Reality proved far harsher than Arya had imagined.
When he had first formed the plan, it had seemed almost elegant in its simplicity. Find a modest kitchen, demonstrate his ability, earn a small wage, and slowly build a place for himself in this unfamiliar world.
Instead, the previous day had taught him a different lesson entirely.
Finding a job was not simply difficult.
It was maddeningly difficult.
He had gone from restaurant to restaurant, tavern to tavern, kitchen to kitchen. Some owners barely looked up when he spoke. Others cut him off halfway through his introduction. A few simply pointed at the door.
"Not hiring."
"Try the docks."
"Come back next month."
Most hadn't even allowed him to step into their kitchens.
The frustration gnawed at him.
If only they would let him cook once—just once. With a handful of herbs and a simple broth he could craft something memorable. With mana, his understanding of flavour, balance, and texture he could create something which far exceeded anything he had seen in Stoneford's kitchens.
But opportunity never came.
The day had ended with sore legs, an empty purse, and a cold patch of ground beside a warehouse wall.
Arya shifted slightly as he remembered the night. Every pebble on that street had somehow found its way into his spine. At one point he had dreamt that iron nails were being slowly pushed into his back.
Waking up had revealed that the dream might not have been entirely imaginary.
He rubbed the stiffness from his shoulders as the morning sun rose over Stoneford.
"Sigh… life truly is difficult."
For a moment he simply stood there, staring down the street as merchants began opening their stalls.
Then he straightened.
No.
Complaining would change nothing.
Today would be different.
Today would be the last night he slept on the street like a stray dog.
After eating a simple breakfast of bread and thin porridge, Arya waited until the morning rush had passed and kitchens began preparing for their midday service.
Then he started again.
One restaurant at a time.
He planned to visit every place he had missed the previous day.
The first stood along a quieter side street, its wooden sign swaying gently above the entrance.
The Drunken Pavilion.
Arya remembered passing it the previous afternoon and dismissing it immediately. The name alone had suggested noise and drunken patrons.
But during breakfast that morning, a merchant had mentioned something interesting.
The owner of the Drunken Pavilion had once been a refugee himself. A man who had fled a bandit attack years ago before eventually building his own tavern in Stoneford.
That piece of information had lodged itself firmly in Arya's mind.
A man who had once lost everything might still remember what that felt like.
If fortune favored him—and if he told his story well enough—this might work.
Arya exhaled slowly, adjusted his expression into something weary but dignified, and stepped inside.
The tavern was spacious, though quiet at this hour. Long wooden tables stretched across the hall, their surfaces marked by years of spilled ale and careless knives.
Behind the counter stood a massive man polishing a mug.
He was broad enough to block half the shelves behind him. His arms were thick with muscle and marked by old burn scars. A heavy grey beard framed a face that looked permanently unimpressed.
His eyes lifted as Arya approached.
"What do you want?"
The words were blunt, almost dismissive.
Arya bowed his head slightly.
"Good morning. I was hoping to speak with the owner."
"You are."
Of course.
Arya hesitated, then spoke quietly.
"My name is Arya… and I'm looking for work."
The man gave a short, humorless chuckle.
"Join the line."
His attention returned to the mug as if the conversation were already over.
Arya felt the rejection coming before it was spoken.
So he moved quickly.
"I can cook."
The man's hands paused for a moment.
Then he sighed.
"Everyone who walks through that door says that."
Arya swallowed.
"I'm not lying."
"Neither were the last ten."
The owner set the mug down and looked at him properly for the first time.
"Where'd you cook before?"
The question came like a hammer.
Arya let his gaze drop to the floor.
His voice softened.
"My village… was east of here."
The owner waited.
Arya continued slowly.
"It was small. Just farmers and traders."
He paused, letting the silence grow heavy.
"Bandits came during the night."
The owner's expression shifted slightly.
Arya's fingers tightened around the edge of the counter.
"They burned the grain stores first… then the homes."
His voice wavered.
"I tried to help… but…"
He looked away sharply, blinking as if fighting back tears.
"I wasn't strong enough."
The tavern fell quiet.
The owner rubbed the back of his neck.
"Bandits, huh…"
Arya nodded faintly.
"There wasn't much left by morning."
For a moment neither of them spoke.
The man exhaled slowly.
"That's rough."
He reached for another mug.
"But it doesn't change the fact that I'm not hiring."
Arya's head snapped up.
"Please."
The word escaped before he could stop it.
The owner frowned.
"I said—"
"I don't need much," Arya interrupted quickly, his voice trembling just enough to sound real.
"Just a chance."
The man shook his head.
"Kid, kitchens aren't charities."
Arya's shoulders slumped.
"I know."
He took a shaky breath.
"I walked all day yesterday looking for work."
His voice cracked slightly.
"No one would even let me show them."
The owner's grip on the mug tightened.
Arya continued quietly.
"I slept on the street last night."
That earned a brief glance.
"Didn't sleep much," Arya added with a weak laugh. "The stones were… less comfortable than I expected."
For a moment the owner looked as if he might speak.
Instead he turned away.
"I can't hire every sad story that walks through my door."
Arya lowered his head.
"I'm not asking for charity."
Silence.
Then he added softly,
"Just let me cook once."
The owner hesitated.
Arya pressed the final point carefully.
"If it's terrible… I'll leave."
No pay.
No argument.
"You'll never see me again."
The man stared at him for several long seconds.
Arya didn't look away.
Finally the owner muttered under his breath.
"…damn it."
He grabbed a knife from the counter and jerked his head toward the kitchen.
"Fine."
Arya blinked.
"If it tastes like garbage," the man continued gruffly, "you're out the door before the pot cools."
He pointed toward the kitchen entrance.
"But if it's good…"
A small pause followed.
"…we'll talk."
Arya bowed deeply.
"Thank you."
The owner grunted.
"Don't thank me yet."
Arya stepped toward the kitchen, his heart beating faster than he expected.
After so much rejection—
He had finally been given a chance.