Eat and Smith

Jarathia | City | Eat and Smith

They step inside. The smell of grilled meat and smoke fills the air. The house is split in two—on one side, a restaurant with polished tables and on the other, a busy smithy with sparks flying. Behind the counter, an older woman stirs a pot while a bald, red-eyed man hammers away at steel.

“Welcome to Eat and Smith,” the woman warmly greets.

Hanla chuckles. “Funny. Catchy name.”

“Oh—Sunthia!” The woman beams. “And you brought a friend, I see. Sit anywhere you’d like.”

“Sure.” Sunthia replies, leading Hanla to a window table.

“The food here is great,” she says once they sit, “they grill with raw firestones. Gives it a taste you won’t find anywhere else.”

Hanla leans closer on her hand. “I admit, I’m intrigued. But… let me ask you something real quick, Sunthia. What would you do if a single device contained all the knowledge in the world?”

Sunthia blinks, then smiles softly. “I’d use it to enhance my view of the world.”

“Really? Even if the device could also entertain you endlessly?”

“Knowledge is entertaining.” Her eyes glow with quiet passion. “I loved school.”

Hanla’s brows lift. “That’s rare to hear.”

“Why?”

Hanla exhales, staring out the window. “I’m starting to like you, Sunthia.”

Sunthia laughs, covering her mouth. “Hehe… you’re weird, you know?”

“I know.” Hanla smirks.

Her gaze drifts to the streets outside, where nobles watch miners with curled lips of disgust. Her chest tightens. “Sunthia… I hate lies. You know that?”

“Why the sudden change of subject?”

“I don’t know.” Hanla admits. “I just hate them. I really want to seek the truth.”

Sunthia deepens her voice dramatically, raising her fists. “I WANT TO SEEK THE TRUTH! I HATE LIES! LIES ARE EVIL!”

Her impression is so over-the-top that she collapses into laughter.

Hanla blinks—then bursts out laughing herself.

“I thought it was childish, even when I was younger,” Sunthia admits, wiping her eyes, “but over time… I realize how pure it is too. How pure Nine and Raven are.”

Her laughter fades, her face softening with sadness.

That’s when the old woman walks up.

“So nice to have you stop by, Sunthia… and who’s your friend?”

Hanla grins. “You can call me Hanla. And what’s your name, beautiful lady?”

The old woman blinks in surprise, then chuckles, flattered and amused.

“Jenna. That’s my name.”

“Ohh.” Hanla tilts her head. “Like my mother.”

“Really? What a nice coincidence.” Jenna’s eyes narrow playfully at Sunthia. “Sunthia, you should have told me earlier you had such sweet friends.”

“Granny—!” Sunthia’s face turns red.

Hanla arches a brow. “Granny?”

Jenna smirks devilishly. “Not really. But I’ve known her since she was small, when she first started calling me that. But—” she leans closer with a mischievous glint in her eyes—“you can call me Mom. I’m not that old.”

Sunthia shudders and nods quickly.

Hanla laughs. “So, what’s your best meal here, Mom?”

Jenna brightens. “Not from around here, I see. From your brooch, I take it you’re an adventurer, right?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. Then I’d say the blackwood tea, combined with Darakia steak and stora salad. It’s our best.”

Hanla tilts her head. “Darakia?”

“They’re birds of prey. A popular meat among the locals. Very lean, almost no fat. That’s why we serve it with butter.”

Hanla nods thoughtfully. “So little fat you need to add butter just for balance. Interesting. Sure, why not—I’ll try it. And you, Sunthia?”

“The same.”

“Good.” Jenna claps her hands. “Coming right up.”

Then she suddenly turns toward the other side of the shop. “HEY, IDIOT SMITH! SUNTHIA IS HERE WITH A FRIEND, AND YOU HAVEN’T EVEN GREETED THEM YET!”

A deep grunt answers her. The bald, muscular old man scowls, hammer in hand.

“I have a name…” He mutters, but then puts down the hammer. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll come.”

Hanla chuckles softly at the scene. The place feels alive, safe—even cozy. She leans back in her chair, letting herself enjoy the warmth of it all.

But across from her, Sunthia sits ramrod straight. Calm on the outside, yet her hand trembles ever so slightly on her lap.

Hanla lowers her voice. “Wanna talk later?”

Sunthia keeps her eyes down. “About what?”

“About everything that happened. Only if you want.”

Sunthia quickly shakes her head.

“No. I need to hold it in. And… enjoy this time, kinda.”

Hanla studies her carefully. “Okay. But promise me you’ll talk with someone about it—eventually.”

Trauma isn’t something you can fix easily. You just learn to live with it. Maybe it’s still too fresh. And I can’t stay here for months waiting for her to open up. Even if that sounds selfish… but I have priorities too. Still, if she has people who care for her, that’s something. And I can at least keep giving her opportunities.

“You’re kind.” Sunthia softly says.

Hanla raises an eyebrow. “You think so? Even though I’m the kind of person who just punches things?”

Sunthia chuckles. “Good one. Actually, I’m surprised. The only adventurer I’ve known so far is Nine—and he’s cold. Always. He only speaks when it’s necessary.”

As she talks about him, her trembling stops.

Hanla smirks. “You like him. A lot.”

Sunthia turns red. “Nooo—”

“You do.” Hanla insists with a grin. “And it’s fine! We’re both girls, so—”

The heavy footsteps of the smith cut her off.

“Mornin’, Sun—”

Hanla swivels, spotting the bald, scarred man with arms like carved stone and sends him a smirk. “Bad timing. We were about to discuss her crush.”

“He’s not my—!” Sunthia squeaks.

The smith snorts. “Raven’s disciple, yeah.”

Hanla blinks. “You know Nine?”

“Sure. Everyone knows him.” The smith says.

“Wait, by Raven… did you mean the mythical adventurer Raven?” Hanla presses.

The smith nods. “The Guardian of our Island.”

Hanla slaps the seat beside her. “Mr. Blacksmith, sit down please! It’s time for storytime!”

“Tyreese.” Sunthia smiles, seeing him hesitate. “Come on, sit down.”

Tyreese drops onto the bench. His massive arms bulge casually at his sides. Hanla catches sight, then—without thinking—flexes her own.

Tyreese notices, and with a grunt flexes back.

“…Seriously?” Sunthia deadpans, glancing between them.

With exaggerated effort, she tries to flex too. Nothing shows.

Just then, Jenna arrives at their table, pushing a cart stacked with steaming plates. She takes one look at the scene and bursts into laughter. “I’m not flexing my muscles, too!” She teases, setting the food down with a wink.

The group freezes in embarrassed silence.

Jenna slides multiple dishes in front of Sunthia and Hanla with a smirk.

Hanla watches the process—a cup of green tea, a steak without fat, but with butter over it and then a green and orange salad with triangular leaves.

Jenna smiles at them all. “Have a great meal.”

Tyreese leans in. “For me too?”

“Eat the crumbs.” Jenna fires back, grinning devilishly.

Tyreese freezes, giving Hanla a look with the devastation of a betrayed child. “See what I have to deal with.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Jenna croons, her grin widening, “of course I made something for you too.”

They mock each other like seasoned rivals, but as Hanla watches, something shifts. The banter, the teasing warmth—it tugs at her chest.

This feeling…

In her mind’s eye, Tyreese blurs into someone else. Broad shoulders. Familiar posture. Rokku. And beside him, a white-haired woman with gentle hands.

A memory echoes, soft and vivid:

“Madame Carthe, may I get some tea?” Rokku asked politely.

“Only if you promise to keep protecting my airheaded daughter,” her mother answered, his cup of tea already in her hands and smiling at him warmly.

The vision fades. Hanla grips the knife, her throat tight.

She cuts a piece of steak and pops it into her mouth. The taste bursts across her tongue. “Wow… that’s good. It tastes like chicken.”

Tyreese squints. “Chicken?”

Hanla laughs awkwardly. “Ah… something from far away. I used to eat it a lot. It feels… familiar.”

She lifts the cup of tea and takes a slow sip. Her eyes widen. Matcha. It tastes like matcha. Almost the same.

Nostalgia hits her like a wave.

Jenna leans on the counter, satisfied. “I see you like it.”

Hanla nods silently. Sunthia takes a bite too, cheeks puffing with delight. “Jenna’s the most talented cook around.”

Hanla sets her cup down, savoring the warmth. “The food is great.”

Then her gaze shifts—steady, curious—locking on Tyreese.

Hanla leans back in her chair, silver eyes sharp. “You said Raven’s disciple… so Nine learned under her, right? And she was also a guardian here. May I ask—how was Jarathia during her time? And how long did she guard the island for?”

Tyreese answers. “One hundred and fifty years. That’s how long she stood watch. We grew… dependent on her.”

Hanla tilts her head. “So she was a shield in spite of her age?”

Sunthia nods. “If any country attacked us, Raven had the right to retaliate. And she was strong enough that no one dared to. The damage she could cause was the main reason no one dared to interfere with us.”

Hanla thinks about that, piecing the fragments together.

It makes sense. A mythical grade adventurer… that’s devastating. If she could guard them with the mere threat of a counterattack, then she wasn’t a shield—she was like a human bomb. Powerful enough to keep equilibrium just by existing. But when she died… the balance died with her.

Her voice cuts through the current silence. “Was Raven the only reason things were good back then? According to the papers, the stones had healthier prices.”

Tyreese shakes his head. “No. The old mayor had influence too. Trade flowed freely, deals were fairer. But… he died too.”

Hanla narrows her eyes. “That explains things. And the new mayor?”

Tyreese meets her gaze. “Just full of questions, aren’t you?”

Sunthia leans close, her tone softer. “Tell her, Tyreese. Please.”

Tyreese sighs, the weight of memory pulling his shoulders down. “I have to warn you. This story… doesn’t have a happy ending.”

Hanla’s expression doesn’t waver. “I know. But I need to hear it.”

From behind the counter, Jenna interrupts with a dry chuckle. “Girl, I don’t know what you’re planning—but somehow, I’m sure it’s reckless.” She walks to them and sets down another plate, this time in front of Tyreese, her eyes crinkling with a smile. “Eat well, sweetheart.”

“Thanks.” Tyreese mutters, before his gaze turns distant.

The blacksmith folds his arms, staring past them as if seeing ghosts in the fire of the forge. “Guess I’ll start…”