen the Clone Wars, a war that heralded a veritable Dark Age for the next several centuries, was a little surprising. Stasis had existed forever, but it was far from commonplace. This made her story believable, not that he doubted her, but nevertheless unusual. But then again… how much about anyone here wasn’t unusual?

She turned to the meat they were to cook, and his attention returned to the task at hand. He was learning how not to drink nutrient paste for the rest of his existence.

“Indeed let’s do.” He agreed enthusiastically. “And let’s hope I manage to avoid cooking the insides while leaving the outsides raw.”

This was one of Kallous’s recent attempts at humor. He hadn’t been one for telling jokes for a long time, but his newfound appreciation for life, and his deeper understanding of the force and its meaning, had led him to start trying. And though it didn’t always make sense, the attempt was there.

Iandre Athlea

 

[Iandre Athlea]

Iandre let out a quiet, warm huff of amusement at his joke—not at him, but at the earnest effort behind it. Humor wasn't always intuitive to soldiers who had lived too long in the dark, and she recognized the attempt for what it was: another step toward living, not merely surviving. The firelight glinted against the simple metal of her braid-ring as she turned back toward the small folding table she'd set up beside the grill, the one she'd arranged like a miniature cooking station.

"Kallous," she said over her shoulder, a subtle smile ghosting across her lips, "undercooking the inside and scorching the outside is the number one mistake of impatient amateurs. What you're worried about is much harder to do by accident. If you somehow manage to cook it inside-out… I will personally nominate you for a scientific research grant."

She opened the cooler and began removing the ingredients one by one, placing them neatly on the table with the kind of methodical care she carried into combat. First, the cuts of meat were laid out side by side on a clean board.

A thick marbled nerf ribeye.
A lean, long-cut thranta flank.
Two smaller medallions of alderaanian gamefowl breast.
And—her personal addition—a skewer-ready strip of marinated bantha sirloin, lightly seasoned in spices from Bastion's markets.

"Different cuts demand different fires," she explained, gesturing toward each in turn. "Ribeye likes a hotter start. Thranta needs patience. Fowl overcooks easily. Bantha responds best to steady, even heat."

Then she reached under the table and lifted the basket of vegetables—bright colors catching the glow of the coals.

Thick-cut root medallions
Deep green bastion peppers
Purple-striped moon onions
Soft, pale mushroom caps
Firm, golden squash wedges

She set the basket down and glanced up at him, her tone shifting into something a little more curious.

"And before we choose your pairings—what vegetables do you actually like?"

There was no judgment, no implication that he should like anything. Just the quiet practicality of someone who had taught recruits before: learn their preferences first, then guide their hand.

"Tell me your favorites. Or the ones you don't hate."

She let a hint of teasing color her voice. "I promise not to make you grill anything you categorize as 'nutrient-paste-adjacent.' And once I know what flavors you enjoy, I can show you exactly which meats they complement and why."

Her gaze flicked toward the fire—the coals finally beginning to break down into the perfect bed they'd been waiting on.

"The heat is nearly right," she added, stepping close enough for him to feel the subtle warmth radiating off her armor "So choose well. Whatever you pick, you're eating it."

A spark of dry humor glinted in her grey eyes.

"And trust me—you're not leaving here until you can grill at least one thing better than an MRE."

Kallous

 

[Kallous]

"Oh don't do that. I'd find a way to weaponize it and get into old habits." He said with a chuckle and a scratch to the back of his head. Remembering how... morbidly gleeful he'd been when he crafted his Hollenbrenner prototype, excited at the sheer power behind the firearm. He'd had far too much fun testing it on targets both alive and not. If he invented something that cooked meat from the inside out... it wouldn't end well. At least not for the people he didnt like.

Then she produced for him a basket of vegetables for him. And immediately his head began to spin. He had absolutely no clue what any of these were, or what they tasted like. He gave her a slow, uncertain shrug. "I... don't know." He said hesitatingly, honestly telling her that he was utterly clueless on this front. Vegetables were unlikely to be carried with him anywhere, and he'd assumed that he'd only be able to carry maybe one or two spice bottles for giving the grilled meat some taste. He was not prepared for vegetables to be a part of the equation.

"I'm sure any flavor will be an improvement, no matter what it may be." He said after a moment, giving the basket a look over, wondering at which ones he should use. And then, he did what he found himself doing every single time his mind was unsure.

He stopped thinking, he emptied his mind of all thoughts, and let the force decide for him. His insticts pointed him to three of the five in front of him. The medallions, peppers and onions. "I suppose I'll try these." He said, trusting fully that he had chosen correctly even before trying it properly. After all, once he'd finally learned to listen, and actually hear what the Force told him, it had yet to ever lead him astray.

"I have no intention of leaving until I have improved." He agreed enthusiastically. If there was one bad habit that he had never shaken, it was inability to quit. Even when it was healthy for him. He'd nearly missed the unveiling of the Ragarok because he'd been busy training. And time and again he'd passed out from exhaustion before he made it to his room throughout his time here. Dedication was not going to be a problem.

Iandre Athlea

 

[Iandre Athlea]

Iandre couldn't help the soft laugh that slipped from her — low, warm, and touched with something like exasperated fondness. Kallous had a way of making even the most absurd scenarios sound entirely plausible, and the image of him weaponizing a cooking anomaly was… not out of the realm of possibility. She set the vegetable basket down more firmly, as if anchoring him back in the world of mundane, peaceful tasks rather than destructive inventions.

"Yes," she murmured dryly, "I suspect if anyone in the Diarchy could turn a kitchen mishap into a classified weapons program, it would be you."

Her braid shifted as she stepped closer to him, watching the way his expression wavered between confusion and a faint hint of panic as he studied the vegetables. The uncertainty was honest — painfully so — and it softened her tone in a way few things could.

"It's all right not to know."

She took one of the moon onions in her hand and rolled it gently in her palm, letting its weight settle there. "A soldier can go a decade without ever seeing fresh produce. Trust me. I've lived off ration cubes long enough to sympathize."

When he fell back on the Force — that quiet stilling of breath, that surrender into instinct — she recognized it immediately. It wasn't showy or dramatic. It was a learned calm, the kind of calm people found after long years of fighting themselves. She watched him select the medallions, peppers, and onions with a certainty that did not come from knowledge but from a deeper trust.

She nodded once, approving.

"Good choices," she said, then lifted the three selections from the basket and placed them neatly beside the meats. "Root medallions pair well with anything hearty — bantha, ribeye. They take seasoning beautifully."

She tapped the peppers lightly. "Peppers work with everything. Neutral enough to support the flavor, bold enough not to disappear."

And last, she set the onion down with deliberate importance.

"And onions," her tone warmed noticeably, "are the foundation of nearly every good meal in the galaxy. If you can grill them properly, everything else becomes easier."

She moved a little closer to the fire, rechecking the coals. The flames had finally died down into a bed of glowing red studded with blackened wood and dusted white at the edges — the perfect stage for heat control.

"They're ready," she said quietly. "Now the real work starts."

His last words drew her attention back to him — that earnest, almost stubborn spark in his voice, the one that marked someone who had trained himself to push long after others stopped. She tilted her head, studying him in profile, her expression shifting into something gentler.

"Dedication was never your weakness."

She turned a skewer slowly between her fingers, letting it catch the firelight before handing it to him.

"But remember—grilling is an art you cannot brute-force. If you try to fight it the way you fought the Sith teachings…"

A small, knowing smirk.

"…you'll burn everything on the first rack."

She reached for the vegetables, beginning to slice them into even pieces with easy, practiced motions.

"Come here," she said, voice warm but commanding. "Let's start with the onions. They'll teach you how to read heat better than any lecture ever could."

She glanced up at him from beneath the loose strands by her braid, the faintest spark of teasing in her eyes.

"And if you listen carefully,"
"You might even get to eat something that isn't paste tonight."

Kallous

 

[Kallous]

Another amused cackle escaped him at that bemused comment. Indeed, it would be him.

She then proceeded to explain a little bit about the vegetables he'd chosen, and what they're best with. So far, it was sounding pretty good, despite how little he actually knew. He could feel his stomach growling at the prospect of real food instead of a brick of industrial grade protein and minerals with a side of water. This was shaping up to be a good night indeed.

"I'll keep that in mind." He said, he didn't want to burn anything, though he had the feeling that this journey he was going on was about to have a frighteningly high casualty count of burned meat and wasted food. He had a talent for the butchering part, but not so much the preparing. But that was the issue he was here to remedy, so a few burned steaks was a small price to pay.

He came in close to see what she was going to show him in regards to the onions. Telling him that they would help him learn had piqued his interest, were they able to indicate heat in some way? Did they have a tendency to cook fast? He'd been told by a few people that some ingredients needed to be added later than others, was this one of them? If so how could he tell when to throw them in?

He stopped himself before he got too deep into his own thoughts. This wasn't an enemy who's intentions he needed to deduce through logic and guesswork, this was a theory and a methodology that his instructor was about to teach him about. He didn't need to think too hard about it, after all the answers were about to be given to him.

"I'm listening. Carefully."

Iandre Athlea

 

[Iandre Athlea]

Iandre caught the low cackle with the edge of a smile, the kind that softened the angles of her face despite the firelight casting sharp shadows across her features. He was earnest—painfully so—and there was something disarmingly grounding about that. No posturing, no ego, no layered subtext. Just a man who wanted to learn how not to commit culinary war crimes. She set the cutting board down between them, her braid sliding forward over one shoulder as she reached for an onion.

"Good," she murmured, her voice quieter now, more focused. "Listening is half of cooking. The other half is not panicking when something starts smoking."

A faint tease, but gentle—the kind you only give someone you trust not to take offense.

The knife in her hand moved with a duelist's precision: steady grip, clean angles, controlled pace. She cut the onion into even rings, each slice falling with rhythmic consistency. As she worked, she continued speaking, the lesson unfolding not in clipped commands but in the easy flow of someone who had taught people to survive far harsher things.

"Onions teach heat because they talk," she explained. "They sizzle too fast when the fire's too hot. They soften too slowly when it's too cold. And when everything is exactly right…"

She paused, lifting a slice between her fingers and laying it gently onto the grate.

The onion hit the metal with a soft, even hiss—not a scream, not a crackle. Just a controlled whisper of steam.

Iandre pointed at it with the tip of the knife.

"…that sound. That's what you listen for. If you learn that, you'll never burn meat again."

The onion began to soften, edges turning translucent. She nudged it once with the knife, then stepped aside just enough for him to mirror the motion.

"Try it."

Her voice was low, patient, but firm — a tone she used with soldiers who were ready to be pushed, not coddled.

"Lay it flat. Don't drop it. Feel the heat before you commit."

She shot him a sideways look—not stern, but amused at his intensity.

"And don't overthink it. This isn't a battlefield. No one is going to die today if an onion misbehaves."

The firelight caught in her grey eyes as she watched him prepare to follow her lead, and something softened there—the slightest flicker of fond understanding for someone learning to live rather than survive.

"Just trust your instincts," she added, her tone warm but certain. "They've carried you this far."

She stepped back half a pace, giving him space but staying close enough that he'd know she hadn't abandoned him to the whims of vegetables and fire.

"Show me what you've got, Kallous."

Kallous

 

[Kallous]

His distaste for the Sith ways of lying one's way through life, and his life of learning himself and the force around him had resulted in the happy consequence of staggering, sometimes even abrasive, sincerity. Some people were put off by it, thankfully Iandre seemed not to mind too much. A patient woman she seemed to be, having been a Jedi it did make sense.

She began to tell him the small little details of how to listen for the onion's sizzle. How that can be an indicator for how hot it was, and where he would need to bring it to. He nodded along, it was a simple enough concept and he processed it easily. Though he imagined that in practice, especially with a bed of coals and not a gas stove, it would be a little trickier to do in practice. Not necessarily hard but most likely it would take a little bit of fine tuning before he got it right consistently. Oh well, no time like the present.

"Oh I'll be sure that if an onion does misbehave it'll be it's whole unit that's punished for it. Court martials abound." he said with a chuckle at his own bad joke. "Hmmmm... firing squad or burned at the steak... I wonder what I'd do to them."

With those puns, worthy of a paternal figure, passed he stepped in when she stepped aside and rolled his shoulders to get started. This would likely take all of his focus and effort to get half-not-incorrectly. maybe.

He took up a knife and began to work on the onions first, he peeled the skin of first, easy enough. Then he cut into it, and the onions exacted their vengeance upon him for his Dad level humor. Immediately his eyes teared up as the angry plant delivered its chemical payload into the air. He blanched as the substance hit him in the face with a force only an annoyed onion could muster.

"Oh my word... You didn't tell me they did that!"

Iandre Athlea

 

[Iandre Athlea]

Iandre froze for half a heartbeat when Kallous recoiled, knife still in hand, eyes watering as if the onion itself had launched a tactical strike. Then, slowly, almost helplessly, the corner of her mouth curved upward—not unkind, not mocking, just the inevitable response of someone who had absolutely expected this outcome but had chosen to let the lesson land on its own.

"Mm," she hummed, stepping closer with the ease of someone who had coached recruits through far worse disasters involving heat and sharp objects. Her grey eyes softened even as amusement flickered in them. "I suppose I did forget to mention that part."

She lifted an onion slice with casual precision, placing it neatly onto the grate before continuing.

"In my defense," she added, tone dry as carved stone, "you probably would not have believed me if I'd warned you. If I'd said 'this harmless vegetable will incapacitate you before you can even season it,' you would have assumed I was testing your composure again."

Her braid slid over her shoulder as she leaned just slightly to examine his cutting board, her calm presence offering reassurance without ever slipping into pity.

"Besides," she continued, looking up at him with a small, knowing smile, "some lessons stay longer when the universe teaches them directly. Consider it your first initiation into the more profound mysteries of cuisine."

She handed him a clean cloth—not because she doubted his resilience, but because she knew precisely how potent onion fumes could be on a fresh set of eyes.

"Breathe through it," she advised gently, stepping aside so he could reclaim his space by the fire. "The sting fades quickly. And if it helps…every cook cries their first time."

A beat.

"…Some of us cry our fiftieth time too."

Her expression warmed then, pride threaded subtly into her voice as she nodded toward the knife he still held.

"You handled the cut well before the onion fought back. Finish slicing. Even rings, same thickness. Once the tears stop blurring your aim."

She shifted back to the grate, flipping the first slice she'd laid down, its surface beginning to caramelize in a perfect amber sheen.

"And Kallous?" she added, glancing over her shoulder at him, humor lightly tugging at her words.
"If the onions declare war again…you are not authorized to retaliate with the Force."

A pause.

"…No matter how justified you feel."

Kallous

 

[Kallous]

He accepted the clean rag she offered him and wiped his eyes clean with a quick thanks to her. "I suppose that's not wrong... still a little warning would have been nice!"

He grumbled something about international treaties when she told him he wasn't allowed to retaliate with the Force. He could vaporize this insolent collection of plant matter in an instant if he wanted to. But... that was not the way he needed to be. So he settled for a brief moment of indignation before returning to work. Slicing through the onion, and despite the increased sting in his eyes, he took immense satisfaction in lacerating the thing that was fighting so hard to make him quit. Begging for its life.

A pleading he was happy to deny.

Eventually he got a... somwhat satisfactory result. his cuts weren't wholly even, many of the rings were lopsided, and sometimes incompleted as crescents rather than rings. It was, however, altogether okay. At the very least it was usable.

he sighed and set the knife down. "Alright... Please tell me the other vegetables are less violent."

Iandre Athlea

 

[Iandre Athlea]

Iandre watched him battle the onion with the kind of steady, unhurried patience that came from centuries of teaching Padawans how to survive training sabers, wild animals, malfunctioning droids, and their own questionable decisions. Compared to all that, an aggressive vegetable barely registered on her internal scale of emergencies.

Still, the way Kallous muttered about international treaties very nearly broke her composure. She pressed her knuckles lightly against her lips—not to hide laughter, but to keep it contained enough that he didn't feel mocked. Her shoulders, however, betrayed her with the slightest amused shift.

When he finished slicing and presented the results—crescents, rings, semi-rings, shapes that defied categorization — she nodded as if presented with fine art.

"Acceptable," she declared with serene finality, as if it hadn't taken all his dignity to get there. "More than acceptable, actually. For a first attempt while under chemical attack."

She reached out, selecting one of the more intact rings and placing it onto the grate. The sizzle greeted her immediately—clear, bright, the sound of heat meeting sugar. "Hear that? That's the sound you listen for. Everything else is technique—and technique comes with repetition."

Only afterward did she answer his question. She turned to face him fully, hands resting loosely on her hips.

"And yes," she said dryly, "the other vegetables are less violent. Onions are rebels by nature. Peppers cooperate. Medallions melt. Mushrooms surrender instantly."

She tilted her head, evaluating him with warm amusement. "But the real truth?" She stepped closer to the firelight, braid catching the amber glow, grey eyes steady and unflinching. "Nothing you face out here will be anywhere near as stubborn as you once were."

Then, softer: "You already did the hardest part—showing up, wanting to learn, and refusing to quit. The rest is only vegetables." A beat. Her lips quirked. "Though if the onions escalate further, I'll allow you to defend yourself."

Kallous

 

[Kallous]

"Excellent. My culinary conquest is well underway then." He said with good humor, preparing to dissect the remaining vegetables. Putting them to the knife, cutting them into proper pieces under the guidance of his instructor was not a difficult task. It did not take very long for all of the vegetables to be more or less properly prepared for the grill. Of course he wasn't perfect with it, he was far better cutting with a lightsaber than a kitchen knife, but he was far from unsatisfactory.

Finally it was time to get the actual grilling underway, and he was eager to get started. "Alright then, what next?" He asked, rubbing his hands together excitedly. The idea of getting to cook some actual food for once was definitely one he appreciated.

Iandre Athlea