The small bone token lay cold against Farkas’s boot, the looped serpent etched into its surface a stark message. He nudged it with his toe, a calculated move, as the last of the apprentice’s choked sobs faded down the corridor. Ilka’s eyes, usually sharp with scorn, held a flicker of something akin to fear, though she quickly masked it. Ferenc, still pressed against the damp stones, seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. Magda, however, her broad shoulders tense, watched Farkas. Her gaze was steady, assessing, missing nothing. Cinder, usually a warm spark at his heels, had pressed itself against the back of his calves, its fur cool with apprehension. “Fool,” Ilka muttered, recovering her composure. “Thinking he could hide forbidden knowledge in this place.” She glanced at the storeroom’s bounty, her expression momentarily softening with hunger before hardening again. “We should go. Before they decide we were too close.” Farkas bent, feigning interest in a spilled sack of dried legumes. His fingers closed around the token, slipping it into his apron pocket with a practiced ease. “Indeed,” he said, his voice flat. “This room needs a thorough cleaning, and I’m sure the Inquisitor will want her meal. I suggest you three find some less… public… means of sustenance.” He left them standing among the scattered crates, the lingering scent of stale blood and fear thick in the air. Back in the relative quiet of his scullery, Cinder’s fur warmed slightly, a small comfort. Farkas pulled the token from his pocket, turning it over in his calloused fingers. The serpent devouring its tail, the Ouroboros. A symbol of eternal return, of cyclical fate. But for Fate-Eaters, it carried a deeper meaning: the endless cycle of observation and interference, the paradox of knowing and changing. A warning, a plea, a silent signal among the damned. The boy had been caught with “black folios,” a euphemism for the forbidden texts on fate-weaving, on the nature of the cords. Farkas understood now. The apothecary's aid was one of them, or at least sympathetic. The charm was a desperate, last-ditch communication, a confirmation that another existed here, trapped within the Bastion’s walls. Solmaz’s interrogation. The thought twisted in his gut. He had to create a dish that would serve two masters: one that would loosen the prisoner’s tongue enough for Solmaz, but also shield the youth's mind, preventing him from divulging *too* much, especially about Farkas himself. It was a delicate dance, a culinary tightrope walk. He began with a clear bone broth, slow-simmered for hours, infused with the subtle, mind-calming properties of silverleaf and the invigorating tang of sun-dried citrus peels. For Solmaz’s benefit, he added a pinch of ‘truth-petal’ pollen, a rare spice known to subtly lower inhibitions and encourage candor, its thread a faint, shimmering silver that made conversations flow. But for the alchemist, he folded in finely minced ‘dream-root,’ a bitter, earthy herb whose fate-thread was a dull, protective ochre. Dream-root didn’t lie, but it wove a haze around specifics, making memories vague, details elusive. It would create a half-truth, a partial confession. He knew the risk. Solmaz was sharp, a predator of a different stripe. But it was all he could do. The interrogation chamber was colder than the pantry, a stark, unadorned room with a single iron table bolted to the floor. The air thrummed with a low, oppressive energy. The captive, stripped of his tunic, was chained to a heavy chair, his face bruised and pale. Solmaz sat opposite him, her posture unnervingly composed, her gaze like chips of obsidian. A single, guttering torch cast long, dancing shadows. Farkas placed the steaming bowl of Clarity Broth before each of them. The aroma was complex: earthy and bright, a deceptive simplicity. Solmaz eyed the bowl, then him, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. “A chef’s touch,” she murmured. “Always so elaborate.” “Only for the Inquisitor’s palate,” Farkas replied, his tone even. He ignored the youth’s desperate, hungry glance. Solmaz took a slow, deliberate sip. Her eyes, already sharp, seemed to gain an additional predatory glint. She offered the alchemist a spoonful. “Drink, boy. It will make this easier for both of us.” The captive, weakened and shivering, gulped down the broth. His shoulders jerked, then his gaze cleared slightly, though a distant, unfocused quality remained. Farkas watched his fate-thread, usually a chaotic tangle of fear, now settling into a calmer, albeit still dulled, hue. “Now, tell me,” Solmaz began, her voice a silken lash. “Of the black folios. Of the truths they reveal.” The alchemist swallowed, his voice raspy. “The… the threads…” he started, then coughed. “They are not fixed. Some… some can be… re-woven.” Solmaz leaned forward, her gaze unwavering. “And who in this academy possesses such a blasphemous gift?” The prisoner’s gaze darted toward Farkas for an instant, but the dream-root’s haze held. He trembled, his eyes fixed on some point beyond Solmaz’s shoulder. “One… one who gathers the broken. Forging weapons from broken children. Shaping them. Changing their path.” His voice was thin, almost a whisper, but the words echoed off the masonry. Farkas felt iron settle into his stomach. The captive’s description, though vague, struck uncomfortably true. It was a half-truth that pointed a finger, even if it couldn’t name a name. Solmaz’s gaze, which had never truly left Farkas, now intensified. A frisson of recognition, cold and sharp, passed between them. She knew. Or suspected. The scent of ozone, faint but unmistakable, hung in the air around her, a tell-tale sign of a Fate-Eater exerting their will. “Enough,” Solmaz said, a single word that cut through the silence. She waved a hand dismissively at the guards. “Return this heretic to his cell. He has given us what we need.” The guards unchained the apprentice, dragging him away, his head lolling. Farkas remained, his hand resting on the cool ceramic of a serving bowl, feigning an interest in cleaning up. The heavy door clanged shut, leaving them alone in the frigid chamber. Cinder, which had been hiding in the folds of Farkas’s apron, shivered, its fur ice-cold. Solmaz rose, her movements fluid and silent. She walked to Farkas, stopping inches from him. Her eyes, deep and ancient, searched his. “The Clarity Broth was… effective,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial tone. “It certainly loosened his tongue. But it also clouded it. A subtle touch, Chef Farkas. Far too subtle for a mere cook.” Farkas kept his face impassive. “I merely followed your instructions, Inquisitor. To make him speak.” “Oh, you made him speak,” she countered, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips. “And you made him forget. Or at least, made him unable to articulate the precise details.” Her eyes narrowed. “The Ouroboros, Chef. I saw it on the floor of the larder. A coded message from one of our kind.” She paused, letting the words hang between them. “I know what you are, Farkas. You re-weave the threads. Just like me.” The admission hung heavy in the stone vault. Farkas held his breath, keeping his chin rigid against the instinct to flinch. This wasn't an accusation; it was a declaration of shared monstrosity. “But I do not wish to execute you,” Solmaz continued, her voice soft, almost alluring. “Our kind is rare. Powerful. And, if left uncontrolled, dangerous. We unravel the world if we act alone. We must be unified. Guided.” She took another step closer, her presence overwhelming. “I offer you a full pardon for your past transgressions, real and imagined. A position at my side, serving the true will of Kőrvár. All I ask is your absolute loyalty. And the secrets of your unique culinary art.” Her eyes bore into his, a terrible invitation. “The threads say your creations will kill you. Join me, and we will cut them all.”

A Taste of Truth