Archive of Our Own

It was just another bake, no different from any other he’d done in the last two years. It didn’t matter that it would be under the scrutiny of the two most stringent pastry judges on this side of the Turson Ocean. It was just another bake for his girls.

The knot in Paz’s chest loosened and he released a slow breath. It might have been the season finale of television's most popular baking show, but it was still just another bake.

It had been his girls who’d applied to the show on his behalf, helped in no small part, he suspected, by his riduur and several others in the Ganister City tribe. Whether they’d truly believed he had a blossom’s chance in a monsoon of getting in was debatable, but one day in early spring, his riduur and his daughters, Shaiya and Laorn, had come home waving a piece of paper like it was on fire. Between excited shrieks, they’d gotten out that the next season of the Great Albion Baking Show, one of their favorite television programs, was to be held in Ebrya. When Paz finally snagged the letter from Shaiya’s hands and read through the invitation to compete, his mouth had popped open in shock.

“Nobody can bake like you, buir!” Laorn had yelled, dancing around him in wheeling circles, her arms raised high. “You gotta go! You’ll win!”

“I… ad’ika,” Paz stammered. “I have to work on Saturdays, sarad.” His younger daughter laid her head against his leg and he stroked her short, puffy braids.

Shaiya’s face fell as she signed, But you got in. They want you to compete. You would be the first mando’ad on the show.

Paz shook his head slowly, lost for words. His eldest looked down at the ground, her little shoulders hunched. Her disappointment was evident in her signed response.

I just thought it would be cool.

As she slumped back to her room, Paz had felt hollow.

Later that night, as he lay in bed with his riduur, she interlaced their fingers. “Are you sure you don’t want to do it?” She asked in their native tongue.

Paz had sighed, already half-asleep after a long day. “It’s not about what I want. We can’t lose the money from the weekend shifts right now.” His day job at a convenience store gave him the flexibility to be home on weekday evenings with his ade, but the high-end nightclub where he worked security on the weekends was what paid their rent.

“If it’s what you want, we’ll find a way.” Asana squeezed his hand. “I’ve watched you put aside so much for us… for our people… I want you to do something you want for once.”

He tilted his head until their foreheads touched, rumbling, “I’ll think about it.”

Five months and eleven weeks later, it was still hard to believe. The enormous white tent around him felt strangely barren. The empty workbenches between the remaining three bakers, down from twelve, seemed to stretch on forever.

He straightened as the two judges and their hosts finally entered the tent, lining up at the front of the room with pleasant, excited smiles. They were kind folk, but they lived in a whole other world than Paz and his aliit.

Upon accepting the offer to compete, he’d received instructions in preparation for the filming sessions. Among them was a list of questions to give the audience background on the contestants.

Where are you from? What do you do for work? What are your hobbies? When and how did you start baking? How have challenges in your life shaped your motivation to succeed? What inspired you to enter the competition?

He’d debated answering some of the questions with lies. Or withdrawing entirely from the competition. After all, it was only a short step between identifying himself publically as a Mandalorian and questions about whether he’d fought in the Civil War and then on which side. Did he really want to be branded a terrorist on public television? On a baking show, for Issik’s sake?

Ultimately, Paz hadn’t wanted his ade to see him hiding who he was or where he came from, so he settled on the truth—a truncated, simplified version of it, perhaps, but the truth.

I spent summers and winters at the Vizsla ancestral home in the Concordian mountains in Eastern Mandalore.

My parents worked in Ebrya during the year and brought my brother and I back to attend school here.

After high school, I served in the Ebryian military and fought in the Concordian Civil War.

The most important things in my life are my family and my community.

I bake for my girls.

His two clever, brave, beautiful ade.

The morning of that first day of taping, the four of them had piled into their car. Asana drove them all to the bucolic parkland where the competition would take place, northeast of Ganister City. Laorn sang out questions as Shaiya tapped her own queries briskly on his arm in dadita from the backseat.

Can you tell Prue that we like how colorful her outfits are?

“Can you ask them what’s the best thing they’ve ever tasted?!”

Ask Paul if his real name is Hollywood!

Asana had let out the little croaking chuckle that he’d fallen in love with as she put the car in park and glanced over at him, a smile on her lips. “We’ll pick you up tonight. Jate ka’ra, ner ruus.”

Paz rubbed his chest. He hadn’t realized what a toll it would take to lose the precious moments with his aliit and his people in the evenings and on the weekends. It had driven home just how much it meant to have the sound of mando’a in his ears, to swallow a laugh along with his tihaar at the wry, biting humor of the elders commenting on the latest local news; how it warmed his heart to watch Shaiya race around with the other children or Laorn practice dancing, her little face so serious and focused. In the last few weeks, he’d felt at the end of a tether stretched too far. Like if he pulled it hard, it would snap and leave him floating with nothing to carry him home again.

One more day.

*******

The rain had petered out on this final day and the sun shone weakly through the trees. Paz watched a deer nibble at the immaculately manicured lawn at the edge of the woods as he mixed the yeasted dough for his uj’alayi. His girls had been growing increasingly excited for the end-of-season finale party and, as far as Paz could tell, had delivered hand-written invitations to the entire Ganister City tribe. Given the current political climate, he worried it would be too risky for them to gather, but the idea of the tribe descending on the park with food enough to feed an army and no shortage of tihaar was too tempting to turn down. He just hoped he wouldn’t disappoint them.

Each week he’d dreaded it would be the week that he would return to the car, idling at the curb, and tell them that he had been eliminated. Each week, as he had made it further in the competition, he’d strode a little faster to get to the little four-by-four. The one thing that never varied week to week was the sound of his daughters’ excited voices and his riduur’s greeting mirshmure’cya.

Today would be the last day he walked across that too-green grass, stepped over the neat bed of pink and white impatiens, and reached for the car door handle. There was a fluttering in his chest as he turned off the mixer, checking the consistency of the dough before his mouth firmed in approval. As he tipped the dough into another bowl and covered it to rest, Paz glanced over the notes he’d written to himself in mando’a. Logistics had kept him alive before. He could only hope that it would bring them glory today.

The next hour went by quickly as the hosts made a few quick sweeps around the tent. Much to Paz’s annoyance, Noel and Sandy had been remarkably unphased by even his most intimidating glower, which he blamed partly on the fact that Paul regularly fixed his own scowl on them. He chalked up the rest to neither of them being blessed with the sense of self-preservation the gods gave to a melon.

As the camera crew followed the judges around the room, he could hear the other two contestants discussing their baking details. Hilde, a middle-aged Ebryian woman who wore her hair in a severe bun, had a number of traditional baking tricks up her sleeve that almost made up for her dislike of anything she deemed ‘extravagant seasoning.’ For the final showstopper—a picnic feast with a special dessert as the centerpiece—she was combining several elements that had netted her handshakes from Paul earlier in the season.

Paz raised his eyebrows as she described the tower of macarons she envisioned for her final centerpiece. It wasn’t that he didn’t have faith in her skill, but Paul was notoriously judgemental when it came to showstoppers. The man might be one hell of a baker but it didn’t stop him from being a shabuir from time to time. The result of fame and halfway good looks for an Ebryian, in his riduur’s words.

The judges moved on to the other remaining contestant, Thomas, and Paz’s mouth twisted as the man’s reedy voice reached him.

“...And for the centerpiece, I’m making a traditional Ebryian Celebration Cake. No sense in changing what’s already perfect, in my opinion.”

The judges politely expressed their anticipation at tasting his creations and Paz’s lip curled further. Most of the contestants had been perfectly pleasant to him, but Thomas had made his feelings about Paz - and his people - evident from the time they’d first introduced themselves. Paz was more than happy to keep his distance from the man. There was nothing to be gained in trying to reason with bigots.

He pulled the chicken he’d left to marinate out of the fridge and when he turned back to his bench, the judges were waiting for him. Prue, who had taken more and more of a liking to him throughout the season’s taping, offered him a warm smile.

“Good morning, Paz.”

“Morning, ma’am. Sir,” he nodded to Paul. Prue pulled a good-natured face at the respectful title. She had objected heartily to it since the first episode, and after a few weeks, it had become something of a joke between them.

“Could you tell us what you’ll make for your summer picnic?” She asked.

“Well…” He hesitated for a moment before pushing himself onward. He squared his shoulders and continued, “I’m making an Eparav’ika mando’ade. A taste of a Mandalorian feast.”

Prue’s eyes lit up as he described each dish, and even Paul’s usual enigmatic half-frown twitched in interest.

“...The centerpiece for the dessert will be an uj’alayi cake,” Paz finished.

“An- excuse me?” Prue leaned forward, raising her eyebrows. “I’m not familiar with that.”

“Uj’alayi,” Paz enunciated. “Every yaim, every house, in Mandalore has a different recipe for uj’alayi. It’s an iced sweet dough with nuts and fruit kneaded in.”

“That could be tricky,” Prue warned. “If you mix too much fruit in, it can alter the texture of the dough.”

“It can,” he agreed.

“Should we see any sort of pattern to it?” Paul asked.

“Yes, sir. I’ll be braiding it.”

“Well,” Paul said, sharing a look with Prue, “I look forward to seeing how it turns out.”

“It all sounds delicious. I can’t wait to taste it,” Prue added, reaching across the table to squeeze Paz’s forearm. He gave her an appreciative if slightly curt nod, and they wandered back to the front of the tent.

As the various timers on the bench before him ticked down and he made his way through his instructions, Paz settled into the same mindset he always used when organizing supplies, restocking his ammunition, or folding laundry: all well-practiced routines.

He stirred the tiingilar. The aroma that floated up from the pot tickled his nose, the spices bringing warmth to his chest. The recipe was one his grandfather had taught him as a child. He’d lost count of the times he had crouched beside Ghir as his ba’buir stirred a pot over an open fire on the thick rock outcropping overlooking the mountains at Dral Osaath. Ghir had always stubbornly insisted on cooking his tiingilar outside, as his buire had done. Once the spicy stew was done, his grandfather would leave a bowl along the cliff's edge with a bottle of netra’gal.

To keep the gods on our side, ad’ika.

As children, Paz and his vod’ika Xaolk had hidden behind the rocks near the edge of the mouth of the mine, waiting to see the gods come to enjoy their meal until their got’buir shooed them inside.

"How's it going, Paz?" Noel asked, appearing out of nowhere and propping himself on the edge of the workbench with one hand.

A little irritated at having been caught in the grip of aay’han, Paz merely lifted his chin towards the various incomplete elements of his challenge in answer.

Noel leaned over the pot of tiingilar, letting out a hum halfway between curiosity and appreciation. "Are you doing weekly meal prep, too?" When Paz frowned, he held his hands above the pot, indicating its size. "You’ve got quite a lot of food here," Noel commented.

"Needs to be enough for everyone," Paz answered as he began rolling cold butter out between two sheets of wax paper.

"Your family's coming today, right? Friends, too?"

"Yes."

"A veritable horde," Noel joked. Paz did his best to ignore the insinuation. The host didn’t mean it the way most people did. He was just an idiot.

"I don't think Thomas will want any, though," Noel added, leaning forward conspiratorially, though he didn’t bother to lower his voice.

At the next workbench over, Thomas made a show of wrinkling his nose.

"Too spicy for Ebryians anyway," Paz concluded.

Noel let out a barking laugh and straightened, tapping his knuckles loosely on the workbench. "Good thing Prue doesn't mind a bit of heat, right?"

Paz snorted, but before Noel could reply, Sandy called out, “Bakers, you have two hours! Two hours left.”

“Good talk as always,” Noel said cheerfully as he wandered off—no doubt to perform a puppet show with a spoon or some other bizarre and somehow endearing dikut’la.

Leaving the host to whatever took his fancy, Paz tucked the butter back in the refrigerator and began rolling out the dough, mentally calculating how large he would need to make it. Gaan’skraan, pockets of thickened curry in pastry, were only as good as the ratio between the dough and filling. He’d grown up with them tucked into his lunch bag for school or snatching one off a platter in the kitchen of the Vizsla personal residence at Dral Osaath for a snack in the afternoons. It hadn't been until he had returned to Osaath as a soldier that he’d seen the monumental number baked for the units that streamed through the fortress daily. They were a staple as a travel-ready meal and as good cold as hot.

The fortress kitchens were many times larger than the ones in the Vizsla clan’s personal residence, where Paz had spent his summers and winters. The fortress kitchens were an earsplitting ratchet of hissing steam, the clatter of cooking utensils, pots, and pans, and, underpinning it all, the buzz of conversation from the skraanure, who knew their recipes better than they knew their riduur’s names.

When Paz had returned to Dral Osaath as part of a unit of enlisted soldiers deployed from Ebrya to assist Kyr’tsad, he’d felt a deep pride and respect for the well-oiled war machine his clan had built. The first night, when the unit was in the barracks settling down for the night, another verd in blue and grey armor had come for Paz.

“The commander wants to see you,” he’d said. Exchanging a quick glance with Xaolk, Paz had left his pack and followed the escort back into the corridor. Shadows followed them along the thick-cut walls as they wound their way deeper into the mountain. The number of verde they passed grew fewer and fewer until his escort eventually stopped outside a door and knocked.

“K’olar,” Pre Vizsla’s voice was muffled through the door, but the ring of command in it was unmistakable. As the escort opened the door and ushered Paz inside, Pre turned from his place at a desk. The quarters of the commander of Kyr’tsad were sparse. The only decor was a flag with the clan’s name, the hawk eyeing Paz fiercely as he entered the room.

“My nephew,” Pre said as he came to his feet. It was strange to see his ba’vodu dressed only in his kute of tight-fitted black pants and a grey tunic, his face and feet bare. “Vor’e, Cav. That will be all tonight.” The escort nodded silently and closed the door behind him.

Pre laid his hands on Paz’s shoulders, looking him over with satisfaction. “Your buir would be so proud to see this day. But he will watch our victory from the manda, eh?”

“Lek, ba’vodu,” Paz nodded firmly. Pre clapped him on the shoulder before turning and waving a hand to a chest in the corner. “I have something for you, as the eldest heir of clan Vizsla.”

Approaching it on wooden legs, Paz came to one knee before the chest, his heart pounding as his fingers ran across the familiar leather patterning on the top of the trunk. How many times in his youth had he snuck into his buir’s room to peer inside?

He pulled out the blue helmet that his father had worn. The reflection of his face was distorted in the metal, Pre’s features just visible from behind his shoulder.

“I want you at my side, Paz,” his uncle said in mando’a. “In time, I intend for you to become my second in command.”

From the moment Paz took up his father’s beskar’gam, he had thrown himself into the cause. He did not allow any distractions. His only cyare was the mountains, and he learned the red dirt roads that wound through them like the face of a loved one. The only thoughts in his mind were for Mandalore and the independence of Concordia. The freedom of their people to live and work in peace without greedy hands grabbing for the ore beneath their feet.

He’d risen through the ranks quickly, working hard to put to rest any rumors that his success came from his lineage alone. Before long, he had been brought in on planning sessions with his ba’vodu and the others in the high command of the Concordian Defense Force. He had a sound mind for strategy, and the high that came from seeing approval on his uncle’s face had been intoxicating.

As Paz’s fingers moved through the familiar motions of filling the little dough pockets and crimping them shut again, his unsettled thoughts strayed to Pre’s other second-in-command. Bo-Katan Kryze had been his right-hand general. As ruthless as she was clever, she’d shown a craving for power that could not be ignored.

There was no love lost between them. In Paz, Bo-Katan saw a competitor. Pre had never been subtle about his plans to replace her with Paz, the true Vizsla heir, when the time came. And in Bo-Katan, Paz saw something chilling: the willingness to bring the country to its knees to achieve his ba’vodu’s vision. Pre had insisted that the two of them work together and it had quickly become apparent that his uncle turned a blind eye to the ease with which Bo-Katan used civilians as bait to ensnare the Mave.

One afternoon, following a strategy meeting, Paz had finally gathered the courage to tell Pre about his concerns about the danger Bo-Katan posed. He was taken aback when Pre laughed.

“Of course she’s dangerous. She’s lethal. Why do you think I keep her on a short leash, pointed firmly at the enemy, vod’ad?”

In the end, when the full scale of the Ebryian betrayal had become clear, Pre had let Bo-Katan off the leash. Paz had heard one day from one of the other verde that there had been a strategy meeting, and his stomach had twisted. He hadn’t been invited. Cornering Bo-Katan outside the mess hall, he’d hissed, “What did you do?”

She’d just smiled, the expression sickening. “Our plans are none of your concern.”

Cursing, Paz went to find Pre. He’d found him, at last, murmuring with another one of his generals. They’d stopped when Paz entered the room. The general left the room and Paz removed his helmet, wanting his uncle to see his face.

“Do you not trust me now? After everything? Your own blood?”

Removing his own helmet, Pre rested a hand on Paz’s shoulder. “On the contrary. I need someone I can trust outside the country. Someone who will be ready to move when the time comes.”

Paz searched his eyes but could not read anything in them. They were as hard as flint chips, icy blue in contrast to his deep brown.

“Can I count on you? When the time comes?”

“Darasuum,” Paz pledged.

“Then get your vod’ika, and go back to Ebrya. Wait for my signal.”

That night, Paz and Xaolk had shipped out with the other Ebryians, watching Concordia vanish behind them.

Two days later, explosions had crippled Sundari, killing thousands of civilians and sending the country into lockdown. The morning after, Pre Vizsla was publicly executed at dawn, and the mountains burned.

********

There was a clatter and a dismayed cry from Hilde’s bench. Paz looked up as he pulled a tray of haashun curls out of the oven.

Four of the teacakes Hilde had painstakingly decorated over the last half-hour lay on the tent floor. One of the remaining two was on its side at the edge of her workbench.

“I just bumped the edge of the tray!” Hilde wailed, pressing the heel of her hand to her temple. “That’s it for me… I’m out.”

Sandy and Noel converged on her, Noel wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“It’ll be alright, darling,” Sandy assured her, nudging the teetering tea cake back to safety. “You’ve still got two of them to show the judges. They’ll be able to taste them.”

Hilde sniffed loudly, swiping a hand across her eyes as she nodded quickly. “You’re right, you’re right.”

Blowing a harsh breath, she looked down at the wreckage of fruit and pastry on the tent floor. “I’ve got a few extras I didn’t need, but I won’t have time to redo the icing. I’ve still got to get the macarons in.”

Paz looked from the cooling haashun bread to his cooling gaan'skraan, calculating the time. It would be tight, but he had about ten minutes before he absolutely had to put the uj’alayi into the oven.

He strode over to Hilde's bench, keeping his voice low as he said, "I can ice them. I have a few minutes."

Hilde blinked up at him, her severe features arranged in surprise and confusion. She glanced at his bench. "But don't you have-"

"They won’t be perfect, but I can at least get them started for you." If you stop wasting time, he didn't add.

"I- I would- if you're sure," Hilde stammered finally.

"Royal icing?" Paz guessed, based on what he'd seen from her this season.

"Yes, with a touch of vanilla and cardamom," Hilde confirmed. "Just a bit."

Paz nodded and pulled the bag of icing sugar and a fresh bowl towards him.

"Thank you, Paz," Hilde said tearfully, "Truly."

He nodded to the list of notes and instructions at her elbow. "Better get a move on. We're in the last run now."

Fifteen minutes later, Hilde had four iced buns, and Paz was back at his bench. He carefully pulled his uj’alayi out of the proving drawer, whisking the plastic bag off from over the top of it and sliding it into the oven.

As he set his timer and turned his attention to the next item, he spoke silent prayers to Issik and Tarre. It was in their hands now.

On another cooling rack, curls of baked haashun gleamed a golden brown. Familiar scents settled his nerves as he stirred cinnamon, chili, and honey in a saucepan. Despite the warmth of the tent and the summer afternoon outside, he always associated the cookies with the deepest of winter: the smell of ice and oncoming snow and the cold bite against his face—a reminiscence of when his life had begun to retake meaning.

As Paz put the haashun curls in the fridge to speed up the hardening of the honey glaze, Thomas nearly collided with him. Letting out an irritated huff, the other baker muttered, "I see what you're doing, and it won't work."

Paz paused with his hand on the fridge handle. Thomas glanced around quickly before hissing, "You think if you come here and make pretty cakes and act polite and help everyone out, we'll all forget what you are. But your people aren't known for their nut rolls."

He hurried back to his bench without giving Paz a chance to reply.

Hot anger bubbled up in Paz's throat. He was sick of this shit. So fucking sick of it. How stupid had he been? To think maybe if the Ebryians saw one of the Mando’ade here, they would believe there was more to them than war? That Manda'yaim was more than just, as the Ebryian shitstain of a president had called it once, a shithole?

They'd been foolish. The whole tribe, but him most of all.

The display plate for the Gaan’skraan rattled loudly on the counter as he jerked it toward himself. A few of the camera crew's heads jumped in his direction. Paz glared back at them and they looked away quickly. There was an undercurrent of murmuring between a few of them.

Parjyc. He was on a fucking roll.

"Just thirty minutes, bakers. Thirty minutes to go." Sandy called.

He didn't have time to screw around and he squared his shoulders as he got back to work. Naturally, that’s when the utreekov showed up.

"That was pretty nice of you back there," Noel said, leaning against the other side of his bench.

Paz gritted his teeth. He had patience for the bake or the hosts but not for both. Irritation bubbled under the surface, barely contained. Despite it, he forced himself to take a long breath and let it out. It was still his responsibility not to give them a reason to brand mando’ade as exactly what people like Thomas thought. Instead, he focused on mixing the icing for his uj’alayi. It would need to cool and firm before he could apply it.

“Though, ah, I think maybe Thomas was a little jealous that you didn’t offer to ice his buns, too,” the host added, shooting the camera a wide grin at the innuendo.

Paz slammed the spatula down on the benchtop, glaring at Noel. He barely managed to bite back his instinctive retort, some part of him recognizing that his anger at the host was misplaced. Despite that, something deep inside him burned. It didn’t matter whether the cameras were rolling or not: he couldn’t afford to let his anger dictate his actions. Not when the majority opinion towards his people skewed more towards Thomas’s than Prue’s.

Trying to regain control of his emotions, Paz turned away from Noel and fussed with the edging on one of his Gaan'skraan. A piece of crust broke off between his fingers and he cursed. Adding insult to injury, the corners of his eyes began to burn. Paz blinked furiously, tucking his chin to his chest and turning his shoulder to try and block the view from the camera he knew was always set up in the corner.

Like she could smell his agitation, one of the camerawomen swooped in. Paz did everything in his power not to slap the lens away from his face, even as a traitorous tear dripped down his face. It made no sense, he thought over the buzzing conversation behind him. His baking was going as well as expected, but it felt like something in his chest was tearing.

The camerawoman was still crowding around him, trying to get something dramatic to give the viewers. The great warrior, brought to tears by flour and icing sugar.

“Excuse me, I said take a hike. Please and thank you!”

Paz started at Noel’s raised voice as the tall host flapped his arms toward the camerawoman. Stunned at such vigor from the usually easygoing host, the camerawoman backed off, giving Paz a few feet to breathe. The damn camera was still running, though, its red light blinking accusingly. It would probably ruin his chances of winning if he crushed it.

A hand came to rest on his forearm and he glanced down to find an irate Sandy at his elbow. “I don’t know about you,” she bristled, “I think this calls for drastic action.” And before Paz could open his mouth, she lifted her chin and enunciated, “Bugger.”

“Don’t-!” One of the producers, who always hovered around, jumped up.

“Arse!” Noel piped up, doing a convoluted jig across the camera view in front of Paz. “Tit! Wanker! Twat! Bastard!”

“What in the name of...” Paz muttered, trying to figure out how he’d ended up in a musical number dedicated to profanity as voices rose around him.

Rather than giving him any further clue about exactly what the fuck they were doing, Sandy turned to Noel with her shoulders thrown back. Her hand was now tucked in Paz’s elbow as if he were escorting her to an upscale Ebryian party. “Shall we drop the big one?”

Noel swept her an exaggerated bow, his oversized and garishly patterned shirt billowing around him. “You do the honors.”

Sandy’s hand in the crook of his elbow was beginning to feel more like the shackle of a co-conspirator, and Paz nervously shifted. “What…”

“Fuck!” Sandy cried out, her other hand rising dramatically into the air.

The producer in the corner dropped his head into his hands, groaning audibly. Another production crew member stepped in and snapped, “Alright, everyone, back to your stations. We keep rolling.”

The high-pitched beep of one of the timers seemed to agree, and Hilde hurried back to her bench. Paz turned back to his own bench, entirely unable to fathom what had just happened. Drops of cinnamon and chili-infused honey dotted the wooden worktop, but he didn’t have time to clear them away. As his final timer ticked down its last few minutes, he crouched before the oven, peering through the thick glass to the cake completing its baking inside.

Each of his recipes had come from someone different, but the uj’alayi cake had come from the entire Ganister City tribe. What he’d told Paul and Prue was true; every aliit had their own twist on the uj cake, and every one had merit. Well, he thought, remembering with a grimace, every one except the one Laorn had seen on a celebrity Ebryian cooking show. Why on earth someone would consider thick globs of marshmallow fluff an appropriate topping for a cake that was already sweet was beyond him.

The tribe had taken to the challenge of creating the perfect recipe with relish. He'd felt a bit like a spy collecting intelligence as he’d been invited to different apartments in the building to test uj cakes. Putting together a recipe that brought the best of them together had felt right. He knew that they’d been watching every week, and his phone had been blowing up with texts of encouragement, ribbing critiques, and wishes for good luck.

Paz pulled the cake from the oven and slid it onto the cooking rack. He handled it gently, scratching here and tapping there. The braid had held beautifully, and he breathed a sigh of relief before setting it aside to cool. If nothing else, the centerpiece would be a homage to his people, whether the judges liked it or not.

*******

"You’ve got two minutes, bakers. Just two minutes to go."

Paz was rushing now. Despite his careful planning, there was no time to think as he arranged gaan’skraan on a platter, counted and recounted cookies, and straightened the uj’alayi cake on its wooden board.

"Bakers, your time is up. Please step away from your showstoppers!”

He stepped back, releasing his breath as he looked over his workbench. It looked a mess, with stacks of gaan’skraan piled up on cooling racks and spatters of tiingilar spices mixed with droplets of honey dotting the workbench. At the end of his bench rested a miniature version of the ori’skraan for the judging, neatly arranged on glazed platters and bowls borrowed from across the tribe.

“Oh, Paz, this looks incredible,” Hilde said as she came over. Some of her greying hair had escaped its bun, and she tucked it behind her ear. "I really can't thank you enough. You saved my bacon."

"It was a small victory. " Paz replied.

"No, I think it was quite a large victory for all of us." She shot Thomas a glance and her face soured. "I'm glad they ruined that shot."

"Sorry?"

"The shot when you-" she made a half-aborted gesture with one hand before hastily retucking her hair behind her ear. "Ah, when you were speaking to Noel?"

Paz thought that was a nice way of saying when he'd lost his temper and practically bit his tongue off to keep from yelling at the host, but who was he to argue with grace?

He still didn’t understand, though. "Ruined it?"

"Well, the CBB doesn't allow cursing on the show, do they? Sandy and Noel saying all that means they can't use the footage from that shot. It won't appear in the episode."

"Oh."

"Yes, it was kind of them.”

Paz looked over at Noel and Sandy, who were speaking to two producers in one corner of the tent.

Osik. He hoped they weren’t in too much trouble.

Before he could intercept them to apologize, one of the production assistants herded the three bakers together. “Alright, out of the tent for a few minutes. We’ll call you back inside once the judges are ready.”

Paz grabbed his bag and made for the tent’s entrance, leaving Hilde and Thomas behind him. Once outside, he found a tree broad enough to hide his considerable frame and leaned back against it, closing his eyes. Exhaustion made his hands heavy, dragging them down to his side. Even after washing them, he knew he had butter and sugar, and Issik knew what else under his fingernails. Better than blood.

He pulled his phone out of his bag and opened it to find more texts wishing him good luck. He sent one off to his riduur, telling her he was done, and released another long breath. His phone pinged a few moments later with a response from his riduur.

Ori’jate, ner ruus. Check the front pocket of your bag. We packed something for once you were done.

Paz dug in his bag, and a wide grin split his face as he withdrew a little bottle from the front pocket. Tucking it into his palm, he texted back, This better be the good tihaar.

Would I send ner riduur, the other half of my soul, into battle with the bad tihaar? How little you think of me.

Paz chuckled before flipping the catch on the bottle and taking a sip. It was the good tihaar after all, and he let out an appreciative sigh as the buzz of fruit and alcohol danced across his tongue. It brought to mind the taste of a much cheaper, newer tihaar, tinged with dirt and blood. A flask passed around in the aftermath of a firefight, the hit of sugar and liquor necessary to keep them from dropping with exhaustion. Leaning against someone else’s shoulder as they leaned against his just to stay upright.

Even exhausted and filthy, Paz had never doubted then that he was precisely where he needed to be. As the heir to the Vizsla clan and the second-in-command to Pre Vizsla, Paz had known he was the epitome of what a Mandalorian should be, fighting in defense of his home and his people and their way of life. The pride that shone on his uncle’s face as he rose through the ranks and gained respect was the same that Paz had hoped he would have seen on his father's face.

When he’d returned to Ebrya after the war, he’d felt like a stick caught in raging flood waters. Watching the footage of the bombings in Sundari, he wondered if Pre had ever really thought of his nephew as a true Mandalorian. Had Paz not shown that he was trustworthy? That he was willing to die for the cause? To kill for it? To give everything he had for it?

In the end, no one outside the mountains could have understood why his people had fought so hard, why they were willing to die to protect the red clay under their feet. They watched news bursts and analyses and commented to each other in sympathy or in judgment, as far from knowing the people they watched as the moon was from the earth.

Was it really that different from what he was doing now?

Paz had convinced himself at the start of the competition that it was worth participating in if only to show another side of his people. Most Ebryians had only seen them on the news in mud and blast residue-covered armor, or trekking wearily away from the latest area of fighting, carrying whatever they could bring from their homes. One of the producers in particular had leaned into this image, suggesting multiple times that Paz would be welcome to discuss his experiences in the ‘conflict,’ as he called it. Paz had refrained from telling him to shove a rolling pin up his shebs, but it stuck like a seed in his teeth.

Paz’s mouth hardened as he screwed the top closed on the bottle, the look of irritation on that same producer’s face as he lectured Noel and Sandy for ruining the shot stuck in his mind. He had gotten very good at holding his tongue and keeping his face blank in the two years since the war. He no longer wore his helmet, but the armor it had provided him remained in place. Let them look for the Mandalorian underneath, whatever that meant to them.

The pressure in the tent had grown as bakers were eliminated every week, adding to his stress. Two weeks before the finale, the baker Paz had grown closest with, Caroline, had been sent home. It had felt like a gut punch when her name had been called, her blue eyes filling with tears as she nodded in acceptance. She’d squeezed him tightly as she said goodbye, muttering, “Show the fuckers what you can do, okay?”

With so many workbenches empty, the expectations hung even heavier over Paz’s head. He had been able to blend in some when there had been more of them. Now, there was always a camera following his every movement and expression. Strangely, it reminded him of his time as Pre’s second. The pride Paz had felt in his position had always been tainted with sickening anxiety. Such an honor from Pre Vizsla came with expectations, chief among them to conduct himself at all times as the epitome of mando’kar. If Paz’s actions showed less than perfection, Pre would be forced to distance himself, and all would see it as a judgment that Paz was no true Mandalorian.

He felt that same sickening anxiety in the tent underlying everything he baked. As the first Mandalorian to participate, he was responsible for giving the best, the most truthful impression of his people. They counted on him for that.

Maybe in the end, he hadn’t really been a Mandalorian in Pre’s eyes. When Pre sent Paz and Xaolk back to Ebrya with the other soldiers, he’d told himself it wasn’t a rejection. But the feeling only worsened when bombs tore Sundari asunder, leaving Paz resigned and depressed. Pre must have suspected that Paz would never agree to that level of collateral damage, and he’d been right to think it. Paz could see nothing mandokar in bombing children.

He texted Asana again. Are you on your way?

We’re all here, was her cryptic reply.

Paz frowned but before he could text back, Sandy’s voice echoed across the grass. “Bakers, please return to the tent for the final presentation of your showstopper picnic feasts.”

Paz's heart pounded in his chest as he lengthened his strides back to the mass of white canvas. Thomas slipped ahead of him, not bothering to look over his shoulder.

Paz caught himself clenching his jaw and forced himself to relax, squaring his shoulders. He was proud of what he'd done. No matter how the judging turned out, he would bring the food to his aliit and whoever else they'd talked into showing up, and they would eat together. Tonight he would go home with his aliit and sleep like he used to after climbing with his cousins in the mountains near Dral Osaath all day.

Holding to the memory of the sun on his bare shoulders, Paz let it push aside his fatigue. His eyes fell on the neat arrangement of baked goods as he came to stand beside his final showstopper challenge. His workspace had been cleaned, but a single dot of honey had escaped the careful attention of the production staff. Paz bit back a smile without knowing why the little speck of sweetness gave him such a feeling of warmth and courage.

Hilde was called up first, her hands trembling slightly as she carried her tower of macarons up to the front. Sandy carried a plate of delicate sandwiches with a cucumber and dill goat cheese spread over watercress greens, and Noel held a pot of tea in one hand and a plate of tea cakes in the other. When the plates were arranged on the little table before the judges, Hilde knotted her hands nervously before her, waiting.

Paul and Prue made their way through the sandwiches and tea cakes, commenting on the crispness of the spread and the texture of the cakes. As expected, Hilde’s macarons were pronounced exquisitely flavored, piped, and baked. The older woman beamed as she thanked the judges and shot Paz a tiny smile as she returned to her bench, mouthing ‘thank you’ again.

Thomas bustled up next. His Ebryian Celebration Cake drew admiring gasps from the judges and hosts, shaped and iced as a miniature of one of the monuments in Chandrilla. Paz did his best not to imagine the smug smile on Thomas’ face as he walked the judges through the other elements of his picnic - pastry-wrapped mini-sausages and savory scones. Still, nervous energy built as Paul and Prue rhapsodized over the flavors and skill of each dish. His heart sank as Thomas returned to his bench with a spring in his step.

“And last but not least, Paz: would you please bring your feast up to the table,” Sandy said.

“Let me help you, mate,” Noel said, hurrying over. Paz nodded thankfully to him as he collected the tray he had laid out with samples of his feast. Noel carefully lifted the cake stand and then glanced back at the bowl of tiingilar and the bottle of netra’gal left on the workbench. “Do those need to come as well?”

“No, they’re not for the judges,” Paz said, ignoring the inquisitive look the host gave him as he carried his tray to the front.

One final time, he walked the middle aisle between wooden benches to the round table at the front. One last time, he placed his creation before the two judges and stepped back, one hand slipping over his other forearm without thinking, covering the space where a bracer would have lain on his armor.

Prue raised her eyebrows, a smile on her face. “Could you tell us what you’ve made, Paz?”

Drawing a breath deep into his lungs felt more difficult than usual, but Paz managed it, clearing his throat as he replied, “Olaram, bajur’ade. I have made a meal from my homeland.”

“You mentioned that all of your recipes came from Mandalore,” Prue said, nodding encouragingly.

Paz swallowed and willed his shaking fingers to steady as he placed two gaan'skraan on a simple wood plate and slid them in front of the judges. “These are Gaan'skraan, ‘a pocket meal’. The dough is straightforward, the same as when they were given to us as field rations during the War. Flour from a grain local to the plains, water, and oil. The inside is a thickened tiingilar.” He enunciates the word, already hearing the crimes against pronunciation that viewers will inevitably make. “It’s a curry from dirbas’a’sur chilis, chicken, and potatoes.”

“I’m not familiar with that pepper,” Prue commented as she cut the gaan’skraan in half.

“We call it the lizard’s eye,” Paz confessed.

From beside Prue, Paul coughed slightly, blinking. The production staff and Hilde chuckled. Even though Paz had toned down the usual level of heat in the recipe, Paul’s inability to tolerate any kind of spice was well-known.

“I hope that’s a likeness, rather than an ingredient,” Prue replied cheekily after swallowing her bite, dusting her fingers off. “It’s got quite a kick to it. I like it!”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Paz said, relieved.

His stomach tightened as Paul stood beside her, still chewing, his brow furrowed and his eyes half closed. Finally, he said, “The dough is extremely simple. It’s so mild that it almost feels disappointing when you first bite into it. But then you hit that filling and it’s such an explosion of heat and spice, I’m actually quite grateful that the dough is what it is. The filling is a bit bitter; is that normal for the dish?”

Paz felt his cheeks warm. “It depends on the recipe and the quality of the peppers.”

Paul grunted in agreement, but Paz wasn’t convinced. He must have cooked the chilis too long or not removed enough of its skin. There was nothing he could do but move on.

“For the second element, I made Uj-Nep cookies. Short for Uj’haashun Nepel’ike: ‘Hard Sweet Paper Bread’.The cookie is a very thin baked dough. The glaze is honey, chili, and cinnamon. These are my partner’s recipe. They’re-” Paz struggled for a moment before doubling down. This was his story. He would not keep it hidden out of fear any longer. “It was one of the first things I had after the war that made life taste sweet again.”

The winter solstice the year the war ended had been muted. The tribe had still gathered together, determined to maintain tradition in the face of such loss, but it was impossible to ignore the obvious: they were seen as enemies in their own land and here, where they were now trapped.

Xaolk had stared straight ahead, his eyes dull and angry. Living with Ghir had done nothing to ease his anger, and Paz could see his grandfather’s anguish at losing both his sons, and the hate that came with it, slowly poisoning his vod’ika.

Paz had left the room at one point, stepping outside. The cold, dry winter air burned in his lungs, and he wondered whether those in the tunnels of Dral Osaath had died quickly or if they’d choked on smoke, gasping for air. He shook his head hard, squeezing his eyes shut.

Footsteps scuffed the concrete behind him and Paz had turned to find a young woman about his age standing in the doorway. She had almond-shaped dark eyes and thick curly hair pulled up and back in a puffy braid around the crown of her head.

She’d wordlessly held out a curled piece of haashun bread to him, and Paz had looked stupidly down at it. The light from the streetlamp gleamed off a glaze like ice.

“It will help,” she replied.

“How?” Paz asked, hearing the pain in his voice—the utter despair.

“There is still sweetness and joy and jatne manda to be had, even in our darkest hours.”

Paz had shaken his head again but reached out all the same and took the cookie as tears rolled down his cheeks. He bit into it, the bright hit of spices and honey mixing with salt.

A cool hand settled on his arm, and he’d blinked hard as the woman stepped nearer to him.

“See?” She’d whispered. And he had.

The crunch of crisp, sugared haashun pulled him back from the bittersweet memory. Prue made an appreciative sound and Sandy snuck one of the cookies off the table, breaking it in half to share with Noel. Paz glanced down at his apron, staving off a smile.

“Now that is delicious,” Prue said, shaking the remains of her cookie towards Paz. “I’d like another of those, thank you.”

“Again, you get that hit of spice, but the honey mellows it out enough to keep it from being too much,” Paul nodded. “It’s a good blend of flavors.”

“It’s got a good crunch to it as well. I like that,” Prue said.

Paz exhaled as they finished their cookies, Prue taking a second one. Beside her, Sandy gave Paz an exaggerated thumbs up.

He brought the uj’alayi to the front of the table, its braided surface a golden brown. Narrow, swirling designs of icing traced their way between bits of caramelized fruit, images of ornate turtles, shriekhawks with outspread talons, and snarling jaguars—all clan symbols, aliike, of his tribe.

“The plaiting came out very clearly. We’ll just have to see whether you managed to keep the fruit from all falling to the bottom,” Paul said, tapping on the top of the uj’alayi cake with a knife.

“Oh, don’t be such a pessimist,” Prue said from beside him as he cut two small slices.

Paul forked up a small piece before giving Paz a skeptical look. “Is this one going to be spicy as well?”

“No, sir,” Paz said. He knew the judge meant it as a joke but his heart was in his throat as Paul and Prue chewed. Outside the tent, he could hear the rumble of voices from those who had come to watch the final judging.

Paul’s face was grave as he considered the cake. The burly judge leaned on his hands, looking down at the table.

And suddenly, there was a broad hand extended in Paz’s direction.

Hardly able to believe it, he shook Paul’s hand. There was a roaring in his ears, and he entirely missed the judge’s feedback about his cake. The handshake was the only commentary he wanted on that particular dish from an Ebryian, if he was honest. Hope, a small, dangerous thing, beat in Paz’s chest.

“Alright, bakers, please take your picnic feasts outside,” Noel said. “We’ll call you back once the judges have made their decision.”

The three contestants carried their food outside, and Paz nearly dropped his tray. The park was packed with spectators, and three whole picnic tables worth of them were from the tribe. They sprawled over the tables, decorated in blue and orange, red and purple, and a half dozen other colors, wearing traditional kutes and tunics.

Two small figures wearing Vizsla gray and blue broke free from the crowd and raced towards him. Shaiya carefully took the plate with the uj’alyai cake. “Careful!” Laorn unnecessarily cautioned her older sister as they escorted him to the table. On the tables was the remainder of the food Paz had baked, along with dishes the tribe had brought themselves.

“Now this is an ori’skraan!” Aukai said, clapping Paz on the back as he put the board with the gaan’skraan on it in the last remaining bit of free space.

Several bakers from earlier in the season dropped by to say hello, looking curiously at the intricate embroidery on the group's outfits and commenting on the uj’alayi. Caroline gave Paz another swift, hard hug, but they didn’t get much chance to catch up before the crowd quieted. Turning, he saw the judges and hosts arrayed outside the tent.

“If I could ask our final three bakers to join us here,” Noel said.

Caroline gave him a little shove before she slipped back towards her own crowd, and Asana touched her forehead to his before she whispered, “Go on.”

Hilde gave him a brilliant smile as he came to stand beside her, her hands again knotted before her. Thomas’s mouth was a thin, white line, his eyes wide with anxious excitement as he looked out to the group that had come to celebrate with him. In the crowd, Caroline, standing with her husband and family, held up crossed fingers for luck.

“Right,” Sandy said, holding a large bouquet of flowers. Beside her, Noel had another two bouquets tucked in his arms. “I have the enormous honor of announcing the winner. All three of you are incredible bakers but I’m afraid there can only be one champion. And the winner is…”

She paused for dramatic effect, and Paz felt a smile come over his face.

It didn’t matter whose name she called. It didn’t matter who won the engraved glass cake stand in Prue’s hands.

What mattered were the people at his back. His riduur, his ade. His fellow children of Mandalore, who had fought against all odds in battle and life, were there to show him that he was not alone. He would be enough, no matter the outcome, and the responsibility to represent the mando’ade and show what a true Mandalorian was did not rest solely on his shoulders. He didn’t have to do this alone, and he never would. He was mando’ade, one of the tribe, and he had never felt so sure about what that meant as he did waiting in the silence across the park.

“Paz!”

For a moment, he thought his ears had malfunctioned. A dense roar of cheers exploded from the assembled crowd, most deafening from the tables taken over by the Ganister City tribe. Paz stood stunned as Hilde leaned over to pat him on the back, her lips moving as she congratulated him, but he couldn’t hear a word.

When his ade bolted over to him, he dropped to one knee to catch them in his arms. Shaiya was sobbing, her head buried in Paz’s shoulder, and Laorn shrieked, “You won! You won!” His ears rang, and he returned to his feet with both girls tucked into his arms.

Sandy gave Hilde a warm hug and Noel shook Thomas’s hand. Paz noted dimly that he looked deflated and he headed back over to his family with only a brief word to Hilde.

Prue laughed when she saw Paz with his girls clinging to him, and Paz put his ade down long enough to shake her hand and accept the glass cake stand. Paul was similarly beaming as he shook Paz’s hand, the expression strange on his usually stoic face.

The hosts could not be let off with a mere handshake. Noel gave him a kiss on the cheek and ruffled Laorn’s hair buns, and Sandy pulled him down into a hug, no mean feat with the difference in their statures.

“Well done, darling,” she whispered. “I expect we’ll see more great things from you in the future, yes?”

Overcome, Paz simply nodded. The hosts patted him on the back one last time and he turned to the crowd. Asana stood waiting for him, the gentle, enigmatic smile that had always drawn him in on her face.

As Laorn and Shaiya skipped back over, Paz gave in to the rush of emotions and lifted the cake stand into the air in one hand. Another roar went up from the mando’ade, and cries of “Oya!” echoed across the parkland.

There would be other battles, and days when the brightness of this moment seemed another world entirely. The taste of ash and blood were not gone but for today, for this moment, as he sat on the ground and joined the others in a feast, Paz knew the taste of sweetness would outlast all else.