The Feast Of The Highland Boar

The scent of charred spice and seared fat drifted through the camp like a divine incense. Fires had been lit in sapphire braziers, each one surrounding the massive Highland Boar now laid out on a field of thick plates and glowing skewers. Vienna and the kitchen knights were working like madmen, slicing, seasoning, plating, roasting, basting, and sometimes even singing in culinary chants that made no sense but sounded magical anyway.

And then he arrived.

Vastarael stepped up onto the platform made of sapphire that he materialized.

He didn't call for silence.

He didn't have to.

Six hundred knights, countless soldiers, trainees, scouts, cooks and guests all fell quiet when their Prince stepped forward. His long coat billowed with the coly snowy wind.

"Alright, you overgrown squirrels. Drop the conversation for just one minute. I've got words to say."

A ripple of chuckles rose from the crowd. A few raised their plates mid-bite, nodding in mock solemnity. One knight from the Obsidian Company already had sauce all over his face and was trying not to choke.

"Tonight," Vastarael continued, pacing a little, pointing toward the boar behind him, "we stand before the fallen king of bacon. The beast that broke a dozen shields, trampled through twenty frost valleys, and charge loud enough to trigger an avalanche three valleys over."

That got a full laugh from the Chrysanthemum division.

"Some of you saw it. Others just heard the legends. And then there's the group that tried to ride it."

He turned slightly. "Looking at you, Chainless Company."

"We would've succeeded if it hadn't died halfway through!" Someone shouted from the crowd.

"Sure," Vastarael said, straight-faced. "Because that's how that works."

More laughter came but louder this time. Even Vienna, carving a thick slab of glistening thigh meat, snorted.

"But jokes aside," he said, tone mellowing just a bit, "I want you to look at what's in front of you."

He turned, gesturing grandly to the Highland Boar now sprawled across half the courtyard.

"This beast right here is more than just meat. It's victory. It's strength. It's proof that even the 'weakest' among us"—he used air quotes with his fingers and earned a proud cheer from the lowest-ranking squad—"can bring down something twice the size of a house and meaner than an in-law with unpaid debts."

"YEAH!"

"But more than anything…" he paused, raising a hand as his voice softened, "it's our last massive feast for a while."

The camp quieted again, not from fear, not from worry, but from the sudden, grounding reminder. The kind that made you set down your food and just listen.

"Tomorrow," Vastarael said, turning to face them all directly, "we march East. Deep into unknowns. It's not gonna be easy. It's not gonna be warm. Hell, most of you are gonna be up to your knees in things that scream, hiss, or explode on contact. And that's just the food."

Another wave of laughter rippled across the field, this one more hesitant, but still very them.

"So tonight," he said, throwing out both arms like a showman, "we eat like gods. We drink like we stole the barrels. And we laugh like we don't have nightmares scheduled for tomorrow night."

Scattered cheers filled the area.

"No rules tonight," Vastarael added, wagging a finger. "Except for the following: One, don't fight your neighbor. If they steal your meat, challenge them to a duel or some shirtless log lifting contest like normal people. Two, don't kill Vienna if she gives you the small portion. She's been cooking since dawn and she decides who gets the golden sauce. She earned that right."

Vienna raised a carving knife in salute, eyes full of death and pride.

"Three, anyone caught trying to sneak a piece of boar into their tent will be publicly mocked and forced to do fifteen rounds of training tomorrow morning. I will personally be the judge. No exceptions."

"Even Captain Chrysanthemum?" someone dared to yell.

Vastarael grinned wide. "Especially her."

Chrysanthemum just crossed her arms and smirked. "Joke's on you, I've trained for that."

Laughter erupted again.

"And four…" Vastarael's voice dropped lower. "Whatever you do tonight, whether you eat, laugh, pass out drunk on the ice, or spend the evening recounting embarrassing training stories from back when you still cried about blisters… do it together. Because tomorrow, we step into fire. And fire's a lot less scary when you've got six hundred lunatics behind you who once tackled a boar the size of a house for fun."

There was silence. And then—

"TO THE EAST!" Someone bellowed.

"TO THE BOAR!"

"TO VIENNA'S SAUCE!"

And like a wave crashing against the cliffside, the camp roared.

Plates slammed together, tankards were raised, food was passed around like sacred treasure, and the massive boar was being carved down with precision and celebration. Knights began shouting friendly challenges. Tables were dragged together. Bonfires surged higher.

Vastarael stepped down from the platform as the party erupted, clapping his hands once and nodding in satisfaction.

"Honestly," he muttered under his breath to Ferris who had reappeared at his side, "I only planned about three lines of that speech. Everything else was just boar-based improv."

She blinked at him. "I can't tell if you're a military genius or a theater dropout with a sword, master."

"Why not both?"

Behind them, Runner shouted, "VIENNA! GIVE US THE PERFECT CUT! THE ONE THAT MELTS IN YOUR MOUTH!"

Vienna replied without looking up, "Only if you two stop trying to take bites directly from the carcass!"

Shimmer licked her fingers and grinned. "No promises!"

And just like that, the feast began with chaos, flavor, camaraderie, and way too many stories no one would believe in the morning.

______

Vastarael, having just finished diplomatically settling a dispute between two knights over who deserved a thigh slice, turned his attention toward the Queen of the Kitchen herself.

Vienna.

Her black apron flapped like a war banner. Her carving knives flashed with more elegance than some nobles' swords. Her face glistened with effort and grace, and her snapped through the crowd like a goddess barking out sacred commandments.

And she was struggling just a bit.

Vastarael tilted his head, lips pursing. Vienna's usual precise movements had become slightly sluggish. Her shoulders dropped lower between every cut. Her essence, while still sharp, was flickering dimmer than it should've.

He exhaled softly. Her Bane was acting up again.

He waved his hand and just like that, through the effect of his Body and Soul Reconstruction, a fine wave of regenerative force drifted across the field and gently embedded itself in Vienna.

She paused..

A sudden lightness settled over her shoulders, her exhaustion easing like warm steam from sore muscles. She didn't understand how she felt better. just that she did.

"Right," she muttered. "Back to work."

And off she went again, slicing the next hunk of shoulder meat with alarming speed. But Vastarael was already behind her, now rolling up his sleeves. Her eyes widened.

"Oh no," she said without looking. "No."

"Oh yes," he replied with a dangerous grin, plucking a serving ladle from her rack of tools. "The Prince of Anqerise enters the fray."

"You don't even know how to plate the meat, Your High—"

"Listen, if I can command six hundred knights into not using kitchen swords, I can slap a boar rib onto a plate."

"Fine," Vienna grunted, handing him a tray. "But if you touch the Golden Sauce, I'll throw you into the furnace, your Highness."

"Too late," Vastarael said smugly, lifting a tiny vial.

The Golden Sauce. Her signature ingredient. Vienna's absolute pride and kitchen-kept secret. It was so potent, so divine, that even those who smelled it reported having dreams of eternal fields and the sensation of being cradled in the arms of a meat goddess.

It wasn't just sauce. It was liquid perfection. No one really knows how she makes it and she never tells anyone, not even her master, how she makes it. She would if he asked but he didn't went to know. To him, just experiencing the taste is good enough.

And Vastarael liked it. He really liked it.

He dipped the end of a finger in the golden fluid and gave it a gentle taste.

He froze.

"By the Primordials... this never gets old. Seriously, you are an amazing sauce maker, Vienna."

"Oh uh... thank you, Your Esteemed Highness."

The nearest knight dropped his plate in reverence.

"To think our master has tasted bliss," whispered a younger female paladin, tears in her eyes. "We are not worthy."

A second muttered, "This is holier than the time he made lunch for us."

But the Golden Sauce was not for everyone.

Vienna was adamant. Vastarael had enforced it with divine decree. The sauce would be served only to:

Those who had contributed significantly in a day, two terrors—Shimmer and Runner— and Vastarael himself. Obviously.

Everyone else had trial portions only.

This included the guests—Zarvana, Raika, and a few of the outsiders who had been escorted in earlier. They were each given a ceremonial spoon dip. Just a single shining drop that glistened on the tongue.

They didn't show mercy on them either.

Meanwhile, the line of knights waiting for food was growing longer… and more dramatic.

"Next!" Vienna barked, ladling a clean slab of Highland boar onto a sizzling plate.

"Eligible?" Vastarael asked, now sitting beside her with a list. "What did you do today?"

The knight stepped forward with squared shoulders. "I sharpened seventeen spears, aided in the firewood setup, and delivered water to the Chainless Company."

Vienna eyed him. "Acceptable. He gets a flick of gold."

The knight bowed like he'd been knighted again. "May I cry now, or after I eat?"

"After," said Vastarael solemnly.

"Next!"

This knight had less to say. "I told three jokes that lifted morale."

"Denied."

"PLEASE, LORD VENERI, I BEG YOU—"

"Denied."

Another tried bribery.

"I brought you that enchanted map you like, remember—?"

"You get ink. Not sauce."

"Next!"

"Please! I petted the boar before it died!"

"You what?"

"I thought it would bring luck!"

"It didn't."

"Please, Your Esteemed Majesty! Have mercy on your humble servant—let me lick the spoon!"

"You are banned from the concept of spoons for a week."

And so it went.

For every tearful plea, Vastarael held his ground. He didn't even have to be strict, just disappointed, and that alone shattered them.

Some knights resorted to poetry. Some tried to fake noble bloodlines but there was no salvation. The Golden Sauce was divine currency and only those who earned it were graced by its flavor.

And amidst the chaos, Shimmer and Runner were running around the food tents, both with massive golden-sauce-lathered meat on their plates like champions.

"IT TASTES LIKE FLAME-KISSED MAGIC!" Runner screamed, waving her meat like a banner.

"Too bad you suckers! Smell my meat! Hahahaha!" Shimmer yelled back.

One poor knight wept openly nearby. "Even the children ascend before me…"

Eventually, Vienna stopped mid-carving and blinked. She didn't feel tired anymore.

She didn't realize that a soft, gentle essence had been running through her body the whole time, quietly restoring, silently healing. She just chalked it up to adrenaline and the grace of being close to her Prince.

And Vastarael?

He just grinned, poured himself wine, and clinked it against her knife.

"To sauce," he said.

Vienna narrowed her eyes.

"To never doing this again," she replied.

He laughed.

"...Till tomorrow," he whispered, sipping. "Because we both know you're making this again. You're the head cook. You have men to feed."

She didn't answer, but the corner of her lip definitely twitched.