Skyl liked staying in the kitchen—sometimes even more than the lab or the study. He liked cooking. He liked seeing the look on someone's face when they'd eaten well and were truly satisfied.
Every now and then he would think: if he became a chef after graduation, he'd probably live a pretty happy life too.
In the tavern, Skyl handled all three meals every day. Marika could only make stew. Millicent only knew how to roast things until they were cooked through. Melina had a sharp, discerning palate, but her actual cooking skills were strictly "competent home cook."
Skyl, on the other hand, blended magic into the process. He could reproduce a recipe's flavor perfectly, and even banquet-level dishes could be prepared quickly when magic handled the fussy parts. He was basically a magical Iron Chef. With ability like that, it was only natural that he'd taken over the kitchen.
And since they were about to part ways, Skyl decided to cook a feast—to pour all his quiet reluctance to say goodbye into the food.
Thinking back on Millicent saying she'd never forget this Christmas, Skyl actually agreed. This break had been warm. He liked sitting on the couch with three quiet girls, watching TV, snacking, and drifting into conversations about the future, about magic, about the world.
Skyl was a wanderer with no home. He was used to farewells, and clinging too hard to reunions only made people hesitate when it was time to move forward. But the tavern's atmosphere sometimes made him feel—mistakenly, dangerously—as if he had come home.
The clock ticked on: 6:30.
The smell wafting from the kitchen was more wondrous than the magic happening over the burners. Normally, at this hour, Marika and the others would be gathered on the couch, watching the news while trying to guess dinner just from the scent.
Melina liked tangy, sweet-and-bright flavors, so Skyl made pineapple-glazed pork medallions, crispy honey-barbecue pork cutlets, and a steaming bowl of tomato-basil soup.
Millicent preferred light food, so he prepared white bean and ham soup, garlic-sautéed shrimp, and a big garden salad.
Marika wasn't picky, but she had a soft spot for plain, comforting things—toast, simple bread, quiet flavors—so Skyl made her a hearty seafood pot pie, buttermilk pancakes, and chicken noodle soup.
As for himself, Skyl was a devoted carnivore. Thick breaded pork cutlets and slow-braised pork belly—he never got tired of them.
Quarter to seven, dinner was ready. One dish after another drifted out through the kitchen doorway, light as if carried by air—like a flock of fragrant birds swooping down to land on the cozy little table. In that moment, to anyone who truly loved food, the whole wide world had nothing on that small round tabletop.
"Dinner's up! Upstairs neighbors—come on down and eat." Chef Skyl grinned as he untied his apron, stood by the staircase, and struck a little triangle chime: ding, ding, ding.
He walked into the main hall. It felt cold and empty, with only a few candles lit.
The rest of the tavern's tables and chairs had already been covered in white cloth, waiting for a dusty future. It was a small tavern, yet it somehow felt vast now—so vast that footsteps on the floor made hollow echoes.
Outside, it was fully dark. Snow had gathered along the window frames, and the glass had fogged into a soft blur.
Marika had lit the fireplace early. Logs crackled and snapped. When she heard Skyl calling, she sat at the table, clearly distracted—there was a smudge of soot on the tip of her nose and she didn't even notice.
"Your nose," Skyl reminded her.
"Hm? Oh." Marika wiped her face with a damp handkerchief. She'd even put on a bit of light makeup, and she wore a neat, proper white dress, as if she were attending something important.
Millicent and Melina came down from the second floor dressed like city girls—warm zip-up jackets and jeans, hair tidied, looking crisp and capable.
Skyl suddenly thought: if they lived on modern Earth, it wouldn't be a bad choice. They could take exams, go to college, stroll along streets, wander through a mall on Sunday, feed pigeons in a plaza, and spend some quiet, easy years.
"Eat," he said.
The four of them sat around the table as usual. Melina lowered her head for a prayer, fingers interlaced, eyes closed, lips moving silently. She never said who she prayed to.
No one spoke while they ate. It was very quiet. Skyl remembered the loudest day at that table: December 29 of last year, when Melina and Millicent first tried eating properly with a dinner fork and steak knife.
Millicent treated the two utensils like paired blades, swinging them with startling sharpness—she even managed to kick up a slicing gust. The first time she tried to cut into a plate of scrambled eggs and diced tomatoes, she cleaved the platter clean through, sending sauce and juices running right onto her clothes.
Melina was usually quick and clever, but with a fork and knife she turned clumsy. The third time she dropped a fried meatball back onto the plate, she couldn't hold it in anymore—and that was the first time any of them had ever seen her laugh so freely.
Today, though, she was silent. She held the utensils and didn't move.
"What's wrong?" Skyl asked lightly. "Not to your taste?"
"Liar," she said softly.
"What?"
"You're lying." Melina kept one eye closed as always, but the one she had open was bright, like a lacquered apricot seed. She stared at Skyl's face. "You aren't a cold person. That day you told me, with your own mouth, that you wanted to save me—and you even said you hated that I was like a block of wood. I don't understand what all of that means, but I know your heart is warm."
Millicent hurried to agree. "Skyl, you're never cold. Otherwise, why would you save someone as worthless as me?"
"That just means I'm not cold enough." Skyl didn't like talking about this, but he allowed it. "I have to stay cold. Ideally, I should be able to watch someone die and do nothing."
Marika kept her head down, taking small bites of pancake. A little muffled, she asked, "Why? You're obviously warm. Why pretend you're cold?"
"You've all seen what I can do, more or less." Skyl's voice stayed calm. "Even with my divine power running dry, to ordinary people I'm still nearly the same as God. I could control every ruler's thoughts and end war. I could cure almost every disease. I could produce endless food and end hunger, end suffering. I could save everyone—and I didn't. That is the greatest coldness."
The table went still.
Marika looked at him. In her sea-blue eyes, tides rose and fell, reflecting Skyl and the candlelight behind him. Very softly, she asked, "Why?"
"Because this world doesn't need a god." Skyl said. "Humans can end war on their own. They can solve famine and epidemics on their own. I believe in The Internationale—even if it demands countless sacrifices, even if we never reach it. For that future, I have to stay cold. A god must not lay hands on humanity's great endeavor, because doing so would snuff out the sparks lit by blood."
"Sometimes you're impossible to figure out," Millicent let out a slow breath. "But… at least you're still the Skyl I know."
Melina asked, "Does it make you sad, Skyl?"
"You mean, watching people live in pain?" Skyl shrugged. "If I say it doesn't, that's a lie. If I say it does, but still do nothing, that's hypocrisy. So I don't care about mortal moral standards. I decided a long time ago I'd live however I want."
Marika flashed him a bright, almost spiteful smile. "You're awful," she said.
"The food's going cold. Eat." Skyl waved them on. "We're about to be apart for a while. Treasure this meal—I actually put real effort into it. If you don't eat, I'm going to get depressed."
And then, on the stage, Mora's Book suddenly flipped and stirred with no wind at all. Instruments that no one was playing began to sing out together.
A new master of melody had arrived—at the very last moment before the tavern closed.
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