Marked by the Four Beast Lords After Transmigration

Old Iven looked at the small sack in Shen’s hand, then at Nia.

“How much did you buy?”

“Two measures. The seller warned me not to cook it like mountain grain, so I wanted to ask someone who knew it first.”

Old Iven held out one hand, and Shen passed him the sack. He untied it beside the broad grinding stone without pouring anything out, pushed two fingers into the pale grains, and rubbed several between his thumb and forefinger.

He set Nia’s open sack on the worktable beside him.

The grain room was warmer than the corridor outside, though most of the heat came from bodies rather than a hearth. Two men worked at the larger stones along the far wall, turning grain into coarse meal while a woman crouched beside a low sieve and shook bran from a finer portion. Every few turns, one of the men stopped to clear packed meal from the stone grooves with a thin wooden pick.

“Good,” Old Iven said. “Watergrain costs too much up here for learning by ruining a whole pot.”

“That was my concern.”

Old Iven turned toward a row of smaller grain bowls.

He was not as old as Nia had expected from the name everyone used for him. Gray filled most of his hair, but his shoulders remained broad, and his hands moved over sacks, stones, and sieves with the ease of someone who had done the same work for decades. Fine grain dust had settled into the lines across his knuckles.

He pulled a shallow bowl from the shelf and poured a small handful of watergrain into it.

“This does not grow on our mountain,” he said. “They grow it in the lower eastern wetlands. I see some most years when trade is good, but not enough that Hearthfang cooks use it like stone grain.”

Nia picked up one grain from the bowl.

“Do they grind it?”

“Sometimes, though they often do it poorly if they bring it to me without knowing what they want.” Old Iven took the grain from her fingertips and pinched it until it broke. “It can make a softer meal, but you waste half the reason people pay for it. Most of it goes into pots whole.”

Shen leaned one hip lightly against the edge of the stone table. “The seller warned us that mountain households use too little water.”

“He is right.”

“How much is enough?” Nia asked.

Old Iven snorted softly. “If there were one answer, traders would stop arguing.”

Old Iven moved the bowl closer to the light from the open work arch. “Wetland households do not all cook it the same way. Some soak it first, while others cook it after washing. Older grain usually needs more time than fresh grain, and the pot matters too. A wide one loses more steam, while a loose lid changes how quickly the water disappears.”

“So I need to learn our pot.”

“Yes.”

Old Iven reached under the worktable and brought out an old clay cup with a dark line scratched around its middle.

“When traders stay long enough to cook here, they usually start near this much grain.” He filled to the line, then tipped it back into the bowl. “Use more water than you would for stone grain. Lower the fire once it is hot, and leave the lid in place long enough for the steam to do its work.”

“How long do they soak it?”

“I have seen half a short bell. I have seen longer.” Old Iven retied the sack and pushed it back toward her. “Start small. If the center stays hard, you lost a mouthful instead of a week’s worth of trade coin.”

Nia took the sack.

Before they left, Old Iven showed her one more thing. He dropped several grains into a cup of water and rubbed them between his fingers. A pale haze spread through the cup.

“Wash that off,” he said. “Not forever. You are cleaning grain, not punishing it.”

Nia laughed before she could stop herself.

The woman working the sieve looked over and smiled without interrupting her shaking.

Old Iven set the cup beside the bowl. “You remember measures?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Keep the first test small enough that you can afford to learn from it.”

Old Iven had already turned away to correct one of the grinding stones before they reached the work arch.

Back home, Nia measured out less than a quarter of what they had bought.

The rest of the watergrain went back onto the dry shelf.

She washed the test portion in a small bowl, pouring off the cloudy water twice before the third rinse looked clearer. The wet grains slipped differently beneath her fingers than stone grain. They were smoother, and when she rubbed one between her nails, it resisted before finally splitting.

Shen set the small lidded clay pot on the hot-pot stone.

“You want the narrow one.”

“It should lose less water.”

He filled the water cup while Nia tipped the washed grain into the pot.

She used more water than she would have used for a similar amount of rice on Earth, partly because Old Iven had warned her and partly because she did not know how much this grain would take. Even so, watching the water rise over the pale grains made her hesitate.

“You can remove some,” Shen said.

“No. Then I will spend the entire cooking time wondering whether I should have listened.”

He handed her the lid.

Nia covered the pot.

The water heated, faint steam escaped around one side of the lid, and Shen adjusted the fire lower once they heard the first active bubbling beneath the clay.

Nia prepared nothing complicated beside it. She warmed yesterday’s broth, cut a few long hollow stalks, and left a small plate of cold sliced meat near the board.

A mild, almost sweet scent began rising around the lid, much closer to the plain cooked rice Nia remembered than the earthy smell of their usual grain.

Her hand drifted toward the pot.

Shen caught her wrist before she touched the lid.

“Leave it covered.”

Nia looked at the thin line of steam escaping from one edge, then let her hand fall.

Shen released her and went back to slicing the stalks.

When enough time had passed that the bubbling quieted, she pulled the pot away from the strongest heat and let it sit before finally lifting the lid.

Steam warmed her face.

The grains had lengthened. Most were separate rather than collapsing into porridge, and the surface looked better than she had expected.

Then she put one in her mouth.

The outside had softened, but a firm center remained beneath her teeth. Shen tasted from the other side of the spoon and pressed another grain between his fingers.

“The center is still hard.”

“I needed more water.”

“Or it needed more time before heat.”

“It was probably both.”

She looked at the amount remaining in the pot and sighed.

They ate the first batch anyway, spooning warm broth over the grain to soften the surface further even though it could not fix the hard centers. Shen added some of the sliced meat and passed her the bowl while he took the smaller portion for himself.

They were halfway through when someone knocked twice against the outer frame.

Sera came in carrying a folded cloth under one arm and an empty serving bowl against her hip.

“I brought this back before evening,” she said, holding out the bowl.

“I forgot you had it.”

Sera set the bowl on the clean side of the board. “Darius brought three patrol men home for midday food because apparently saying they had not eaten since first bell meant I should feed them before they remembered where their own homes were.”

“Are you short on anything?” Nia asked.

“No. They have already eaten. Two bowls of broth each, meat, roots, and enough flatbread that Darius stopped claiming they only needed something small.”

The folded cloth shifted beneath Sera’s arm, exposing a frayed corner. Shen touched the loose edge.

“This needs another stitch before you use it again.”

“I know. I am taking it to Mari after this. She has the heavier thread.”

Nia pushed her chair back. “I can do it after we finish eating.”

“No need. Mari will have it done before I finish telling her why Darius brought three hungry men through my door without warning.”

Sera kissed Nia’s forehead, then glanced toward the returned bowl.

“Do not let that sit there until supper.”

Shen reached for it. “I will put it away.”

Sera left them with the door cloth swaying behind her.

After they finished the first batch, Nia washed the pot and measured an even smaller second portion.

She covered the washed grains with clean water and left them in a bowl near the board while she and Shen rinsed their bowls from the first test, wiped the preparation surface, and put Sera’s returned bowl back in its place.

During the soak, Shen checked the time against the marks scratched into the narrow wooden strip they used for longer kitchen processes.

When the grains had rested for roughly half a short bell, Nia drained them.

“They already feel different.”

Shen pinched one between two fingers. “The surface gives sooner.”

Nia added the soaked grain to the same pot and poured in more water than before.

Shen watched the level against the inner clay.

“That is a little above your first measure.”

“Yes.”

Nia covered the pot and brought it to a steady bubble before lowering the heat.

She kept the lid in place while she warmed the last of the broth and Shen cleaned a few dried herb crumbs from the corner of the sunbell shelf.

“Do you think Old Iven will want to see this if it works?” Nia asked.

“He will want to know whether his advice worked in this pot.”

“Then we should save him a little.”

Shen set a small cup and its cover near the edge of the board.

The bubbling beneath the lid gradually softened.

Nia moved the pot away from direct heat and left it covered.

When she finally opened it, the grains looked fuller.

She pressed one between her fingers.

It yielded all the way through.

While Nia moved the pot away from the hot stone, Shen tasted a grain. He chewed, then picked up another grain and dropped it into her waiting palm.

The texture was tender without becoming mushy. The grains still had shape, but the hard center was gone.

Nia took a second bite.

“This one worked.”

“Yes.”

“With the same pot and the same grain, the longer soak, extra water, lower heat after the boil, and covered rest gave us the texture we wanted.”

Shen repeated the rough amount of water, the soak length, and the order of the heat changes while Nia wrote them onto a narrow strip.

She added the resting time, then set the strip beside the remaining watergrain to dry. Shen spooned a small portion of the finished grain into the cup for Old Iven and covered it.

They set Old Iven’s portion aside and left one small bowl on the table. Kael returned before the grain had fully cooled.

He came in carrying the smell of damp stone and spring air, left his muddy outer layer at the entrance, and washed before crossing into the kitchen.

Nia pushed the bowl toward him.

“Plain?”

“It is for now.”

Kael took one spoonful.

He chewed, looked into the bowl, and took another before finishing the small portion.

Shen retied the remaining watergrain sack while Nia picked up the dry cooking strip. There was still enough grain for several careful meals, and she slid the written strip beneath the tie before Shen placed the sack back on the dry shelf.

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