Gilded Ashes-Chapter 288: Pasta Sheets

Raizen stared at the pile of flour on the table. It sat there in a perfect, white mound - two cups measured precisely, leveled with the back of a knife just like the cookbook instructed. The grains were fine and soft, almost powdery, and when Raizen ran his finger through the edge, they scattered like snow.

Simple. Innocent. Completely unthreatening.

The cookbook lay open beside it, the page worn smooth from use, stained with old fingerprints and what looked like a smear of dried tomato sauce. The instructions were written in neat, cramped handwriting:

"Combine 2 cups flour with 2 eggs. Knead until smooth and elastic, approximately 10 minutes. Rest for 30 minutes. Roll thin and cut into sheets."

Four sentences. Raizen had fought Nyxes. He’d survived the Underworks. He’d trained under Kori until his muscles screamed. Surely, he could make pasta.

He rolled up his sleeves, the fabric bunching at his elbows.

"Alright" he muttered, mostly to himself. "Pasta sheets. Can’t be that hard."

Behind him, Saffi pulled out a chair with a soft scrape and sat down, folding her arms on the table. She rested her chin on them, watching with the quiet, patient expression of someone settling in for a show.

Raizen pretended not to notice. He focused on the flour.

First step: make a well.

He pressed his fist into the center of the mound, pushing outward, creating a ring. The flour shifted easily, forming walls around the hollow space. The book called it a "volcano." Raizen thought it looked more like a depressed crater on a very small, very white moon.

Good enough.

Next: eggs. He picked up the first one, feeling its weight in his palm - smooth shell, slightly warm from sitting on the counter. He tapped it against the table’s edge.

The shell cracked cleanly. He pulled it apart with his thumbs, and the egg dropped into the well with a soft "plop".

The yolk sat there, bright and golden, perfectly round, surrounded by a moat of clear white. It wobbled slightly when he moved the table.

One more. The second egg joined the first, and now two perfect yolks sat in the flour crater, gleaming like tiny suns.

Raizen picked up a fork.

He started beating the eggs, whisking them together in tight circles. The yolks broke, spilling their gold into the whites, the two colors swirling and mixing until they formed a uniform, sunshine-yellow liquid.

Now: incorporate the flour. Raizen used the fork to pull flour from the inner walls of the well, a little at a time, stirring it into the eggs. The mixture thickened gradually.

First it was liquid - just beaten eggs with a little flour stirred in, still runny and bright.

Then it became paste - thicker, darker yellow, clinging to the fork tines.

Then it turned into something shaggy and uneven - part wet dough, part dry flour, refusing to come together properly.

Raizen kept stirring, pulling in more flour, watching the transformation.

His hand moved in steady circles. The dough clumped, and the flour scattered.

Some parts were too wet. Some too dry.

The fork scraped against the table, making a soft, rhythmic sound.

When the mixture became too thick to stir - the fork catching and sticking, unable to move freely - Raizen set it aside and stared at his hands.

Clean. Still clean.

The book apparently didn’t want that. It said: "When the mixture becomes too thick to stir, use your hands to bring it together."

Raizen took a breath and plunged his fingers into the dough.

The texture hit him immediately.

It was WEIRD. Cold and sticky in some places, where the egg hadn’t fully absorbed yet. Dry and crumbly in others, where the flour remained untouched. It clung to his fingers in uneven patches - some parts sliding off easily, others sticking like glue.

Raizen started squeezing it together, pressing the wet and dry parts into each other, trying to force them to cooperate.

Bits of flour escaped, dusting the table. The sticky parts got stickier, coating his palms. He kept going anyways.

Slowly - frustratingly slowly - the dough began to change.

The wet part mixes with the dry one, making the crumbs stuck to the mass. At least... It started to feel less like a disaster and more like something that might become dough.

Raizen gathered it into a rough ball and started kneading. Push forward with the heels of his hands, flattening the dough against the table. Then fold it back over itself.

Turn it exactly ninety degrees. Push. Fold. Turn.

The motion was simple, but the dough resisted.

It didn’t want to stretch. It wanted to tear. When he pushed too hard, cracks appeared on the surface, running along the fold lines like lines in dry earth.

Raizen eased up, pushing gentler, trying to work the dough instead of fighting it.

Push. Fold. Turn.

His forearms started to heat up - not painfully, but with the deep, building ache of muscles doing unfamiliar work.

Push. Fold. Turn.

The flour on the table got into everything. It dusted his wrists, stuck to the sweat on his arms, gathered under his fingernails.

Push. Fold. Turn.

Slowly - so slowly he almost didn’t notice - the dough began to cooperate. The texture smoothed out. The cracks stopped appearing. When he pressed his thumb into the surface, it sprang back gently instead of staying dented.

The dough felt slightly alive now - warm from his hands, elastic, responding to pressure. Raizen kept kneading, falling into the rhythm, his mind drifting.

Push. Fold. Turn.

A memory sparked in his mind. He’d done this before, years ago.

Different context. Different ingredients. But the motion was the same.

His mother, standing at their kitchen table in the village, hands moving through bread dough with easy confidence. Her fingers strong and sure, pressing and folding, never hesitating.

She tried to teach him once.

But he was way too young. Too impatient. Too interested in running outside with the other kids. He ended up eating the raw dough instead.

Push. Fold. Turn.

Raizen blinked and focused on the present.

The dough was supposed to be smooth now - and it was. Properly smooth, with a faint sheen on its surface. When he pressed it, it pushed back. When he stretched it gently, it gave without tearing.

He stepped back, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist. The dough sat on the table, no longer a sad rock. It was a ball. A real, actual ball of proper pasta dough.

Slightly lumpy, sure. Not perfectly round. But there. The first step, done.

"Is it supposed to look like that?" Saffi asked from her chair.

Raizen glanced at her. "Like what?"

"Like..." She tilted her head, considering. "Like a sad, pale moon."

Raizen looked back at the dough.

It did look like a sad, pale moon.

"It’s fine" he said.

Saffi’s lips twitched, but she didn’t argue.

The book said to let it rest for thirty minutes, covered with a damp cloth to keep it from drying out.

Raizen grabbed a clean kitchen towel, ran it under water, wrung it out, and draped it over the dough. Then he flexed his fingers, trying to work out the stiffness, and turned to the next task.

Thirty minutes.

Enough time to... Work on the other things.

Raizen wiped his hands on the towel and glanced at the dough one more time under the damp cloth.

He moved toward his bag, which he had left near the wall earlier. From the inner pocket, he pulled out a tiny glass container. It was almost comically small, stoppered with cork, the inside filled with fine white powder.

Saffi noticed immediately. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "What’s that?"

Raizen turned the container in his fingers, examining it like he was judging the weight of a blade.

"The sleeping pills I asked you for" he said casually.

Saffi blinked once. "Ah."

He walked back to the table and lifted the damp cloth just enough to expose half of the dough. With careful precision, he opened the glass container and tilted it.

A thin stream of white dust fell onto the top of the dough. He didn’t mix it in yet. He simply sprinkled it evenly, like someone seasoning food with excessive focus.

Saffi watched the entire operation without moving from her chair.

"How much did you put in?" she asked.

"Enough" Raizen replied. "Not too much, trust me. Just... Effective."

Saffi nodded slowly, like this was the most reasonable statement he could’ve made. "Good."

He recorked the vial and slipped it back into his bag.

For a moment, they just stared at the dough. One half innocent. One half quietly dangerous.

Saffi tilted her head. "You’re going to take the antidotes, right?"

"Of course." Raizen said, pulling out another identical vial, filled with another kind of white powder, that looked really similar to the crushed sleeping pills, just to show her.

"And you’re absolutely sure you won’t mix them up? Maybe you’ll take more sleeping powder instead"

Raizen gave her a look. "I survived Kori’s cooking."

"That doesn’t answer my question."

He exhaled lightly. "Yes. I’ll remember."

Saffi leaned back in her chair again, folding her arms under her chin like before.

"Alright" she said calmly.

Raizen uncovered the dough fully and began kneading again, this time folding the powdered side inward carefully, working the mixture evenly into all of the mass. It looked identical from the outside.