It was about time for dinner.
Lara's stomach clenched as she watched the soldier who volunteered to cook prepare to ruin their dinner.
He was about to toss the freshly cut chicken into a pot of plain boiling water—no seasoning, no care, just a cruel, thoughtless dunk. The very idea made her grit her teeth. These pheasants had died for them. They deserved better treatment.
"Step aside," she ordered, taking the knife from his hands before he could protest.
She worked swiftly, her fingers moving with practiced efficiency as she prepared a broth infused with papaya, moringa leaves, and lemongrass. A medicinal stew—one she learned in her past life.
As the scent of simmering broth filled the air, Lara tried not to dwell on the price of this meal. Three chickens gone. Sandoz would rage when he found out. He had counted the chicken, after all, and he wouldn't expect to lose three in a single night.