Ferenc stumbled back into the clearing, breath ragged, hands trembling, but a wild, disbelieving grin splitting his face. Magda was already there, still clutching her blunted axe, her shoulders heaving. Ilka followed, her movements stiff, eyes fixed on the distant walls. Farkas, calm amidst their disarray, was already packing his culinary tools. Cinder, who had been a ball of anxious, pulsing heat, now settled, its fur a comfortable warmth against Farkas’s leg. They made their way back through the forest, the adrenaline slowly draining, leaving them with bone-deep exhaustion. The Bastion gates were ajar, a hive of activity, but no one stopped the F-rank trio. The instructors, typically quick to scorn, averted their gazes with unsettled scowls. The tusked brute, a creature bred for obedience, had turned on its masters. This was a disruption of the highest order, and the students who had driven it back were an inconvenient anomaly. Farkas led them directly to his scullery, a sanctuary of greasy warmth. The march had passed without a single question spoken aloud. He moved with practiced ease, stoking the coals, pulling out ingredients that had waited for this exact moment. He didn’t ask about their ordeal, didn’t offer platitudes. He simply began to cook. “Sit,” he grunted, gesturing to the rough-hewn table. “You’ve earned a meal.” Magda sank onto the bench, her massive frame seeming to deflate. Ferenc collapsed beside her, his scout’s cloak stained with mud and beast-gore, but his eyes bright. Ilka remained standing for a moment, observing Farkas’s methodical movements, the way his hands kneaded dough with a quiet intensity. Her usual disdain was absent, replaced by a guarded curiosity. Farkas sliced thick cuts of smoked boar, rendered from a forgotten corner of the larder, simmering them in a rich stew fragrant with wild mushrooms and roasted root vegetables. He baked crusty, dense bread, the steam rising in comforting plumes. Cinder curled on a stool beside him, occasionally letting out a soft purr as a piece of seasoned meat fell its way. The aroma filled the low-ceilinged room, a stark contrast to the thin gruel typically ladled in the yard. When the bowls were set before them, brimming and steaming, a collective sigh escaped the trio. Ferenc attacked his portion with the ferocity of a starved wolf, moaning softly with each bite. Magda ate slowly, deliberately, her gaze drifting between her bowl and Farkas. Ilka, after a moment’s hesitation, picked up her spoon. The first mouthful seemed to shock her. “This… this isn’t academy slop,” she murmured, the bite drained from her voice. “This is… real food.” Farkas grunted, stirring his own modest bowl. “Survival demands fuel. Good fuel makes for better survival.” Ferenc, his mouth full, managed, “He saved us, Ilka. He told us what to do. Every step.” Ilka looked at Farkas, her eyes searching. “You knew the Gravetusk was coming. You knew… everything.” He met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “I gave you what you needed to live.” Magda pushed her empty bowl aside, a rare, genuine smile touching her lips. “Strength. Clarity. Speed. It was… different.” Ferenc leaned back, patting his full stomach. “I thought I was dead, a dozen times over. But then… I just knew what to do. Like a voice in my head, but louder. Stronger.” He looked at Farkas with a new reverence. “Thank you, Chef.” The words hung in the air, foreign and fragile within the cold stone fortress. Farkas felt a warmth bloom in his chest, quickly squashed by the familiar pang of dread. This fragile trust, this camaraderie, was a blade sharpened for his own throat. He pushed the thought away, focusing on the simple act of them eating, alive, for the first time truly *together*. Before Ilka could ask another question, the iron-banded door swung open without its customary groan. Cold air rolled across the floorboards. Inquisitor Solmaz stood framed in the lintel, flanked by two armed wardens with dull plate glinting under the grease-lamps. Her face was serene, almost gentle, but her eyes held the depth of a bottomless well. Cinder stiffened on the bench, fur flaring into scalded crimson. A dry rasp grated in the fox's throat. Farkas gripped the handle of his paring knife, his pulse freezing mid-stroke. “My apologies for the intrusion,” Solmaz’s voice was soft, silken. “But I felt it important to congratulate you personally, students. You have fought bravely. To turn a war-boar back from the fortress ramparts… that is an unprecedented feat.” She stepped further into the room, her gaze sweeping over the exhausted, startled trio, then settling on Farkas. “Now, if you would allow me, I believe it’s time I showed you the true source of your newfound strength.” She raised a hand, her fingers slender and pale. Her dark eyes caught the tallow flicker from the iron range, deepening to flat black. A shimmering haze rose from her palm, not smoke, but light, twisting and coiling in the air. The very space around her seemed to warp, and the students instinctively recoiled. Then, the room shifted. The mundane became extraordinary. What was once invisible now burst into vibrant, horrifying clarity. Tendrils of shimmering, luminous light, like ethereal vines, sprang from Solmaz’s hand, lacing through the air. They were everywhere, a chaotic, dazzling network, but three prominent strands pulsed with a vibrant energy. One, a brilliant crimson, snaked from Ilka’s heart, through the air, and vanished into Farkas’s right hand. Another, a sturdy, earth-toned rope, emerged from Magda’s chest, leading directly to Farkas’s left. And the third, a swift, silver-blue current, tethered Ferenc’s racing pulse to the same hand, intertwining with the others. Ilka choked on an intake of air, staring at her chest in rigid horror. Magda’s jaw dropped, her thick brow knotting. Ferenc shrank back, celebratory grin collapsing into ash as he traced the brilliant filaments from his own ribs to Farkas’s empty, open palms. The threads pulsed, thrumming with an undeniable, unnatural energy. They connected him, and his friends, to the cook. Directly. Solmaz’s voice dropped, barely a murmur, yet it resonated with devastating clarity in the sudden, absolute silence of the pantry. “He is a Fate-Eater. Every victory you’ve earned, every skill you’ve gained, has been nothing but his puppetry. He has been feeding you lies.” Ilka’s head snapped toward Farkas, the defiant fire in her stare collapsing into raw fury. The shimmering crimson thread connecting them seemed to glow brighter, a mockery of genuine connection. Her voice was barely a breath, shattered and laced with utter betrayal. “Is it true?”

A Feast of Confessions