I didn't wake up hungry.
No, hunger is too mundane a word for what I felt that morning. What clawed at my stomach was need, dripping with obsession, pulsing with ancient spice and charred meat. You ever wake up with a taste in your mouth that doesn't exist yet? That's what I had. A taste of something older than memory. A kebab so perfect it might not even be a food—it might be a concept. A curse. Or worse… a flavor that thinks.
Yeah. Welcome to my life.
Call me Sava. Sava Renkov. Food critic by day, seeker of divine meat by every other hour of my cursed existence. You're probably already wondering if I'm insane. And the answer is: I hope so. It's the only way any of this makes sense.
I opened my eyes to a ceiling fan spinning above me like the wheel of a very lazy fate. My flat was small, dim, filled with empty takeout boxes and old spice jars. The wallpaper peeled like dried onions. The smell of garlic haunted every surface. I liked it that way.
The moment I sat up, I knew today was different. You ever feel a shift in the universe? A tremble in the soul? Yeah, that. A wind blew in from the window I forgot to close last night. It carried something—
A smell.
Rich. Smoky. Unnatural.
My heart stopped.
It was it.Or at least… close to it.
I leapt from the couch, tripping over a half-eaten shawarma and the manuscript of my unpublished food philosophy book: "Grease & Glory: A Philosopher's Guide to Street Meat." Don't look at me like that. Yes, that's a real title.
INTERLUDE: Sava Looks at You
Now you're wondering, is this guy for real?Why's he talking like he's the narrator of a pulp noir novel that overdosed on cumin?I see your face, reader. I hear your questions.
But let me make one thing clear.
This story isn't about food.It's about faith.And mine happens to be grilled, spiced, and wrapped in thin bread.
You still with me?
Good. Let's continue.
I grabbed my coat—long, brown, greasy in the right places—and slipped my trusty spice pouch into the inside pocket. I never left home without it. Inside were vials of powdered sumac, Aleppo pepper, and one unmarked jar I never dared to open. The man who sold it to me in Istanbul said it was "the flavor of forgotten gods." I believed him.
The scent led me down crooked alleys I'd never seen before. I'd lived in this city for twenty years, and suddenly I was walking through districts that didn't exist on any map. The buildings bent in unnatural angles. The shadows had texture. The graffiti whispered.
And then… I found it.
A food cart.
But not just any food cart. No wheels. No vendor. Just… there, standing in the middle of a dark alley like it had been placed by the gods themselves. It glowed faintly, like meat under moonlight. Smoke curled upward in slow, deliberate spirals, dancing with spice.
There was no one behind it.
But on the grill, a skewer sizzled.
One.
Only one.
I stepped forward, heartbeat loud, fingers trembling.
And then—
"You're not ready."
The voice froze my blood. Deep, smoky, and feminine. It came from a shadow behind the cart. Slowly, it stepped forward.
A woman. Tall. Robed in cloth that shimmered like flame and ash. Her face was veiled, but her eyes… her eyes were cumin-colored and terrifying.
"I—I followed the scent," I stammered. "It called to me."
She tilted her head. "Many have followed. Few return."
"Is that… the kebab?" I asked, voice cracking with reverence and something close to lust. "The one? The real one?"
She did not answer. Instead, she took the skewer from the grill, held it out—
—and let it drop.
It never hit the ground.
The moment it left her hand, the kebab vanished in a blink of smoke.
Gone.
Like a dream.
I staggered forward. "Wait—what?!"
"You seek too soon," she said. "First, the Trials. Then, the Taste."
INTERLUDE: Sava Turns to You Again
This is the part where a sane man turns back.But I haven't been sane since I tasted a kebab made by a one-eyed monk in Alexandria who claimed it could make you forget your name. (It did. I spent three days calling myself "Spicy Steve.")
This woman—this Priestess of the Grill, or whatever she was—had just dropped a kebab that broke reality.
So yeah. I followed her.
You would've too.
Don't lie.
She led me through a door that wasn't there five seconds ago. Behind it: a bazaar of madness.
Imagine this:
A goat wearing a fez trying to sell kebab-shaped candles.
A man who speaks entirely in food puns. ("Lettuce meat again, my friend!")
A floating butcher's shop where the meats speak in riddles and scream if you slice them wrong.
Yeah. That kind of place.
The air was thick with chili smoke and mystery. My mouth watered with curiosity and fear.
"This," the woman said, "is the First Market. The last place before the Trials begin."
I turned to her. "What trials? Like… spicy food challenges?"
She shook her head. "No. Much stranger. One will test your tongue. Another your memory. And one… your soul."
Great.
Just another Thursday.
And then I saw him.
My rival.
Djoran the Tongue-Eater.
Yeah, that's what he calls himself. Yeah, he's real. Yeah, he once bit a food critic so hard she started speaking in meat dialect.
Djoran was tall, ugly-beautiful in the way nightmares are, with teeth like jagged corn kernels and a fork tattooed across his bald skull.
"You're late, Renkov," he hissed. "The Kebab is mine."
"Over my grilled body," I snapped.
He licked his lips. "That can be arranged."
INTERLUDE: Sava Looks at You a Final Time (For This Chapter)
Still think this is about food?
No.
This is about obsession. Flavor. Madness.
And somewhere out there, across spice-soaked dreamlands and alleys that shouldn't exist, lies a kebab that could change the world.
I don't know what it wants. I don't know what it is.
But I'll find it.
Even if I have to eat my way through reality itself.
You in?
Good.
Then let's begin.
End of Chapter One