ButcherPete
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Chapter 70: Tasting the Future
🕑 Added 2025-06-14 00:43:45 +0000 UTCThe fortress did not celebrate Norm’s retreat. It absorbed it.
Word spread quickly, through the Dream Knights, through the kitchen fires, through the couriers and cleaning halls. The dog of the Capital, backed by council writ and legal arrogance, had come roaring up the mountain.
And left with his tail tucked.
No fight. No punishment. No body. No bark.
Those who understood the Council's habits knew exactly what this meant. Hannya’s name wasn’t just recorded in reports now.
It was being reviewed.
“Council will chew on this for weeks.” Salitha muttered, sipping a bitterroot tea on the balcony. “A mountain fortress resisting inquiry, an unrepentant noble devourer, and now a fully recovered Baku? It’s the sort of scandal that makes careers and breaks them.”
“They won’t let it lie,” Shela said. “Norm wasn’t sent to arrest. He was sent to gauge resistance. He’ll report back that resistance was… significant.”
“They’ll be back with strings next time,” Salitha said. “Sanction threats. Economic pressure. A diplomatic envoy with prettier lies.”
“They’ll also have questions about the banquet…” Shela murmured.
Salitha raised a brow. “You’re going?”
Shela didn’t answer immediately.
Her eyes drifted over the edge of the balcony to where the fortress’s lower plaza stirred with lanterns and flowing smoke. Banners twisted in the wind. Beneath them, a small crowd had begun to gather, whispering as a Dream Knight stood with a formal scroll.
“By command of Lady Hannya,” the knight read, “an open table is offered tonight at The Painted Petal. For nobles, captains, and spiritual officers in good standing. A meal of memory. A taste of clarity.”
“She always did know how to brand a moment.” Salitha said.
“She’s making a move,” Shela replied. “This isn’t hospitality. It’s a demonstration.”
~~~
Down in the kitchens of The Painted Petal, Cieron stirred a heavy pot of boneflower broth over a blue flame. Spices burned in a low brazier behind him, charred mint, ghost anise, and powdered inkroot, each calculated for both aroma and metaphysical effect. Slivers of bitter fruit floated in the broth like demonic sigils.
He moved without flair, but with absolute precision.
To the staff, he looked calm. Controlled.
But above him, a single thread of golden twine, tied in a soft loop from the rafters, courtesy of Noh, fluttered only when the air recognized laws. And it fluttered now.
Hannya stood beside the doorway, her veil drawn.
“You’re sure this will work?”
Cieron didn’t look up. “With unawakened devils, yes. Demons, yes. With noble scions… depends.”
“And Shela?”
“Sharp mind. Dangerous instincts. But she’s holding something back. The broth may tip it loose.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
Cieron shrugged. “Then she’ll at least remember what it almost felt like.”
Hannya smiled behind her veil.
“That’s enough.”
~~~
That evening, the Painted Petal opened like a dream blooming in memory and steam. Its banners were newly dyed, powder blue and smoke grey, and mist lanterns hung above the tables, whispering small truths in each guest’s ear.
Military officers arrived in dress uniform, curious and tense. Nobles from minor houses came in muted dress, faces polished into neutral smiles. Even a few refugee leaders were permitted seats near the central hearth, watched carefully by Dream Knights on rotation.
Shela and Salitha sat together, though Shela’s focus drifted often to the kitchen door.
“Do you smell that?” Salitha asked as a server placed a carved bowl in front of them. “There’s mana in the broth. Faint. But precise.”
Shela didn’t answer.
She was already staring into her bowl.
“Blood-lotus base,” the server explained. “Infused with void kelp and marrowstone brine. Garnished with crushed starbeet root and a drop of hollow egg oil. It’s said to stir what you’ve buried.”
Shela narrowed her eyes.
In the reflection on the surface, she thought she saw herself blink.
But she hadn't moved.
The meal began in silence.
Not out of fear, but reverence. Curiosity. The kind of quiet that settles over a room when everyone knows something strange is about to happen, but no one wants to be the first to admit it.
Bowls clinked softly against the wooden tables. Steam curled upward, fragrant with blood-lotus, bone spice, and ghost kelp. Servers moved like dancers through the fog, placing utensils made from dream-tempered glass, each enchanted to shift temperature with the eater’s mood.
Cieron watched it all from the open kitchen, one elbow resting on the edge of the counter, and his hands polishing a curved carving knife that had not touched flesh in years.
He wasn’t smiling.
He was listening.
To the air. To the shift of voices. To the crackle of ether in the guests’ breath.
It began subtly.
A military captain’s shoulders relaxed mid-sentence as his voice dropped in pitch. “I haven’t had root marrow this good since my brother’s funeral.” he murmured, a little too loud. “Wait, why did I say that?”
A minor noble from the House of Pale Spring dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and muttered, “I can smell my childhood bedroom. The one before the fire.”
Another guest across the room abruptly stopped speaking mid-toast, staring into their soup like they’d seen a god blink.
Salitha, seated near the center of the banquet hall, blinked twice, eyes dilating as she set her spoon down. “This is…”
“Too much?” Shela asked, tone even.
“No,” Salitha murmured. “Too true.”
Shela hadn’t touched her own bowl since the first sip. Her reflection still hovered faintly on the surface, blinking back with quiet judgment.
She wasn't imagining it. The broth really was alive. Not in the crude magical sense, but in the way a mirror could sometimes reflect something you didn’t want to see.
Shela wasn’t sure if she was angry… or intrigued.
At a side table near the koi fountain, where the wine was slightly watered and the lanterns flickered like they were tired, Mirro and Nini were halfway through their bowls and fully in existential crisis.
Mirro sniffed his broth and frowned. “I think mine just reminded me of someone I swore vengeance on in a past life.”
“Anyone important?”
“Pretty sure it was me.”
Nini didn’t look up. “Mine tastes like a letter I forgot to send. From someone else.”
“Damn, that’s… poetic.”
“No. It’s threatening.”
Mirro stirred his bowl like it owed him money. “It whispered something when I took a sip.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t just a server?”
“I made eye contact with the soup.”
Nini leaned in slightly. “What did it say?”
Mirro stared into the bowl. “It said, ‘You could’ve been more.’”
Nini took another sip and blinked once, very slowly.
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then Nini tilted her bowl toward her, eyes narrowing as she glanced at Mirro.
“…I know your real name now.”
Mirro’s head snapped toward her, his eyes filled with horror. “No you don’t.”
She answered sagely. “You’d be surprised what soup remembers.”
Back at the head table, Shela’s spoon hovered over the broth again.
She inhaled. Let it cool.
Hannya arrived in silence, her veil pinned with silver thread and her robe dyed a color not seen on any faction banner. She walked along the inner rim of the hall, not drawing attention, but not avoiding it either.
Wherever she passed, the conversation quieted. Some guests bowed. Others stared at their bowls harder, as if the answers might save them.
She said nothing. Not yet.
Shela watched her approach. The way her presence bent the atmosphere, not with fear or weight, but with that soft gravity only inevitability had.
Hannya didn’t ask if anyone enjoyed the meal.
She already knew.
Instead, she reached the center seat and raised one hand.
“Some of you came here tonight expecting comfort,” she said, her voice clear and graceful. “Others came to measure me. To measure us.”
She paused.
“And what you tasted instead was a door.”
Eyes flicked toward her, some wide, others wary.
“You may not have opened it,” she continued. “But now you know it’s there.”
She lowered her hand.
“Whether you choose to knock is your decision.”
Shela’s spoon finally touched the broth again.
This time, she drank.
…
…
The banquet didn’t end with applause.
It ended with quiet reflection, uneven laughter, and the unmistakable sense that something internal had shifted in everyone present, even if they didn’t know how or why.
Some guests excused themselves early, polite and pale. Others lingered, staring into empty bowls as if hoping to glimpse just one more secret at the bottom. The servants moved without prompting, clearing dishes with silent efficiency.
The music never started. The lanterns didn’t brighten. There was no signal, yet everyone knew dinner was over.
Hannya moved like a tide, slow and deliberate. She touched shoulders here and there. A quiet nod. A single word whispered under breath. No one saw her pick favorites, but by the end of the hour, four guests had been drawn behind the mist-veiled panels of The Painted Petal’s private chambers.
Shela was not among them.
Not yet.
She stayed seated, posture straight, bowl empty, eyes forward. Her expression was unreadable, but she didn’t leave.
Cieron appeared beside her table without a sound.
She hadn’t seen him approach, but she wasn’t surprised either.
“Did it work?” she asked.
He sat across from her, folding his arms over the edge of the table. “For most.”
Shela turned her head slightly. “And for me?”
“You tasted it,” Cieron said. “That was the only requirement.”
She tapped her bowl with her spoon once. “It wasn’t an illusion.”
“No. Illusions fade. This… ferments.”
She leaned in. “What was in it?”
He didn’t answer right away. He just reached into his apron pocket and produced a small paper pouch. Inside were black seeds shaped like teardrops. They were glossy, pulsing faintly with latent aura.
“These,” he said. “Ripe seeds of hungerfruit. Infused with broth from marrow beasts raised under moonlight. And a drop of oil from a contract I signed with someone I’m not allowed to name.”
“Let me guess,” Shela said dryly. “A very generous benefactor.”
Cieron smiled, thin and without warmth. “Let’s just say she doesn’t believe in portion control.”
That earned a faint twitch of a smile from Shela.
“She believes in feeding people who don’t know they’re starving,” he continued. “And letting them decide what to do with the appetite that follows.”
Shela tapped her temple once. “It showed me things. But not what I expected.”
“It never does.”
“Is it… her power?” she asked. “Or yours?”
“Does it matter?” he said. “It only works if the one eating is ready to grow.”
There was a long pause between them.
Then Shela finally said, “You’re not a cook.”
Cieron tilted his head. “Is that an insult?”
“You’re a test disguised as a chef,” she said.
He inclined his head slightly, as if pleased.
“But you’re not from the Capital. Not from Greed. Not even from the West’s education branches. You’re something older.”
He didn’t answer.
Which was answer enough.
Shela looked again at the empty bowl in front of her.
“…It told me I’m incomplete.” she said.
Cieron folded the paper pouch and tucked it back into his robe. “Then you’re exactly where you need to be.”
Meanwhile, behind the veiled curtains, Hannya moved like a ghost between her chosen guests.
To one military captain, she whispered strategy. To a half-fallen noble, she offered land. To a scholar, a question. To a spirit-binder, a name.
Each one walked away visibly changed.
One left smiling.
Another sweating.
A third didn’t speak at all, just bowed once, knees shaking, and fled the hall like he’d stolen something.
Shela tracked each of them.
And finally, when the fourth guest departed and no one else rose to follow, she stood.
Cieron didn’t stop her.
She took her bowl in both hands, carried it over to the counter where Cieron had prepared the meal, and set it down without ceremony.
Then she turned and walked toward the mist-veiled chambers.
Toward Hannya.
The moment Shela stepped past the veil-curtain into the private chamber, the air changed.
The room was small, circular, and dimly lit by five blue lanterns arranged in a pentagram. Each one pulsed faintly in rhythm with the breath of the person who entered. They responded not to presence, but to intention.
Shela stepped forward.
The mist coiled low along the polished floorboards, pooling like a patient memory. Everything here was designed to blur the outside world. No sound bled through. No aura leaked out. Only honesty remained.
Hannya stood alone in the center, veil lowered to mid-face, hands folded neatly. She did not gesture. Did not posture. She simply waited.
“Was this what you wanted?” Shela asked. “For me to knock on your little metaphysical door?”
“You chose to knock,” Hannya replied softly. “That matters.”
Shela stopped two paces away. She didn’t sit.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Hannya tilted her head and shrugged. “Feeding people.”
“Don’t.”
Hannya waited.
“You’re not building a fortress,” Shela continued. “You’re building something else. Something messianic. I saw the way you looked at that chained statue. That wasn’t reverence. That was devotion. Obsession.”
Hannya’s expression didn’t change.
But the lanterns flickered once.
“I’ve fought enough cult-bent generals and star-eyed seers to recognize the type,” Shela said. “You’re not just powerful. You’re faithful. And that makes you dangerous.”
Hannya stepped forward, just one pace.
“I want the world to know the truth.” she said.
“Whose truth?”
“His.”
A quiet weight dropped between them.
“The Caged God.” Shela whispered.
Hannya didn’t reply.
But she didn’t deny it.
“That statue’s not in any official scripture. The binding symbols aren’t in any high temple canon,” Shela said. “So where did you learn about him? That shrine was built in secret. The design is pre-severance. The iconography-”
“I know,” Hannya said. “I built it exactly as it once was.”
Shela stared at her. “You shouldn’t know any of this.”
Hannya said nothing.
“You’re young,” Shela went on, voice low and deliberate. “You’re what, ten years since first awakening? Twelve at most? You weren’t alive when any of this was written. And yet you speak like someone who’s read a hundred censored manuscripts.”
The air was still.
“You didn’t learn this,” Shela said slowly. “You remembered it.”
She studied Hannya’s face beneath the veil. Still unreadable. Still calm.
Then Shela’s expression darkened as a new idea settled behind her eyes.
“Your second mutation.”
The lanterns pulsed.
“I heard the devils under you speaking of its event. You saw that path and chose it.”
She nodded slowly to herself.
“A fate mutation,” Shela murmured. “Rare. Dangerous. Not just strength or aura, but vision. Direction. Something seeded in your soul by design. That’s how you knew where to look. That’s why you believe.”
Hannya said nothing.
She didn’t confirm. She didn’t deny.
Shela took it as agreement.
“You think this god of yours wants to be reborn.” Shela said. “And you think you’re the one who can do it.”
“I don’t think,” Hannya said. “I know.”
Shela exhaled, hands flexing at her sides. “And what happens if you're wrong?”
“Then I’ll vanish like he did.” Hannya said simply.
The answer came too fast. Too comfortably.
And that made it more terrifying.
Shela stared at her. “Do you even care what happens to the world after?”
“I care,” Hannya said. “But not more than I care about remembering him.”
Another silence. The kind that doesn’t end until something gives.
Then finally, Shela stepped forward.
“You’ll tell me everything.”
Hannya bowed her head. “If you’re ready to hear it.”
“I’m not,” Shela admitted. “But I will.”
The lanterns dimmed.
Not from flame or fuel, but intention. They responded to the shift in breath. Shela’s, mostly. As her tension eased, the light pulled inward, as if the chamber wanted to fold time around them.
Hannya didn’t move.
Shela sat, finally, across from her on a cushion laced with dream-thread embroidery. She didn’t relax. But she wasn’t postured to strike anymore either.
“Tell me.” Shela said.
“Where do you want me to begin?” Hannya asked.
“Not the god,” Shela said. “Not yet. Start with the Council.”
Hannya inclined her head slightly.
“The capital council doesn’t fear war,” she said. “They fear uncertainty. Change. Wild systems with too many doors.”
Shela nodded. That much was obvious.
“They sent Norm not to enforce the law,” Hannya continued. “But to gauge how far this fortress has moved out of their reach. He wasn’t here for Suziana. He was here for me. For Baku. For whatever pulse they’ve felt stirring in this mountain since the mist started to shift.”
“And now they know.” Shela said.
“They suspect,” Hannya corrected. “But they’re still hoping this is a localized incident. A rebellious noble. An eccentric upstart. An underdeveloped devil with a delusion.”
Shela’s gaze sharpened. “Are you?”
“No,” Hannya said calmly. “I’m a forecast. A slow one. The kind that smells like snow but starts with rain.”
Shela looked down at the floor between them. “You know they’ll come harder next time. With envoys, sanctions, maybe even forced intervention.”
“I’m counting on it,” Hannya said. “I want their eyes. Their doubts. Their attempts to seize control. That’s how I draw the line between those willing to change… and those who’d rather drown than let go of the steering wheel.”
“You’re making enemies on purpose,” Shela said.
“I’m revealing them,” Hannya replied. “They were enemies the moment they decided forgetting was safer than remembering.”
There was a beat of stillness between them.
Then Shela said, “And me?”
Hannya’s voice softened. “You’re still deciding.”
“About what?”
“Whether you’re part of the story that buries him, or the one that helps him rise.”
Shela leaned back slightly, unreadable. “You said you’d tell me everything.”
“I will.”
“I want more than prophecy.”
“Then I’ll give you a warning.”
Shela’s eyes narrowed, cautious but curious.
Hannya’s voice dropped to a hush.
“When the gates open… you die.”
The words cut cleaner than any blade.
Shela didn’t flinch, but her stillness changed. The way a hunter stops breathing in a forest that’s gone too quiet.
“What do you mean?”
“I won’t spoil it; that's etiquette.” Hannya said. “But it’s not quick. It’s not noble. You die pitifully. Not because you were weak, but because you chose loyalty to a system that never cared if you lived. Not really.”
The silence that followed was not angry.
It was cold.
Grounded.
Personal.
Shela’s mouth opened, then closed. Her next words came out slowly.
“You’ve seen it?”
Hannya nodded. “Not as a vision. As a memory.”
“Memory of what?”
Hannya looked away for the first time. “Of a world I didn’t exist in. But remember anyway.”
Shela gritted her teeth. More riddles. “And my father?”
“Gone,” Hannya said quietly. “Slain in Neel. Bled out across a collapsed sanctuary, pinned under the blade of a hero from the Pantheon. The Inquisition struck first, without warning or mercy. And they all shared in that feast.”
It was too specific to be a metaphor. Too blunt to be a drama.
Shela didn’t respond. For a long time, she didn’t even breathe.
But her eyes burned.
“You could be lying. You could be wrong.” she said.
“I could,” Hannya admitted. “But I won’t ask you to believe me yet.”
“Why tell me at all?”
“Because I’d rather you face it knowing there’s still time to choose.”
Shela stood. Not abruptly. But the kind of rise that meant the conversation had cut deep.
“I’m not one of your little worshippers.” she said.
“I know.” Hannya replied.
“Don’t expect me to kneel.”
“I don’t need knees,” Hannya said. “I want a spine.”
Shela turned.
But before stepping through the veil, she paused.
“If I stay,” she said without looking back, “and if you’re right… you owe me the rest of the story.”
Hannya’s voice came gentle, but steady.
“Only if you earn it.”
Shela then walked into the mist, changed.
Comments
Cosmoros Subs
Latest chaps are full of metaphors and everyone is stoned to hell and back.
Butch Perterson
😂🤣😂 I really enjoyed writing that
Prent
Hannya, speaking the literal truth Shela: Goddamnit, why all the riddles!
