Though in most parts of the Waiting Fields the food was, let's say... passably edible—enough to keep a body standing and a soul grudgingly tethered to it—no one in their right mind would dare compare it to noble banquets, or to that kind of home-cooked meal made with love, lard, and a wooden spoon by a mother's hand.
It didn't even match the meals served at the most mediocre inns across the land. But to be fair, it wasn't quite as horrid as the runaway captain made it sound. The truth is, it was… tolerable. Bland, brownish, lukewarm... but tolerable.
This culinary mediocrity—or intentional lack thereof—was by design. After all, the Waiting Fields weren't meant for comfort or gourmet pleasures, but to harden body, mind, and gut. A future knight, mage, or servant who couldn't stomach slop without complaining—what hope would they have against a wyvern's bite or a week trapped on the battlefield with nothing but rock-hard rations tasting of dust? Preparation was key, and that included the dark art of campaign food. Here, even the sons of noble houses had to scrape their bowls like anyone else. Well, almost everyone.
Because, of course, there are always exceptions.
Chefs. Those rare souls cursed—or blessed—with a divine obsession for flavor. What kind of cook could endure a lifetime of serving gray bread and watery gruel? None worth their salt. Every true chef carried in their heart the burning dream of one day creating something worthy of remembrance. And of course, of eating well in the meantime. So even in the most desolate corners of the Fields, there were cooks who defied the military ration manuals, crafting dishes that, though clandestine, made the corridors whisper like leaves in the wind.
And thus, among murmurs and rumors, emerged what I can only describe as one of the greatest blessings of chance in my short but peril-ridden life: Flint.
Flint wasn't just one of the grumpy night-shift servants, though he certainly acted the part. He was, in truth, a kind-hearted soul when he took a liking to someone—and, above all, a grandmaster of local cuisine. For reasons no one seemed to know, or if they did, they weren't saying. And somehow—whether by cosmic twist or by my absurd combination of precocious wit, silver tongue, outrageous stories, and that absolutely unintentional cuteness I couldn't seem to suppress—I managed to win his attention.
I'm not proud of playing the cute card. Really, I'm not. But let's be honest: some battles aren't won with sword or spell, but with big eyes and a mischievous smile. And Flint, like any man who'd seen too much, wasn't immune to the charm of a child trying a little too hard to be clever. Between a joke about grumpy servants and a clever remark about wild herbs, I carved out my place—earning tastier meals with each passing day.
Today, I'm one of the very, very few lucky enough to eat real food—and more importantly, forbidden sweets and treats within the Waiting Fields. Delicacies only Flint and maybe two or three spice-alchemists could whip up without raising suspicion. And I make a point of savoring them like a man condemned to his last meal: slowly, reverently… and of course, hiding a few under my tunic, just in case. You never know when fate might decide to play cruel again.
That was also one of the reasons I preferred to eat at night. The night-dwellers tended to be quieter types—insomniac mages, weary squires, exhausted servants with no energy left to socialize. Most ate on the upper levels, alone with their thoughts. Even those who came to the ground floor avoided the counter, choosing the more distant tables. That gave me the freedom to devour my dinner like a hungry hurricane, without attracting too much attention… though Flint was always there, watching with the sharp gaze of an old, wise crow.
"Every day I have to make your plates bigger, and still you go for thirds," he grumbled, smiling as he handed me a cup of water and passed the empty dishes to a helper.
"I'm growing—I need to eat a lot," I replied with a cheeky grin, trying to keep my halo on straight.
Flint raised a grizzled brow and sighed, crossing his arms over a flour-stained apron.
"Young master, your body may be smaller than most your age… but you eat like a full-grown knight fresh off the frontlines." He gestured in the air, mimicking the size of the tray I'd just cleared—it looked more like a chopping board than a plate.
"Honestly," I shot back, chin resting on my hands, feet swinging under the bench, "what kind of chef complains about cooking? Isn't that your thing?"
Flint let out a booming laugh—the kind only earned by years of life and a sharp sense of humor. "Bah! You've got an answer for everything, huh? The more I look at you… the more you remind me of my grandson."
He smiled through the laughter. "Same cheek. Used to talk to the teachers like he was one of them, gave nicknames to the neighbors, faked coughs just to get a spoonful of honey."
I kept smiling, but something in his expression shifted. The light in his eyes dimmed a little, and the smile faded slowly, like smoke on the wind. He turned away, idly arranging the utensils on the counter, the cloth on his shoulder twisted between fingers thick and weathered by time.
"He'd be about your age now... more or less," Flint murmured, almost to himself.
Silence.
I felt it settle in the air, heavy, as if the warm smell of baked bread and hearty soup had been swept away and replaced by something colder, more distant. I didn't say a word. I just sat there, quietly holding my cup of water.
"My a—"
"But that's in the past," he cut me off before I could even get a word out, a forced smile beginning to form on his face. "Tell me, how was the food? Especially the juice?"
He shifted the subject quickly, and I didn't press. "Delicious, as always. The juice?" I placed my hands under my chin, pretending to be deep in thought. "Could've been a bit more tart, but considering it was my idea, it was, naturally, spectacular." I puffed my chest with playful confidence.
"I'm glad to hear that," said Flint, and this time his smile seemed more real, the corners of his eyes crinkling gently. He leaned on the counter with one elbow, the dish towel hanging lazily from his shoulder. "You sure you don't want to be a barista? The way you talk about flavors is almost poetic."
He paused, squinting at me with mock seriousness. "Actually, now that I think about it… you might have more talent for that than for being a knight. Or better yet, how about a court jester? You've certainly got the sass for it."
"I thought about being a king, but... they say the pay is terrible," I replied, shrugging and crossing my legs on the bench like some world-weary sage bored of his throne.
✦ ✦ ✦
And so we carried on—trading jabs, outrageous recipes, and made-up stories—for over an hour. Slowly, the room grew warm again, like the hearth Flint kept alive with careful shovels of coal and long, slow breaths. From time to time, he'd hand me a piece of sweet toast or "accidentally" drop a bit of candied fruit onto my plate—like a grandfather in disguise as a grumbling cook.
Finally, when the soft silence of dawn was broken by a familiar sound—tick... tick... tick—my eyes turned to the old clock on the wall.
It was a curious thing, more ornamental than practical, carved from dark wood with bronze hands dulled by age. Instead of numbers, its circular face bore symbols and drawings—representations of the sun and moon in their various positions throughout the day. At the six o'clock mark, a golden engraving of the rising sun now shimmered faintly as the hand crept toward it.
Tick.
The hand touched the sun's symbol.
I sighed deeply, feeling the weight of sleep settle over my shoulders like an invisible blanket.
"Time to go," I whispered, slipping down from the tall stool.
"Heading off already, young master?" Flint asked, though he already knew the answer. He dried a clean cup with slow, deliberate movements, like he wished the moment could stretch just a little longer.
"Of course. Like any proper night-owl, I must sleep before a stray sunbeam tries to melt my skin." I smiled, turning to him and offering an exaggerated bow.
Flint laughed again, softer this time, but with more heart than sound. "Good night... or good morning, depending on how you see it."
"Good night, Flint," I replied.
He nodded in silence, his eyes following my steps to the kitchen door. The warmth of the hearth still lingered in the air.
And with a full belly and a hidden smile, I returned to my room like any true creature of the night—before the day came to reclaim its hold on the world.
In the room, I found Axel asleep on his makeshift bed atop the writing desk, his sword resting against the corner. I gathered my things and headed for a bath, so I could finally sleep.
✦ ✦ ✦
"Come on, come on!"
Hurried footsteps echoed like hammers, accompanied by excited voices that cut through walls and windows like no stone or timber could hold them back.
"Hurry! We're going to miss the best part!"
"We can't miss this!"
I pulled the pillow over my head, pressing it against my ears in a futile attempt to block out the chaos outside. My body longed to stay in bed, sunk into still-warm sheets, but the shouting was relentless—and annoyingly infectious.
"Curse it all!" I exploded with frustration, hurling the pillow to the floor and sitting up with tousled hair and half-shut eyes. "Can't they keep quiet for one morning?"
Axel, sprawled across the desk, remained deep in a peaceful sleep—breathing slow and steady, like a newborn. Not even a twitch at the commotion outside.
"He has to teach me that trick…" I muttered, staring at him with a mix of envy and awe.
Grumbling, I dragged myself to the window. I yanked the curtains open, and sunlight—fierce and golden—flooded the room like a tidal wave of brightness, forcing me to squint. It took a few seconds of blinking before I could properly see what was going on outside.
The streets were buzzing.
Squires, apprentices, heirs—everyone seemed to be running in the same direction, swept up by some invisible yet unstoppable pull. The air thrummed with excitement. Voices rang out, full of urgency.
"I can't believe it! Oswin's gonna fight Beatriz!"
"It's happening now! South training field's packed!"
"This is gonna be epic!"
My eyes scanned the crowd below. Even a few guards and older staff had joined the rush, grinning like kids and hurrying to follow the tide of youth. The excitement was everywhere.
"Oswin?" I murmured, frowning. "He's already in another mess?"
Less than a day had passed since the chaos from the night before. And now Beatriz?
The first name I, unfortunately, knew too well. The second… it hung in my mind like a balloon tied with a thread too thin to grasp. Distant, but stubborn.
Then, like a winter breeze carrying the scent of wet earth, the memory surfaced.
✦ ✦ ✦
I was younger—a lot younger. Wandering through the Dracknum estate gardens alongside César. I could still hear the crunch of the grass beneath our boots, echoing somewhere in the back of my mind. A man approached us—bald, with a posture like a spear driven into the earth. One eye burned red, like live embers. The other was gold, calm, like sunlight melted into metal.
They spoke. About what, I couldn't recall. But my memory had clung to something else. Someone else.
A girl, maybe my age at the time, walked beside him, clutching the edge of his long coat. Her hair was jet black. Her eyes… one red, one gold, just like his. Her features were delicate, almost otherworldly. She seemed shy, barely stepping beyond the shadow of her father.
✦ ✦ ✦
"Beatriz…" I whispered, eyes drifting back to the surge of people below.
And then it hit me—hard.
Beatriz, the daughter of Captain Charles.
The legendary commander of the Red Squadron. One of the few who came back alive from the mission into the Sea of Shadows. Rumor had it he was the youngest in history to earn the title of squadron commander. That his strength rivaled even the patriarch of the family. A man of outrageous feats... and eyes that could flay the soul.
I also remembered something far less noble—the way he always looked at me whenever we crossed paths. Like I was a bug that, for whatever reason, refused to be squashed.
"And for some reason, he hates me…" I muttered to myself.
Outside, the shouting grew louder. The crowd surged toward the training field like a wave about to break.
Maybe it was just another duel between prodigies, but…
"I can't just stay here!"