Gilded Ashes-Chapter 292: Lasagna, From Scratch

Everything was ready now.

Raizen stood in front of the table, surveying his nearly-complete work like a general before battle.

Tomato sauce - thick and fragrant, the surface glossy with olive oil and studded with flecks of basil.

Béchamel - smooth and creamy, resting under its cloth, still warm.

Pasta sheets - thin and imperfect, laid out on the flour-dusted towel, slightly uneven but whole.

Vegetables - mushrooms and spinach, tender and seasoned, glistening with oil and lemon juice.

Cheese - a generous pile, freshly grated, the pieces soft and ready to melt.

The baking dish sat in the center of the table - a deep, rectangular ceramic pan, its interior glazed and smooth.

The cookbook lay open beside it, instructions clear and unambiguous:

"Layer as follows: thin layer of tomato sauce, pasta sheet, more sauce, vegetables, béchamel, cheese. Repeat until dish is full. Top with extra cheese. Bake at 375°F for 35-40 minutes until golden and bubbling."

Simple. In theory. Raizen picked up a spoon and started with the tomato sauce.

He ladled a thin layer onto the bottom of the dish, spreading it evenly with the back of the spoon. The red sauce coated the ceramic, pooling slightly in the corners, the smell rising warm and rich.

Next: pasta sheet.

He picked up the first one carefully - it was delicate, threatening to tear if he wasn’t gentle - and laid it down.

It covered most of the bottom, but not quite all. The edges didn’t reach the corners.

He tore a scrap from another sheet and patched the gap. It had to do.

More tomato sauce. He spooned it over the pasta, spreading it evenly, watching the red coat the pale dough, seeping into the small tears and imperfections.

Then: vegetables.

Mushrooms and spinach, scattered across the sauce in an even layer. The dark greens and browns contrasted beautifully with the red.

Then: the béchamel sauce. Raizen drizzled it over the vegetables, the white sauce pooling in the gaps between the pieces, creating a marbled effect - red and white swirling together.

After that, he generously sprinkled some cheese, the shredded pieces falling like oversized snow, covering everything in a blanket of beige.

One layer done.

He stepped back and looked at it.

It was... Beautiful, kind of, in a messy, imperfect way.

The colors layered like sediment - red, green, white, pale yellow.

He repeated the process. Pasta sheet - this one tore more, required more patches. Sauce - rich and thick, spreading easily. Vegetables - earthy and tender. Béchamel - smooth and creamy. Cheese - generous and ready to melt.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The tray filled slowly, layer by layer, the lasagna growing taller with each addition.

By the fourth layer, Raizen’s hands were coated in sauce and cheese. His forearms were still dusted with flour. There was a smear of sauce on his cheek that he didn’t remember getting.

But the lasagna was coming together. Fifth layer. Sixth.

The dish was almost full now, the layers visible through the sides - striped like geological layers, each color slightly distinct.

Final layer: pasta sheet on top, then a generous coating of tomato sauce and cheese.

So much cheese.

Raizen used almost all of what was left, covering the top completely, making sure every inch was covered.

He stepped back.

The lasagna sat before him, tall, proud and slightly chaotic.

The edges weren’t perfect. Some layers were thicker than others. The pasta sheets were visible in places, poking through where the sauce hadn’t quite covered them.

But it was there.

Raizen stared at it for a long moment.

Then he picked it up carefully - it was heavier than he expected, dense with all those layers - and carried it to the oven.

The oven had been preheating while he worked, and when he opened the door, heat washed over his face like a physical wall. It felt like when Keahi randomly swung near his face, just to startle him.

He slid the dish onto the center rack and closed the door.

Then he set the timer to thirty-five minutes.

He wiped his hands on a towel and turned to Saffi.

She was watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite name.

"Now we wait" Raizen said, to nobody in particular.

The first ten minutes were quiet.

Raizen sat at the table, hands folded, staring at the oven door. Saffi sat across from him, equally quiet.

The rain outside had softened to a gentle whisper against the roof.

And the room was a lot warmer now - the stove and oven had been running for over an hour, and the heat had built up, making the air cozy and comfortable.

Then the smell started.

Faint at first - just a hint of tomato and garlic, barely noticeable over the ambient scent of the sauces.

Then stronger.

The cheese began to melt, and its scent filled the room – rich and creamy, the smell of it breaking down in heat. The béchamel thickened further, its milk and butter melding into one unified, luxurious whole.

Fifteen minutes.

The smell intensified.

It wasn’t just one thing anymore. It was layers - literal layers of scent, each one distinct but harmonizing with the others.

Tomato. Garlic. Onion. Basil.

Mushroom. Spinach. Lemon.

Butter. Milk. Nutmeg. Cheese.

So much cheese.

Raizen inhaled deeply, and his stomach growled.

Saffi’s did too, even though she tried to hide it with a forced cough.

Twenty minutes.

The smell was overwhelming now. Raizen stood and walked to the oven, unable to resist.

He bent down and peered through the glass door. Inside, the lasagna was transforming. The cheese on top had melted completely, turning from shredded pieces into a unified, bubbling surface. It was starting to brown now - pale gold in some spots, deeper amber in others, the heat from the oven working its magic.

The edges were darker, almost crispy, the exposed pasta sheets curling slightly as they dried out.

The sauce was bubbling up through the layers, visible through gaps in the cheese, rich and red and glossy. Steam rose from the dish in lazy curls. It looked... Incredible.

Twenty-five minutes.

Raizen sat back down, but he couldn’t stay still.

His leg bounced under the table. His fingers drummed against his thigh. He kept glancing at the oven.

Saffi watched him with quiet amusement.

"You’re nervous" she observed.

"I’m not nervous."

"You’re bouncing."

Raizen stilled his leg. "I’m... Eager."

"Mhm."

Thirty minutes.

The smell was so strong now that Raizen could taste it - or thought he could. His mouth watered. His stomach felt hollow despite having eaten breakfast.

Five more minutes.

He could wait five more minutes. Probably.

Thirty-three minutes.

Saffi stood and walked to the window, looking out at the rain. Raizen stayed at the table, eyes locked on the oven.

Thirty-five minutes.

The timer rang - a sharp, metallic "ding" that cut through the room.

Raizen shot to his feet. He grabbed a thick cloth and walked to the oven, his heart beating faster than it should for something as simple as opening a door. He pulled the door open. Heat rolled out in a wave – thick and fragrant.

And there, inside, the lasagna.

The cheese on top had browned perfectly - golden in most places, dark amber at the edges, bubbling gently with tiny blisters of oil rising to the surface.

The sauce was visible around the edges, hissing softly, releasing steam.

It looked exactly like the picture in the cookbook.

No.

It was even better. Because this was real.

Raizen slid the oven mitts on and carefully lifted the dish out, setting it on the table with extreme care. The ceramic was almost too hot to hold even through the mitts.

He stepped back.

Saffi moved closer, her eyes wide. The lasagna sat between them, rustic, imperfect and absolutely beautiful.

It was made by him.

Saffi stared at it.

Then she looked at Raizen.

"You did that" she said softly.

Raizen stared at the lasagna.

His arms ached. His back ached. His hands were stained with tomato and dusted with flour. There was sauce on his shirt and cheese under his fingernails.

He stood there, and in his mind, he told himself...

"Damn. Being a woman is hard."

But he made this. From scratch. With his own hands.

"Yeah" he said quietly.

"Not bad" Saffi said, and her voice was warm with genuine respect.

Raizen smiled.

"Yeah. Not bad at all."

Then, suddenly-

Raizen heard a soft rustling sound. Not from the oven. Not from the rain. Something dry. Something shifting.

Raizen turned his head toward the corner of the room. The cocoon.

The dark wooden shell that had formed around Enya’s sleeping body trembled faintly. A thin vine slid loose, tapping softly against the floor. Another followed. The hardened surface cracked in quiet lines, splitting apart like bark peeling from a tree.

Saffi straightened immediately.

Raizen took a step forward. The cocoon kept loosening in layers, the wood softening back into living vines. They retreated slowly, unwinding, curling back into themselves as if embarrassed for being there in the first place.

And inside, Enya sat up slowly, helmet gone, pale green hair slightly messy and flattened on one side. She rubbed her eyes with both fists like a child who’d slept far too long. A faint crease marked her cheek from where she’d pressed it against the mattress.

Her eyes were red.

She blinked a few times, squinting at the light.

Then she sniffed. Her nose twitched.

"...What’s that smell?"

Her voice was hoarse from sleep. Raizen felt something tighten in his chest for a split second. Then he cleared his throat, trying to sound casual.

"That?" he said, glancing back at the table.

He gestured vaguely at the steaming dish like it was no big deal.

"I just made... A lasagna from scratch."