Gilded Ashes-Chapter 290: Don’t Let It Boil

Raizen stared at the recipe for béchamel sauce like it might actually attack him.

The instructions looked deceptively simple: "Melt 3 tablespoons butter. Whisk in 3 tablespoons flour to form a roux. Cook 1 - 2 minutes. Slowly add 2 cups milk, whisking constantly. Season with salt and nutmeg. Do not let it boil."

Simple.

Except for words like "roux" and "nutmeg" and the ominous warning: "Do not let it boil." 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

What happened if it boiled?

The book didn’t say.

But the books in the Academy also didn’t say WHY not to try and befriend Nyxes.

Raizen shrugged and decided he didn’t want to find out.

He set a smaller saucepan on the second burner and turned the flame to medium-low. The kitchen now felt warmer than it should’ve, like the stove was already winning on the tomato sauce front. Rain tapped at the window behind him, steady and patient. Outside, Ukai breathed damp air into the glass. Inside, he had butter and fear.

He added the butter - a generous chunk cut from the block Saffi had bought, pale yellow and smooth.

The butter sat in the pan for a moment, solid and unmoving. Then it started to soften. The edges melted first, turning liquid, pooling around the solid center. The butter slumped, collapsing in on itself, and within a minute it was completely melted - a pool of golden liquid that shimmered in the pan.

Raizen watched it carefully, waiting for the foaming to stop like the book told him to. He didn’t blink. He’d fought Nyxes with less focus than this.

When the butter was fully melted and calm, he added flour. Three tablespoons, measured carefully and added all at once. The flour hit the butter and the mixture seized immediately - turning from liquid to thick paste in an instant.

Raizen grabbed a wooden spoon and started stirring. The paste - the roux - was thick and smooth, coating the spoon heavily. It smelled faintly nutty as it cooked, the flour toasting in the butter’s heat.

He kept stirring, making sure it didn’t stick to the bottom of the pan. The spoon scraped softly, a steady rhythm that made his shoulders loosen a fraction.

Thirty seconds. The roux bubbled gently, tiny blisters forming and popping on its surface.

One minute. It darkened slightly, going from pale beige to light tan.

Good.

Raizen glanced once at the other pan - the tomato sauce he had started earlier. It was simmering like it knew what it was doing, red and confident, filling the room’s air with garlic and herb aromas. The béchamel felt like the opposite of that. A white mystery. A trap disguised as comfort food.

Time for the milk. Raizen picked up the measuring cup - two full cups of milk, white and cold. Condensation clung to the plastic like sweat.

The book said: "Add slowly, whisking constantly."

He picked up the whisk - a wire contraption that felt awkward in his hand - and started adding milk. Just a little at first. A thin stream, poured while whisking frantically.

The milk hit the hot sauce and the mixture seized. Hard. It clumped immediately, thick lumps forming in the thin liquid, refusing to dissolve. Raizen’s stomach dropped.

"Uh - "

He whisked harder.

The lumps didn’t break down. They just got bigger, floating in the milk like ugly little clouds of failure. For half a second, he froze, staring at it like it had betrayed him personally.

A laugh almost escaped him. Almost. It would’ve sounded hysterical, so he swallowed it.

"Yeah, yeah, keep whisking" Saffi’s voice came from behind him, calm and unhurried. "Add more milk."

Raizen didn’t turn. If he turned, he might laugh. If he laugh, the sauce would probably boil out of spite.

He added more milk, pouring with one hand while whisking with the other, his arm aching from the effort.

The sauce stayed lumpy.

"Whisk faster."

Raizen whisked faster, the metal wires scraping against the bottom of the pan, his wrist moving in tight, frantic circles. It sounded like he was trying to sandpaper the stove.

"Not like you’re fighting it" Saffi added, still calm. "Like you’re trying to convince it."

Raizen made a sound that might’ve been agreement, might’ve been a scared whine. He adjusted his grip and changed the motion - wider circles, then back and forth, then small sharp strokes through the biggest lumps.

Slowly - agonizingly, impossibly slowly - the lumps began to break down. The sauce thinned as more milk went in, then thickened again as the flour absorbed the liquid and swelled. It was like it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be.

Raizen kept whisking, refusing to stop, his entire focus narrowed to this one task.

Make it smooth. And don’t let it boil.

He leaned closer, watching the surface for movement. Tiny bubbles formed at the edges and died. The middle stayed calm. The middle was his friend. The edges were suspicious.

The lumps got smaller.

He whisked harder, tilting the pan slightly to make sure he reached every corner. Sauce crawled up the sides and slid back down, thick and glossy now, starting to look like something people served on purpose.

Even smaller.

The sauce began to cooperate.

It smoothed out, the lumps dissolving into the liquid, the texture evening out. The sound changed too - from wet slapping chaos to a soft, creamy whisper.

Raizen didn’t trust it yet. He kept whisking. His arm hurt for real now.

Finally - finally - the last lump disappeared.

The sauce was smooth now – thick, creamy and perfectly white, coating the back of the spoon when he lifted it.

Raizen exhaled in relief, his arm still clenched from the effort. His shoulder felt like he’d been sparring Kenzo for an hour – actually, no. Half an hour. Over milk.

He added salt - just a pinch.

And nutmeg - an even smaller pinch, the spice dark and fragrant, almost earthy. The scent rose immediately, warm and strange, like winter tucked into a kitchen.

The sauce simmered gently - not boiling, just barely moving, tiny bubbles forming at the edges like it wanted to misbehave but was too tired.

Raizen whisked it one more time, slow now, controlled, making sure it stayed smooth, then turned off the heat.

He covered it with a clean cloth to keep it warm and prevent a skin from forming. The book had said that too. The book had too many opinions.

Done.

Two sauces complete.

Raizen set the whisk down and flexed his aching hand, fingers stiff. He rolled his wrist once like he was resetting a joint after a fight.

He looked at Saffi.

She was leaning against the counter with her arms folded, watching him like she’d been watching a test chamber stabilize. Her expression was neutral for a second, then it broke into a small, genuine smile.

"Yayy, you did it" she said.

Raizen looked at the two pans - one with rich, red tomato sauce, still bubbling gently; the other with smooth, white béchamel, resting under its cloth.

"Yeah" he said quietly.

He did.

He glanced at the recipe again. The next step waited like a new enemy, innocent and smug.