Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 55: Words

Chapter 55: Words

Once washed, changed, and rested — a rare thing — we left the inn, slipping into the streets of Zagnaroth, where night never killed activity.

The city pulsed, even under the stars.

The forges kept hammering. The burning markets remained open.

Shadows wandered between red lights, and the air, always warm, carried the scent of molten metal and roasted meats.

We walked, silent.

In search of something good, for once. A meal. A real one.

And there, around a curved alley, we saw it.

The storefront.

A luxury restaurant.

A low, circular building, embedded in an ancient vein of polished basalt.

The facade was carved directly into the stone, inlaid with elegant demonic symbols, interwoven with strands of red copper pulsing slowly like magical breathing.

Above the entrance, a flaming arch bore a name in forged letters, glowing hot in the center and blackened at the edges: "The Broken Shield."

Two lanterns hung on either side, casting a soft, almost golden glow — a striking contrast to the harshness of the city.

Behind the tinted windows, one could glimpse private lounges, isolated tables surrounded by red drapes, and servers in dark uniforms gliding between clients with military grace.

An incredible scent escaped from within: smoked meats with rare spices, powerful yet refined alcohols,and all of it carried by a discreet music, made of deep percussion and taut strings.

It was precious, closed, and dangerous.

Perfect.

I glanced at Lysara.

— Come on. Tonight, we eat something other than dried beef.

And I pushed open the door of the Broken Shield.

Inside the Broken Shield was hushed, elegant, bathed in a perfectly controlled diffuse warmth.

Rare scents floated in the air, spicy, slightly metallic.

Murmurs rose from the private lounges, covered with thick drapes, and the glowing red light from the lanterns seemed never to waver.

A slender server, his dark skin tattooed with magical culinary symbols, approached with a calculated bow.

— Would you like a private lounge, madam, sir?

— Obviously, I replied, my tone calm but firm.

In a few moments, he led us into a luxurious alcove: smooth stone floor, black leather cushions, red marble table, and a semi-transparent partition that isolated us from the rest of the world. A demonic musician played a harp of vibrating nerves, more felt than heard.

I slumped down with a sigh.

Lysara sat across, straight, as always.

Looking at the menu for a few moments, I said:

— I want the full menu. All three courses. Wine too.

The server slowly nodded.

— The "Smoking Soul of Zagnaroth" menu, for sir. For miss?

I turned to Lysara.

— Juice. The rarest. The most expensive. She deserves it.

The server noted it down, without comment, then slipped away.

The starter arrived soon after.

Three obsidian plates, each containing thin purplish slices with metallic glints, resting on a warm mousse of a green almost too alive.

— Basilisk Breath on Brascroc Carpaccio, the server explained in a deep, ceremonial voice, smoked over living coal and drizzled with black cendrite oil, scented with burning garlic. To be eaten quickly, while the mousse still pulses.

I recognized nothing.

But I tasted.

It was soft, smoky, strange.

And incredibly good.

Lysara ate in silence, methodically.

Then came the main course.

A wide tray, carefully placed, releasing a slow, heavy steam.

— Bloody Hyroc Rib, Malacite crust, abyssal reduction. Caramelized thirst-thorn roots, on a bed of stabilized lava.

I nodded without understanding, stabbed the fork into the meat...

And lost all thought for a moment.

The texture was insane. The heat perfect.

A heavy taste, but not suffocating.

Brutal and controlled.

I took a first sip of Prism-Blood Wine.

Thick. Red-black.

It burned. Slowly.

And then I drank again.

Dessert arrived.

A translucent sphere, frozen, placed on a runic plate.

When the server blew on it, it opened.

A glowing red heart poured out, gently smoking, sweet and burning at once.

— Frozen Salamander Egg. Eat it quickly. It’s rather unstable.

I didn’t need to be told twice.

The wine, though, had won.

It had slowly slid into me, like an old melody, like a warm mist settling in my bones, soft, treacherous, delicious.

My body was relaxed. Too much.

My tongue, a bit too free.

My thoughts... slippery, like fish too quick for my fingers.

I leaned over the table, my gaze blurry but obstinate, anchored on her.

Lysara.

Always straight. Always calm.

Her hands resting on the table, her half-empty glass of Heart-Red juice.

She didn’t drink fast.

She didn’t move much.

But she listened.

And that, I knew.

— You know...

My voice came out rougher than expected. A bit dragging. A bit crooked.

She turned her eyes to me.

Not a word. No furrowed brow.

Just that stillness, that absolute calm.

I grimaced, clearing my throat.

— I’ve... never been good at saying the important stuff.

— The things that matter. Too many scars, too much to carry. You see?

She nodded slightly. Or maybe I imagined the movement.

I set down my cup.

It was empty.

I didn’t remember emptying it.

Pouring myself another, I continued.

— You’ve been here all this time. Always. You say nothing, you don’t complain, you hold on. Like a damn stone column.

Silence filled the room.

— And sometimes... sometimes I forget you’re just a kid.

I started laughing softly.

A warm laugh. Tired. Sincere.

— You’re ten, Lysara. And you’ve been through more shit than most adults I’ve known.

She still said nothing. But I felt her shoulders a bit stiffer.

I straightened up. A little.

Tilted my head to the side.

— You know... I don’t have kids. Cassandre and I, we might have in the future. But...

A silence.

Not sad. Just... full.

I looked at her again. And this time, I said it.

— But you...

I paused.

And I let it fall, like a weight I could no longer carry.

— I see you as my daughter. It’s not just words. I mean it.

She blinked slowly.

Silence settled. Long. Almost uncomfortable.

I raised an eyebrow, unsure.

— I drank too much, huh?

Nothing.

— Or maybe I’m talking crap... That’s possible too. But right now, I don’t care.

She lowered her head a bit. Her fingers tightened around the glass.

I stared at her, more serious this time.

— You matter to me. You know that? You’re not just a student. Nor a weapon. Nor a debt. You matter. You’re here, and so am I. And we’re still standing, damn it.

She shuddered.

Her shoulders moved. A choppier breath. Her hand let go of the glass.

And then...

She cried.

Silently. At first a trickle. Then a sob.

Her lips tightened, trembling.

She looked up, teary, and her voice, hoarse, split the air:

— Me too.

A sob rose in her throat.

She barely held it back.

— I... I didn’t know how to say it.

She sniffled, wiped her cheeks to no avail.

— I thought if I showed I was worthy... you’d stay.

— That you wouldn’t leave me.

— That I wasn’t a burden.

Her voice broke.

— I was afraid. That you’d go.

I didn’t move.

Then slowly, I stood. Went around the table. My legs floated a bit.

And I held her in my arms.

She didn’t resist. She clung. Tight. As if she had waited for this moment without ever believing in it.

As if this simple contact repaired something broken for too long. In her. In me.

Her tears soaked my kimono, and I held her. Not like a master. Not like a survivor.

Like a father.

I had nothing to say. Everything had been said.

Then we returned to the inn.

Lysara said nothing. But she stayed close to me.

I pushed open the door to our suite, let myself fall on the bed, and before my thoughts aligned...

I sank into sleep.

A real one. No pain. No cries. Just emptiness. And warmth.

I woke slowly, cradled by the stable warmth of the room.

It seemed to float in the air, soft, enveloping, almost maternal.

The light was dimmed, filtered through tinted windows. The fire in the hearth still purred, and my body, for once, didn’t scream.

I lay still for a few seconds, then a thought returned.

No, not a thought.

A memory.

The table. The wine. The restaurant. Lysara. Her tears. Her words.

And then my words... way too many of my words.

I felt a heat rise in my face. Not the fire’s. Not the bath’s. The heat of embarrassment.

— Aaaaah... I drank too much...

I ran a hand over my face, groaning softly. My mouth was dry, my mind still blurry.

But deep down, I knew it didn’t matter. Not really.

— I just said what was on my heart.

And for once, I didn’t regret my words. Not really. Just... their honesty.

And for once... maybe it wasn’t a mistake.

Because yes. I truly saw her as my daughter. And she had heard me.

I stood, still cradled by the warmth of the suite, my body a bit numb but rested.

Leaving the room, I passed through the little entry hallway... and there, I froze.

A cart. Magnificent. Overloaded. Gently steaming.

— Huh...?

I frowned, stepped closer slowly, staring at the mass of strange fruits, misty vials, still-warm breads.

And then I saw the card.

Placed in the center of the tray, on an obsidian-carved stand.

I took it.

A thin paper, black and gold, with stylized demonic letters, and at the top, an inscription that made me growl:

The Black Dawn Cart— Morning service in the Infernal Suite —

At the exact moment when crimson light pierces the sulfur mist, a silent cart glides into the suite, pulled by a black silver automaton with ember eyes. On its tray: the flavors of the world, the fruits of the rifts, the blood of the earth.

A breakfast worthy of the mighty and the damned.

I stood frozen, lips pinched.

— Yeah. That’s exactly the kind of drunk thing I’d do.

I kept reading, my eyes falling on the detailed list.

Exotic fruits from Terra Neutralis & Zagnaroth:

Myrrhyl’s Tears: Small bluish-purple translucent fruits, hanging in a cluster of silver thorns. Their taste evokes a fig dipped in frost. Refreshing, but may cause mild visions.

— Great, a fruit that causes visions first thing in the morning.

Heart-of-Pyre: Dark red fruit, beating slowly like a sleeping heart. Its flesh is warm, juicy, sweet with a subtle metallic aftertaste. Warms the belly and calms restless minds.

— That’s much better!

Spiral-Sap: A twisted pod, to open like a shell. Contains a green lemony jelly, electrifying. Stimulates internal magical flows but causes tingling in the fingers.

— Perfect. After visions, Parkinson’s.

Night Scale: Matte black fruit, crescent-shaped. Its peel splits to release a floral vapor. Inside: a creamy pulp with aromas of cocoa, musk, and volcanic salt.

— No caviar inside? Almost disappointed...

Pressed juices & alchemical infusions:

Phantom Dawn Nectar: Juice extracted from Myrrhyl’s Tears, blended with distilled frost. Served in a misty glass, it leaves a glacial chill in the throat. Awakens the mind... or memories.

— Holy shit... What’s with this Myrrhyl stuff?

Fireblood: Pure Heart-of-Pyre juice, still warm. Scented with ash roots and black cinnamon. Restores energy.

— Aaaah... the Heart-of-Pyre never disappoints. The only normal food in all this madness.

Blackthorn Infusion: Volcanic tea brewed in a porous rock cup. Light woody taste, with a touch of soft ash. Calms nerves, stabilizes emotions after a troubled dream.

— Perfect for me.

Luxurious accompaniments

Soft black bread puffed with mild charcoal, still warm, with onyx salt flakes.Rift-fern butter, slightly pearly, melting in the mouth, scented with sweet ashes.Red honey from giant fireflies, oozing in a black wax-sealed vial.Grilled fruit skin chips, crispy, slightly sweet-salty.

— Okay. I’m eating like a fallen duke from a demonic kingdom. Perfect.

At the bottom of the card, in an elegant frame:

Price of the Black Dawn Cart:Exotic fruits (selection):  15 drekMagical juices & infusions: 10 drekRare accompaniments:  10 drekPrivate suite service:   10 drek

Total: 45 drek = 4.5 zarnFor 30 days: 4.5 x 30 = 135 zarn = 13.5 varkh

I stood frozen, card in hand.

— Thirteen. Point. Five. FUCKING VARKH?!

My trembling fingers slowly set the paper down on the tray, staring at the cart as if it might turn into a banking dragon.

— That’s more expensive than the damn suite, Anthony. Well done.

But... The scents... The fruits... The warmth of the bread...

It smelled good.

And I had already paid.

I shrugged, grabbed a misty glass.

— Come on. Might as well enjoy it. Anyway, I’m rich. For now...

And I bit into a still-warm Heart-of-Pyre, as the day began.

Not with screaming. Not with fighting.

But with a damn royal breakfast.

Before the shit starts again. Because it always does.

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