Chapter 34: Long road

The wagon creaked and rumbled down the dirt path like an old drunkard with sore knees, groaning at every bump—but inside, chaos reigned in the form of Blackjack.

Thorne slammed his cards down onto the overturned crate serving as their table. "TWENTY-ONE, BABY! Who's the king?!"

"You're literally cheating," Lys said, squinting at him. "You drew three cards and the last one came from under your armpit."

"That's called sleight of body," Thorne said, smirking.

Cael stared at his hand like it had personally insulted him. "I have a three, a two, a four, and a drawing of a goat. Why do I have a drawing of a goat?"

Alaric snorted. "Because Renna is switching the cards while you blink."

Renna looked very pleased with herself and even more pleased with her perfect twenty-one. She leaned back, eating a cookie she conjured out of nowhere, legs crossed on a sack of turnips. "Should've known. I always win when snacks are on the line."

"Everyone shut up," Lys hissed, eyes laser-focused on her two cards. "I have a five and a six. I can feel the ten coming. This is it. Destiny."

Thorne reached over, offered the top card dramatically.

"DO IT," Lys whispered.

Thorne flipped it with a flourish.

It was a potato chip with a seven drawn on it in ink.

Renna burst out laughing. "Still counts!"

"No it doesn't!" Lys shouted. "That's snack forgery!"

The wagon hit a rock. Everyone lurched. Cael fell onto Alaric. Alaric spilled his drink on Renna. Renna retaliated by slapping a peanut butter sandwich onto Cael's forehead like a sticky bandage of shame.

The driver screamed from up front, "WHY ARE YOU YELLING ABOUT NUMBERS? ARE YOU MATH CULTISTS?!"

"NO!" Thorne shouted. "WE'RE GAMBLING!"

The driver said nothing after that, just whispered something to his horse about staying out of wizard business.

Meanwhile, the deck was now spread across the floor—half the cards were missing, two were folded into origami frogs, and one had spontaneously caught fire in Thorne's hand.

"Gentleman Hexer gave us this deck as a gift," Cael sighed.

Thorne shrugged. "Then I guess this is how we honor it. By making blackjack the most dangerous game known to man."

Lys clapped her hands. "New rule! If you bust, you get launched off the wagon."

Alaric blinked. "Like, metaphorically?"

"No," Renna said, cracking her knuckles. "Literally."

Thorne grinned. "Let's play, then."

The wagon carried on—clattering, wobbling, and now occasionally echoing with the screams of someone being yeeted briefly off the side before scrambling back up again.

The wagon came to a groaning, dust-kicking halt beneath the shade of a crooked willow tree, its limbs hanging low like they, too, needed a nap. The group jumped off the wagon in varying degrees of grace—Renna did a flip for no reason, Cael stumbled over his own foot, and Thorne forgot the wagon had steps and just launched himself off like a dramatic action hero.

Alaric stretched with a satisfied grunt. "Alright. I'm going hunting. Real food. No more gambling crackers and card chips."

Lys blinked. "What even is a card chip?"

"Delicious," Thorne said with a mouthful of one. "Also illegal in three kingdoms."

While the rest of the group started unpacking supplies and chasing after the peanut butter that had somehow migrated into Renna's boot, Alaric disappeared into the woods like a brooding fantasy poster.

Fifteen minutes later, he returned… dragging behind him an absurdly enormous wild boar. Its tusks were curled like demon horns, its fur matted from battle, and it looked like it once had beef with an entire forest.

"Meet lunch," Alaric said, panting slightly but otherwise smug.

"Did it volunteer?" Cael asked, gaping at the size of the beast.

"I stared into its soul," Alaric replied. "We reached an understanding."

"Did the understanding involve you stabbing it?" Renna asked.

"Yes."

Without missing a beat, Lys clapped her hands together and got to work. "Alright, Cael, you know the drill."

"Yes, chef," Cael saluted. He pulled out a foldable cooking kit from his bag like a traveling gourmet mercenary. The two of them got to work with practiced ease—like they'd been preparing spontaneous feasts since birth. Knives flashed, spices were summoned from mysterious pouches, and the boar was quickly dressed, cleaned, and seasoned with borderline magical efficiency.

Renna had somehow found a basket of lemons. "Should we... zest the boar?"

Thorne walked by chewing on raw rosemary. "Zest me, I'm ready."

Cael tossed a sprig of thyme at his face. "There. Consider yourself seasoned."

They set up a makeshift rotisserie using branches, rope, and what may have once been part of a street sign from Slamtown. A fire crackled underneath, and soon the smell of roasting boar filled the air like the opening chorus of a divine opera. Even the driver, still suspicious of their blackjack-related outbursts, looked impressed from the front of the wagon.

The moment the flames caught steady under the rotisserie, Cael crouched low, eyes narrowed with culinary intent. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing surprisingly well-toned forearms for a guy more known for nervous rambling and hiding behind people. Lys stood beside him, her hair tied back with a leather strap, a small knife spinning between her fingers like she was born with it. Together, they looked less like adventurers and more like mercenary chefs ready to war with flavor itself.

Cael leaned in to inspect the boar. "Fat content's good. We'll slow-roast it first, crisp the skin near the end. We'll need even heat—Lys, how's our wood stack?"

"Pine and oak mix. Smokes a little, but adds a sharp edge to the flavor," Lys replied, flipping a bundle of herbs in her hand. "We're building complexity today."

Cael nodded. "Love me some complexity."

They began by stuffing the boar with wild garlic, onions, sprigs of thyme, and big handfuls of forest mushrooms Alaric had somehow collected along with the boar. Lys rubbed the inside with salt, pepper, crushed juniper berries, and the mysterious red powder she always carried in a bone vial labeled "Not For Tea."

"Didn't we use that last time?" Cael asked.

"Yep. Nobody died."

"Fair enough."

Cael basted the boar in a glaze made from honey, a splash of Slamtown brandy, and roasted apple juice they'd simmered in a pot on the side. The sugary mixture crackled every time he brushed it across the skin, and the meat began to brown into a rich, golden hue that made the others inch closer in a trance.

They rotated the spit slowly, carefully, adjusting the rope tension with a level of finesse normally reserved for fencers or clockmakers. Every now and then, Lys would take a hot blade and sear one side just right to lock in the flavor. Cael monitored the juices dripping into the shallow stone-lined trench beneath, nodding approvingly when it hissed and steamed on contact.

"Internal temp?" Lys asked.

Cael poked a long, thin blade into the meat, pulled it out, sniffed, then licked the tip. "Not quite ready. Fifteen more minutes."

"I give it twelve," Lys smirked.

Thorne paced nearby like a tiger who'd smelled dinner through time and space. "Are you sure I can't just punch it until it's edible?"

"No," said Cael.

"Yes," said Renna.

"No," said Lys, louder.

"...Maybe," said Alaric with a shrug.

Meanwhile, the fire crackled, the boar turned, and the forest sang around them in birdsong and sizzling skin. It was almost spiritual.

At last, the aroma hit its peak—sweet, savory, smokey. Cael sliced a sliver of meat from the edge and popped it in his mouth. His eyes fluttered shut.

"It's ready."

Lys grinned like she'd just robbed a nobleman blind. "Boar's done, everyone! Bring your plates—or your hands!"

The feast began with the kind of silence that only happens when the first bite knocks the soul out of your body and replaces it with bliss.

The wagon driver, a wiry man with more hair on his arms than his head, was the first outsider to dig in. He took a cautious bite of the crispy, caramelized edge—then promptly abandoned all manners, ripping off a chunk of boar with a grunt of approval. "By the great Coe, this is divine! What in the blasted realms did you season this with?"

Lys just winked and whispered, "Love. And experimental spices."

Thorne had already torn into his slab like a man possessed. He didn't even bother with a plate—just grabbed the boar leg whole, veins in his neck popping with joy. "THIS. This is the only rule I live for now," he bellowed, grease glistening on his cheek. "The Rule of Good Meat!"

Renna, usually a more delicate eater, had her gloves off, sleeves rolled, and a twinkle of wild joy in her eyes. She licked her fingers shamelessly. "Cael, Lys, if you two opened a tavern, I'd burn the rest of the world down to keep it warm."

Alaric sat cross-legged beside the fire, chewing slowly, reverently. His eyes were practically misty. "I think I'm gonna cry. This boar has unlocked emotions I didn't know I had."

Cael, polishing his ladle like it was a holy relic, muttered, "I told you the fat content was perfect."

The driver, mouth stuffed full, gestured with a bone. "You lot seriously planning to go on adventures? You don't need to, y'know. Just start a tavern. You'll earn so much money"

Renna elbowed him lightly. "Sorry, old man. We're heroes. Which means we have tragic destinies, confusing romantic subplots, and entire kingdoms to accidentally save."

"Plus," Thorne added between bites, "Konue might have even bigger boars."

They laughed.

They laughed in the flickering light of the fire, their faces aglow with grease and warmth and the simple pleasure of being together—unburdened, if only for a moment. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and burnt rosemary. The stars above twinkled like a scattered promise. The world, for a night, felt merciful.

But joy is often loud, while ruin is quiet.

And though their laughter echoed into the woods, it did not reach the gates of Konue.

It had been only three weeks since they left—twenty-one days since their boots last touched the dusty roads of the city they'd come to know. In the rhythm of the world, three weeks was a blink. A breath. But in that breath, something had changed. Irrevocably.

They did not know that the bells in Konue had rung at dusk and never ceased.

They did not see the fire that crept through the lower wards, fed not by flame alone but by panic and whispers and strange, unnatural storms.

They did not hear the absence of music, nor the silence of prayers.

They did not feel the weight that now hung over Konue like a second sky—thick and slow and watching.

And so, around their campfire, the heroes laughed. They played games with cards once given as a parting gift, spoke of victories, cursed at luck, and traded dreams of taverns and slower days.

They had no way of knowing that Konue—proud, stubborn, sleepless Konue—had become something else entirely.

And it waited for them. Quietly.