Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 61: Night of Opulence (2)

Chapter 61: Night of Opulence (2)

Lysara was looking at me. She had drunk in turn. And she was smiling—a true smile. That of a child tasting light for the first time.

I drank again, slowly. The wine flowed down like a river of warm ashes. I was in no hurry. I had time.

And then, the feast began.

Twenty minutes passed before the waiter returned with the starter.

The silence between Lysara and me was gentle, almost sacred.

— Here is the Soup of Old-Root and shredded Abyssium fillet.

He set the black cup down before me, steaming, fragrant. Fine glitter floated there like glyphs.

— An infusion for lucidity. The heat soothes, but also awakens what we hide. Drink slowly, it is alive.

I took a spoon, tasted it.

The taste... was strangely clear. As if each aroma wanted to speak. I felt my thoughts arranging themselves, my memories lighting up.

Lysara dipped her lips in hers, then closed her eyes.

— It reminds me of... a morning I’ve never lived, she murmured.

I served her a bit more juice. She drank it gratefully.

Me, I took another sip of wine.

The bottle was going down gently. I didn’t feel like saving it.

Another half-hour passed.

The sky had changed above us. Darker, deeper. The stars had shifted.

Main course: Braised Bark-Crawler Tentacle, Mirage-Ivy risotto.

A steaming plate, presented like a work of art.

The tentacle cracked slightly under the blade. The risotto subtly rippled.

— Three days in crushed Brascroc, the waiter specified.

— It crunches... then melts. The risotto, though... slides. Don’t look at it too long.

I cut a piece, swallowed it.

Explosion of fire, burning juices, roasted bark.

Lysara tasted in turn.

She laughed, surprised by the risotto.

— It slipped off my spoon...

I smiled. She laughed.

And at that moment, I had drunk almost half the bottle.

I wasn’t counting anymore.

Another thirty minutes.

The waiter returned unhurried. A perfect rhythm. Just the time to digest, to breathe, to contemplate the changing sky above.

Secondary dish: Earth-Fulgure Heart stuffed with Dragspine blood stuffed with highland herbs. The black salt causes... a tingling. It’s normal, the waiter smiled.

I bit into it.

A shock. A soft electric jolt. A tremor in my tongue, in my throat.

Lysara, curious, picked a piece. She jumped, surprised, then burst out laughing. A laugh more fluid, more natural still.

— It’s like... biting into a storm, she said.

— You know, with Cassandre... we faced a creature capable of controlling the storm itself. It was completely insane!

Then I launched into the story of the fight, miming it energetically, laughing with Lysara.

— She sounds terrifying, she said, speaking of Cassandre.

Of course I had already told her about her acid capable of corroding from the inside.

— Oh yes! Your mother is far more terrifying than me. A real monster, AHAHAHAH!

She seemed shocked by my remark.

— Am I really that terrifying? I asked, laughing.

— Yes, without the slightest doubt... she replied with a mischievous smile.

— Then you can’t even imagine how terrifying Cassandre is!

Then we burst out laughing together.

Then there was only a quarter of the bottle left.

Silence fell again.

Just the light clink of cutlery, the whisper of light on glass.

For dessert: Frozen Soufflé with Nihilite Salt, Cursed Sap coulis.

It seemed to shine slightly, motionless, eternal.

— It won’t melt. Even in the mouth. The coulis is... sweet, but bitter. Like a fair ending. A conclusion.

I tasted it. A subtle cold, which descended gently down my throat.

Lysara, she let it melt on her tongue. Then she said softly:

— We should always end days like this.

I looked at her.

She was radiant. She was alive, fully.

Final act.

The waiter returned with a small purple cup on a heated runic stone.

— Tears of Malacite. Strong. Raw. But revealing.

— If you’re afraid of what you’re hiding... don’t drink.

I said nothing. I drank.

A dizziness, at first. The impression of falling... then a strange calm. A blurry vision, perhaps. A silhouette. A look. A closet...

The glass slipped from my fingers and shattered on the floor. I started to tremble.

— What’s wrong? Are you okay? she asked, worried.

— Yes... yes... it’s nothing. I was just a bit surprised.

Then I looked at Lysara.

She was looking at me too. And me, I was happy.

A moment.

A true moment.

Perfect.

The waiter bowed slowly, almost like a reverence.

He handed the bill, carefully calligraphed on a black parchment edged with gold.

’Item Price:

2 "Blood & Wonders" Menus: 2 Varkh

1 bottle "Memory of Kharz’Gol – First Tear": 9.7 Varkh

1 vial of Ash-Tree Liqueur: 6.8 Varkh

Total 18.5 Varkh’

A bit higher than last time.

But tonight wasn’t just a meal.

I pulled a handful of Varkh from my purse, in a gesture as natural as it was resigned.

The rare metal chimed softly in my hand.

— Pack me another bottle of this vintage, and another dessert for the lady, I said, my gaze locked in hers.

The waiter bowed with military precision.

— Very well, sir.

A few moments later, he returned with a bottle wrapped in a black cloth embroidered with silver thread, and a small box where the frozen soufflé rested in an insulated box engraved with preservation runes.

We left the restaurant without saying another word.

Outside, the night was no longer silent. It was breathing slowly.

The air was cooler, denser.

The lanterns hanging above the alleys cast a dark red light, like a tamed fire.

Zagnaroth was sleeping without sleeping.

I held the bottle against me, like protecting a farewell letter.

Arrived at the inn, The Crimson Obsidian, I left Lysara with her dessert, in the private lounge reserved for our floor.

She settled in, straight, methodical.

She wasn’t smiling. But she wasn’t opposing either.

She accepted.

That was enough.

Me, I continued further.

The stone walls were adorned with dark hangings, and each step seemed to absorb the sound of my footsteps.

I opened the door to the private library. A place out of time.

Shelves ran along the walls, filled with demonic grimoires, ancient tales, forgotten diaries.

In the center, a polished black wooden desk, perfectly lit by a hanging lantern.

On its taut leather surface... a blank notebook.

Scaly leather binding. Gilded edges.

And carefully placed: a fountain pen, whose obsidian nib reflected the light like a fine blade.

I set the bottle next to me.

I opened it, without ceremony, and took a sip. Then I took the notebook. And I began to write.

Word by word. What I had lived since my summoning.

The first glances.

The terror.

The battles.

The flames.

The solitude.

Each sip rekindled an image.

Each line laid on the page called for another.

Cassandre.

Lucas.

The blood.

The madness.

The pain of choice.

And that table, that wine, that strange night...

The pen glided. And the wine flowed.

Page after page.

Glass after glass.

Tonight, I was writing so as not to forget.

Tonight, I was neither warrior, nor rich, nor chosen.

I was alive.