The next day, Armyr entered the dining hall, where nine puppets were waiting for him.

  “Fine work, farmer. You earned your beer.”

  The puppet grabbed a bottle, and the liquid spilled from his chin, cascading down his chest.

  “Even that, you can’t savor anymore, can you? Now go fetch wood and carve it into stakes.”

  An hour later, they returned, their arms laden with dozens of stakes. Armyr slit his wrist, letting his blood run along the wood.

  “Tonight, you will attack the farms and drive these stakes into their hearts. Every beat of life must cease. Until then, keep cutting wood.”

  And the puppets scattered.

  *****

  The meat caramelized over glowing embers, mingling with the spicy wafts of steaming soups and the aromas of bread fresh from the oven. Armyr let himself be carried along by the crowd until a swaying sign caught his eye. As soon as he stepped inside, conversations faded, and a few gazes lifted.

  Behind the counter, a woman ladled out a bowl of soup, then brushed back a strand of hair stuck to her temple.

  “A room,” he asked, placing two coins on the wood.

  “For the night?”

  “Until tomorrow morning.”

  She took a key hanging from a nail driven into the wall.

  “Second floor, last door. And no candles in the room.”

  He spun the key between his fingers.

  “What are the capital’s specialties?” he asked.

  “Is this your first time here?”

  “In a way.”

  “There’s so much to discover. Are you planning to stay long?”

  “A few weeks.”

  “Then you must try the chocolate from the royal palace. It’s an expensive luxury, but unforgettable. And there are also the chasms of Hurna and our famous cuberdons, a local sweet,” she exclaimed.

  “Cuberdons, what are they?”

  “Oh, a cone-shaped confection, crunchy on the outside, melting on the inside. A true delight, believe me! You can’t leave the capital without tasting them. And near the castle, there’s a large gallery where the finest artisans of the capital and even from abroad display their creations. If you enjoy art and beautiful discoveries, it’s a place not to be missed.”

  “Thank you for your valuable advice.”

  She lowered her eyes, and a rosy tint spread across her cheeks.

  “It’s always a pleasure.”

  He was heading up the stairs when the innkeeper’s voice caught up with him.

  “Keep an eye on your pockets. The capital has hands quicker than tongues.”

  The door creaked open, revealing a room filled with the scent of wood and soap. A duvet puffed up like a cloud covered the bed. He let himself fall onto it, and the tension lodged in his shoulders melted away. His body sank in, and he drifted into sleep.

  Laughter mixed with the clinking of tankards rose from the ground floor. He cracked his eyes open, his gaze lost in the shadows on the ceiling. As he went down the steps, the din sharpened: boozy bursts of voices, orders barked by a serving girl.

  Some patrons leaned against the counter, others were absorbed in a card game or slumped around a dish. The innkeeper, busy behind the bar, gave him a nod. He answered with a smile before leaving the inn. Outside, his gaze drifted over the crowd. Hands exchanged coins, smiles slipped out between bursts of laughter. He stopped in front of a stall where, under the glow of lanterns, chocolate-coated confections gleamed. Behind the counter, a young man with a flour-stained apron bustled about, flipping one of them on the searing griddle.

  “One waffle, please,” he said, pulling out a coin.

  He flipped the batter, and the caramelized scent grew stronger.

  “Is it your first time here?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Let’s just say regulars don’t think that hard before choosing.”

  He set the waffle on a sheet of paper, then drizzled it with a ribbon of chocolate.

  “You chose well, it’s the best in the city.”

  He took a bite, and the filling melted on his tongue, sweet and warm.

  “So, I was right, huh?”

  “Not bad,” he conceded.

  “You’ve got a real gift with words, that ‘not bad,’ for a waffle that could make a noble weep!”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “It really is excellent,” he replied with a laugh.

  “Then I’ll be waiting for the next one,” he tossed out with a wink.

  “We’ll see.”

  He then headed toward a park lit by paper lanterns, found a bench a little off to the side, and sat down. Groups laughed, lovers brushed fingertips, and flutists tuned their melodies to the murmur of the wind. As he finished his pastry, a woman in her thirties approached him, her cheeks flushed with alcohol and a radiant smile on her lips.

  “Will you come have a drink with us?” she asked.

  “With pleasure.”

  She led him to a circle of about ten people seated on the grass. She handed him a glass filled with an amber liquid, which he raised along with the others.

  “To our improbable encounters!” a man called out.

  “And to the madness of nights that are too short!” added a woman with a laugh, before downing a gulp of mead.

  “And to the memories we’ll drown under too many bottles!” Armyr added.

  Laughter burst out, mingled with the clinking of glasses.

  “Where are you from, stranger?”

  “From another time.”

  “An adventurer, then?”

  “Let’s say a man who follows the wind.”

  “He’s a poetic one, that one!” a woman exclaimed, patting his shoulder.

  He brought the glass to his lips, savoring the sweet burn that warmed his throat. Around him, anecdotes followed one another. He set the glass down and leaned toward the others.

  “It was in Arvellan. I had gotten lost in the forest, following a trail that, I swear to you, belonged to a white stag.”

  The murmurs died away, and in turn, some of them leaned in.

  “Night had just fallen. I lit a torch, and that’s when I saw it, between the trees. A glowing red light escaped from its antlers. And then it vanished. I don’t remember what happened next. I blinked, and I woke up in another village, lying near a well, the torch extinguished beside me. I didn’t even know where I was.”

  “You’re lying, I don’t believe a word of it!” a woman cried, shaking her head.

  “That’s the whole point of a good story. If it were ordinary, we’d all fall asleep before the end.”

  She burst out laughing, and the others were quick to follow.

  “You can really hold your drink, stranger!”

  A woman raised a nearly empty bottle.

  “Bad news, friends, we’re opening the last one!”

  “Then we’ll need another round,” a reveler declared, digging through his pockets.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Armyr said.

  “Really? The stranger isn’t just entertaining, he’s generous too!” a woman exclaimed.

  “Don’t get too excited, I might pick the worst bottle just to see your faces.”

  Laughter burst out again.

  “Choose the best, we trust you!”

  He moved away from the group, drawn by the smell from a stall of meat skewers. Smoke rose in curling plumes, soaking the air with greasy scents. He bought one, then made his way back to the inn.

  *****

  Armyr wandered through the capital all day, amid stalls overflowing with fruit and meat. He stopped behind a stand where a vendor was turning a wheel of cheese on a board.

  “A classic! Creamy at the center, golden on the outside. Taste it, and you’ll understand why even the great lords come looking for it.”

  He handed over a few coins and took a warm slice. The melting paste flowed over his tongue, pouring out a blend of salt and cream whose heat spread all the way down his throat.

  “So? Not bad, huh?”

  “It’s filling.”

  “Ah, here’s one who eats like a soldier: no frills, just enough to stay on your feet.”

  He spotted a tavern on the street corner and pushed the door open. He sat near the fire and ordered a lamb stew. The shredded meat bathed in a dark broth where slivers of onion and a few herbs floated. He stirred his spoon through the liquid, then tasted it. Fat and spices burst across his tongue.

  Not far away, a man sighed, his head thrown back.

  “By all the gods, I could eat this until I die.”

  His neighbor burst out laughing, then dipped a piece of bread into his bowl. Armyr scraped the bottom of the plate to catch one last piece of onion. He wiped his mouth and left the inn.

  When night fell, he took the road back to the farm. No sooner had he passed through the gate than a swarm of puppets stirred in the yard. He pushed open the door to his room and set his coat over the back of the chair. He sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled off his boots. His body protested when he lay down, but sleep soon claimed him.

  At dawn, he went down to the kitchen, where hundreds of stakes were piled high. He drew the blade and cut into his palm, letting the blood flow until it filled the hollow of his hand. Then he grabbed a stake and dipped it in; at once, the grain of the wood darkened, and its veins hardened. He moved on to the next, repeating the same ritual. After several dozen, sweat ran down his brow, carving tracks along his temples. When he reached for the last stake, his fingers trembled, and he had to try twice to lift it. He dipped it in the blood before setting it on the pile. His vision blurred, and he blinked until the outlines stopped shaking.

  “Prepare me some food,” he said.

  A clattering echoed across the floor as the puppets stirred. Three hours later, a wave of aromas drifted through the air, announcing their return. The table sagged under the weight of the dishes: roasted meats with crackling skin and grilled vegetables exuding spicy scents. Armyr speared a piece and brought it to his lips. The meat gave him no pleasure, and the vegetables, despite their smoky tenderness, left only a bland impression, without spark or depth. He set the fork back on the table.

  “It will never be enough,” he murmured.

  In the days that followed, while the world bustled on without him, he remained bedridden, surrounded by servants. Barely a week had passed when already three hundred creatures were awaiting his orders.

  He crossed the threshold of the house; before him stretched a sea of frozen shapes, and he raised one hand.

  “Go on, turn their world upside down. Let chaos come before dawn,” he said. A shiver rippled through the horde, and the army set itself in motion. Each morning, at pallid dawn, the mass spread a little farther.