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For the time being, he would make do with what little there was. Such was life in this world.
He knelt before the hearth, brushing aside the cold ashes before laying down a few pieces of pinewood. The dry wood caught quickly, and soon the orange flame flickered to life, licking against the stones. Its warmth crept into the air, soft and steady.
He set a clay pot above the fire and filled it with clear water from the jar nearby. Then his gaze drifted to the small table where the morning's ingredients waited a strip of dried fish and shrimp, and a bundle of mushrooms still beaded with mountain dew.
At the far side of the kitchen sat a clay pot filled with glutinous rice or rather, what little remained of it. When Han Yan lifted the lid, he found only a thin layer at the bottom, just enough to cover his palm. He ran his fingers lightly through the grains. They were short and round, polished to a soft sheen, cool beneath his touch. After a moment's hesitation, he took a small measure barely enough for two bowls and poured it into a wooden basin.
"Fisherman's porridge" he murmured, half to himself. He'd first tried it during a short stay by the coast and learned it from an old man mending nets by the pier. He never thought such a simple dish would become useful right now.
As the minutes passed, the smell began to change. The dryness of the fish softened, blending with the faint sweetness of shrimp and the fresh earthiness of mushrooms. A gentle fragrance unfurled through the little kitchen, threading through the air like invisible silk.
He rinsed the glutinous rice carefully, the short, round grains polished to a soft sheen. Water swirled between his fingers until it turned cloudy, the faint starch scent rising in the cool air. The sound of the grains falling into the pot pat, pat, pat blended with the soft crackle of firewood, forming a quiet rhythm that filled the still kitchen.
In Yongning kingdom, this kind of glutinous rice wasn't the finest grain, yet it was common among smaller villages like, Hangul village humble, filling, and gentle on the stomach.
It grew well in damp soil and could be stored through the colder months, though most households kept only a little at a time. Even so, its faint sweetness carried a warmth that coarse rice could not.
Next, he turned to the dried fish. Its flesh was firm, edges slightly curled, and it glistened faintly under the morning light. Han Yan tore it into thin strips and placed them in a small bowl of water to soften, careful not to let them lose what little flavor they still held.
The shrimp beside it were much the same small and pale, their shells thin and fragile. He rinsed them lightly, the water turning cloudy before he set them aside.
He reached for the mushrooms. Their round caps were still damp from the mountain air, the scent of rain and soil clinging to them. As he brushed away the stray bits of dirt, he couldn't help but think how fresh food here tasted different unprocessed, simple, almost too honest.
The knife moved in a quiet rhythm, slicing each mushroom into even slivers. Each cut released a light, earthy fragrance that mingled with the crackle of pinewood from the hearth.
The fire burned low and steady, resin hissing softly as the logs caught. Han Yan crouched and added another small piece of wood, watching as the flames licked higher, wrapping the pot in a soft orange glow. The warmth brushed against his face, chasing away the lingering chill of dawn.
Han Yan leaned over the pot, lifting the lid just enough to peek inside. The porridge had thickened, its surface bubbling softly. A faint shimmer floated on top not oil, but the trace essence drawn from the fish itself.
He stirred it gently, listening to the quiet bloop, bloop that marked each breath of the simmering rice.
The longer it cooked, the softer the ingredients became the mushrooms turned tender, the shrimp plump, the dried fish melting into the porridge until only its taste lingered.
The aroma that drifted from the pot was soft yet irresistible the sweetness of rice mingling with the faint savor of fish and shrimp. It wasn't overwhelming, but it wrapped room, the kind of smell that made one's mouth water before the first bite.
When he finally deemed it ready, Han Yan lifted the lid once more. Steam rushed out, wrapping his face in warmth. The porridge within was thick and creamy, its surface glistening faintly. The rice had softened to near translucence, each grain melting into the broth until it looked more like silk than soup.
He stirred slowly. The wooden ladle made a smooth circle through the porridge, sending another wave of warmth rising soft and familiar.
He ladled a small portion into a bowl and blew gently before taking a sip. The flavor was plain yet full the sea's faint echo, the sweetness of grain, the whisper of earth from the mushrooms.
No oil, no seasoning or even a little bit of salt only what nature allowed and the hearth could coax. Still, it was enough.
Outside, the sun had climbed a little higher, and the faint wind carried the smell of the fragrant porridge out into the little courtyard. Smoke drifted lazily above the roof.
Just as Han Yan was about to ladle the porridge into bowls, he felt a prickling at the back of his neck the unmistakable sensation of being watched.
He turned slightly.
At the doorway, two small heads peeked in one higher, one lower. Dong Hai's hair was still tousled from sleep, sticking up like little tufts of grass after rain.
Beside him, Lin Xin blinked sleepily, his robe half-tied and eyes hazy with drowsiness, though the faint pink on his cheeks betrayed that he'd rushed over in a hurry.
Both of them were staring straight at the pot.
The steam drifted toward them, curling past the doorframe and brushing over their faces like invisible threads. Their eyes followed the fragrance wide, shining, utterly unblinking.
For a long time, none of them spoke.
Han Yan met their gaze, ladle still in hand, caught between exasperation and amusement. Their expressions were so earnest, so full of longing that he couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry.
Dong Hai was the first to break the silence. He took a hesitant step forward, his little nose twitching as he whispered, "It smells so good…" His tone was almost reverent, as though afraid to disturb the fragrance floating in the air.
Lin Xin's stomach answered for him a quiet growl that made Dong Hai's eyes light up and Han Yan's lips twitch. Lin Xin's face flushed deep red; he quickly looked away, pretending to study the wild vegetables drying on the rafters.
"I-It's not that I was hungry," he muttered, voice low. "It's just… the smell was too strong. It woke us up."
Han Yan raised a brow, amusement glinting faintly in his eyes. "Oh? Then I suppose I should apologize for making breakfast too well?"
Lin Xin hesitated, his lips parting then, as if realizing how it sounded, he pressed them together again. "...I didn't mean that," he mumbled, the tips of his ears turning crimson.
"You two look like hungry cats at the door." Han Yan chuckled lightly.
"We didn't mean to sneak," Dong Hai admitted, inching closer. "It's just that… the smell came all the way to the room."
Han Yan sighed in defeat. "Come in, then."
He ladled the thick porridge into three bowls the aroma rising anew, gentle and rich, filling the small kitchen like a quiet blessing. The steam brushed across their faces, softening the light in their eyes.
When the first spoonful touched their lips, the room fell silent the only sounds were the faint clink of bowls and the soft crackle of the fire.
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