(2)Brand & Bone: The Soup-Maker | | Dark Fantasy Fable |

This the second short in the Brand & Bone series | A Dark Fantasy Fable |

Chapter One

The Hunger’s Pace

The scent of rosemary and thyme hung thick and sweet in the air, a thread tugging Casimir deeper into the woods. Even after the sun rose behind thick clouds, the aroma led him onward. Leading with his nose, he cared not for the same old trees and vines that tried to slow his advance. He walked with grit. With purpose. And his gut—his gut churned, foul and wrenching once more

“I see the stale bread wasn’t enough,” Hal mused, tone almost cheery. “I think it was harder for you to eat than anything you got out of it.”

Casimir pretended not to hear. Jaw tight, eyes narrowed, he stamped through the sodden surface—too proud to admit the ache in his belly.

Mud clung to his boots. Clay near small streams pasted his lower pants with a pale grey hue. 

Brush was thrown aside, and slapped back with a swish like a whip.

“Casimir?” 

Still no response. 

Still determined. 

Still broken.

But the endless shrubs gave way to a clearing. At the edge of the forest, it opened up to a glade. A rather large one. Fields of faintly flowing golden wheat swayed like arms in the breeze. Sweeping left and right like some candlelit psalm had asked.

The strands swayed, wind-blown like a congregation bowing to his emergence.

“I think we found what we wanted,” Casimir muttered, though a shadow of doubt crept beneath his words, eyes narrowing as if he already regretted knowing. Cold and collected, he drank the air in. Deep. He filled his lungs full to the brim of whatever may be simmering.

“Sure,” Hal said dryly, his voice edged with grim humor. “If you were hoping for a last meal, I'd say we’re right on time.”

“Just once,” Casimir started, his voice hollow with dread. “Just once maybe we’ll actually find something not perverted. Perhaps it could be wholesome—you never know.”

“Right… and I’m living proof that dread is nature’s only cycle.. Wholesome? HAH!”

Casimir sighed. He looked down. Eyes heavy with the same old burden. He shook his head and kept walking.

“You’re not wrong,” Casimir started as he began his strides through the thick, flowing grass. “Though, sometimes I wish your words were subtle lies. Or even plain ones.”

As Casimir made his way further through the fields of natural gold, he saw something building just through the fuzz. It was hard to see beneath the soft, tickling barrier, but a rooftop and some scaffolding appeared upon the horizon.

Closer now, even more rooftops emerged like structures being spread upon a painter’s canvas. Old. Overgrown. Still, they stood—solid and watching. He caught the faint creak of weathered wood crying out as if they ached with age. Rough oak hewn timbers held up these pointy abodes. They weren’t bungalows or ranches. They were classic two-story buildings that watched over the glade like an armed-guard at his post.

Mesmerized by the growing world beyond, he lost sight of his strides that brought him to another clearing where a path laid. Full of scattered footprints, deep ruts, and puddles of churned, mucky water—a mess of tracks that clawed their way toward a distant gate, as if the town had emptied in a rush no one spoke of, leaving behind a stillness too clean, too deliberate, as though something unseen had tidied up after the fleeing.

Casimir approached the gate, its silence pressing down like a held breath. No guards. No militia to man the minor battlement. There wasn’t even a coat-of-arms to know who or even what may inhabit the tiny walled town.

Looking up, Casimir narrowed his gaze to the heavens, trying to catch sight of any… if any person stood atop the wall. But no one looked back. 

The scents….

They loomed. 

They teased.

They sent him into a downward spiral—wrinkling his nose, and tightening his facial muscles, Casimir scowled to the sky, but he was pulled back. That aromatic delight crept through the wooden seams like a prisoner's arm reaching through iron bars in a cell—comforting him, but beneath it, something rank and meaty lingered, souring the aroma just enough to raise the hairs on his neck.

Despite the pungent odor, the overlapping sweetness coddled him so. That scent made his gut gurgle ever so much more aggressively.

“Hello!?” Casimir cried out in desperation, raising both hands to funnel his voice.

“Of course… why wouldn’t we try to bring attention to ourselves. By all means, Casimir, let’s knock on the devil’s door and ask for soup.”

Nothing replied. Just the eerie silence of a town long since forgotten. Looking to his satchel, Casimir glanced down at Hal with a furrowed brow.

“Do you have any better suggestions?”

“Yes,” Hal quipped—tone shifting now. “Turn around and pretend like we never arrived.”

“You suggested that last time,” Casimir snarled, turning his gaze back up to the battlements. “How is that better than trying to ask?”

“Well—I mean… I suppose I would just be the bone broth,” Hal quipped, his voice snickering now. “And you would be the pot-roast. At least I’d bring flavor to the table. You? Chewy at best.”

"Don't give me any ideas." Casimir's voice lowered— gravelly almost. "We're going to get in. We're going to make ourselves presentable AND we're going to grovel for some food.”

“Hah!” Hal snorted. “You?! Grovel!? Please. You’re too proud of yourself, too greedy. You only follow an order if it gives you a benefit.” 

“Benefits… right.” Casimir peeled back his tattered cloth revealing a satiated brand. It pulsed faintly, not wildly like it does when crying out for more. It waited patiently for its next feeding. “What benefits do you see? I see something stuck within me. It breathes. It recoils. It uses me. What do you have?”

Hal sat in silence.

Not a word echoed out. 

“Look… I’m—” Casimir sighed, regretting his tone. “I'm —’

Suddenly, the gate shuddered, groaned, and parted—slowly, heavily—revealing the quiet gloom of the town beyond.

A man beckoned them in. Tall. Thin. Emaciated—as if the scent itself had devoured him

Chapter Two

The Town

The man’s clothing was black and slender. Elegant. Made of fine threads, he was definitely upper class. He stood with such stillness, you'd think he was a statue made of flesh. Closer now as Casimir stepped past the threshold, you could see how loose his vestments were. They didn't cling, they hanged and swayed.

Protruding bones, sunken—pale eyes, and wasting cheeks, you'd think he was related to Hal. His glassy eyes leered at Casimir. Though… they felt as if they were looking beyond, not at him. As if he was lost.

“Casimir,” He spoke with a sincere tone. “What pleasure to finally greet you.”

Much like his attire, he was eloquent in his demeanor. He bowed slightly, still maintaining his eye contact with a subtle smile—at least that’s what it seemed like.

“We’ve been awaiting your arrival,” He looked down to his side to gauge the length of his shadow. “A quick stroll and we’ll be just in time for service.”

“What do you mean we—”

“Excuse my ignorance,” He stretched his gloved hand out. White threaded. Cotton. Soft to the touch. “I am Lord-Mayor. I see all and know all that pass near my gates. In and out.”

He continued as-if Casimir cared for his duties. “Whom who serve may not lead. I lead.  I protect them, and it is my duty to assess all travelers. Known or not.”

Casimir extended his crooked fingers to meet the mayor’s. It was like grabbing a pile of twigs. Even his hand was thin and bony. Like marrow bones wrapped in silk.

“Interesting,” Hal started, dryly. “You look like you’ve not had a meal in years… yet it smells like you cook for the masses.”

Tilting his head, the Lord-Mayor’s expression lit up. His ears twitched. 

“Ah, I know that voice.” He said, his gaze shifting down toward the satchel at Casimir’s side. Casimir stiffened instinctively, one hand brushing the bag protectively, eyes narrowing—already unsettled by how familiar this stranger seemed.

He didn’t know what chilled him more: the smile itself, or the way it seemed meant for someone else—someone wearing his skin.

“So this is where you ended your journey? A pity. I always liked your vibrancy.”

“I am more controlled.” Hal assured.

“I remember a man so enthralled by my collections,” The mayor clasped his palms together with a whimsical sigh. “A book in one hand and soup in the other. Eating as if the world bowed to you alone.”

“I remember a man who wore his flesh well,” Hal interjected. “Now I see hide drying out in the sun.”

“I missed you too, Hal.” He smirked. A cold smile reached from cheek to cheek.

“How do you—” Casimir stood in the moment, wondering. Pondering. How do they know each other—how do they know him? Much like the preacher before. They all seem connected. They all seem lost and overburdened.

“Right!” the mayor exclaimed with a gentle sideways turn, his movements precise—too smooth, too rehearsed, like a man playing a part he’d long since forgotten was meant to be real. “Let me show you around. We’ve a little bit before the feast. Our host wants me to make sure you’re well taken care of until preparations are finalized.”

He turned and clasped his hands behind his back–threading his fingers together and holding his chin high. He acted more like a servant than a lord leading. Gracious, welcoming… he even opened the door like a true house-aide.

This was no lord—Casimir’s gaze remained narrow. Who was he trying to fool?

As they crept behind, Casimir flicked his eyes from one empty street to the other. Nothing stirred... at least on the outskirts. The cobble roads were swept too clean. No laughter, no dogs, no dust. 

"Where is everyone?" Casimir asked as he watched the mayor stride. Chin still high and eyes still glossy.

"Usually by midday, we congregate around the town center," He started. A pause and a smile spanned the length of his gaunt face. "We're a community-driven town. We work as one, we feed as one, and we earn as one."

"Earn what exactly?"

"Togetherness,” The mayor huffed. “If we all reach for the same goal, we’ll achieve it faster.”

"Malnourishment…?" Hal quipped.

“Hah, I always liked your wit Hal. Those books really sharpened your tongue… only if you had one.”

The mayor’s laugh trailed off, swallowed by the town’s stillness. 

Casimir’s boots struck stone again—clack… clack… clack…too neat, too practiced.

Hal’s voice came soft, low.

“I don’t like this. It smells like we’re already on the table.”

Casimir didn’t answer. For he was staring—at a woman kneeling by her doorstep, the first of the few villagers. Hands folded as if in prayer. In front of her sat a bowl of soup—bubbling as if it were roasting over an open flame, untouched.

She wasn’t looking at the bowl. She stared at the sky, lips moving soundlessly. Lost in thought—or entirely lost.

Further down, two boys rolled a cart full of empty plates to the center of the square. One plate slipped, shattered. Neither flinched. Unaware of the shattering panes and dirty glass, they kept rolling, pale and oblivious.

“Such tyrants those boys are,” The mayor mused. “Twins—as you can see. Both unmistakably reflective images of another. And that, Casimir, is Mela. She likes to offer the Sky Gods a piece of her stew. Symbolic really.”

Behind where the boys dropped their plate, a younger girl approached. Broom in one hand and a dust pan in the other. She was different. She actually observed. Glossy like all the others, but her mind was still there. 

Casimir froze in step as the two connected briefly. Her lower lip quivered—her eyes welled up a bit. She curled her lips inward and gestured a subtle lip movement.

“...help.”

But her voice was rendered mute. Trying to speak, nothing more came out.

“Something doesn’t seem right here, Mayor.” Casimir insisted. “That girl—”

“Hmm? Oh her? She’s… not broken in yet.” The mayor raised his arm with a swiping motion, as if to swat at her.

“Not broken…” Hal quipped. “We should leave Casimir.”

“We—we sh…should. But we can’t.”

Casimir’s pupils were far too wide, his breath shallow and quickening. A tremor ran along his jaw as he hesitated, fingers flexing uselessly at his sides. His eyes darted, as if torn between the gnawing ache in his belly and the growing dread twisting through his gut—a man trapped between craving and caution, yet leaning toward surrender. Primal almost. His hunger took over—unable to listen to Hal. He walked as if the aroma pulled him without question. With purpose. 

“Almost there now.” The Mayor insisted. “Won’t be long.”

Creaking buildings drew closer now, leaning inward upon them. The settlement was sparse—too quiet. Too preserved to be living, too aged to be abandoned.

Nails jutted from warped beams, and splintered wood curled from the trusses like peeling bark.

But a little further as the Mayor had said, by midday the town gathered. They clustered in silence—tattered, hollow-eyed, and whispering without sound.

Small circles knelt around crates and barrels overflowing with crops: wheat, flour, bundles of herbs, pale roots thick with dirt.

From ropes strung between support beams, the carcasses of beasts still bled. The floor beneath them was slick, dark, and undisturbed.

But there it was, dead center. The grand town-hall... or what was once grand. The walls were swollen with moisture and sagged under their own weight. Once-painted columns leaned like drunkards, the paint stripped away by rain and rot, revealing bone-white stone beneath.

A great door sat at its center—arched and ancient, framed in black iron. It was adorned not with a crest, but a carving: a bowl, brimming over with steam. The symbol of welcome, or was it a warning?

The Mayor slowed his steps just before the door. He eloquently gestured his palm outward and toward the entrance. His smile held, but it was thinner now. More reverent.

"And here we are," he said softly. "This is where I leave you. For I may not follow you beyond this threshold... that is the contract I signed.”

Just then, the door opened—no hand pressed it inward. It moved of its own accord. And as it lurched wide, the bountiful scents spilled out like a dam breaking. They wrapped Casimir like spider silk—soft, warm, inescapable.

Chapter Three

The Belly of Want and Dark

Dark. 

The chamber stretched wide, old by design—mirrored staircases curling like ribs. At its center, a dusty chandelier swayed gently, left and right.

The walls were adorned not only with long melted candles with strewn streams of wax, but also the forgotten busts of past mayors, their features warped with time as if the heat had begun to eat memory itself.

Grease oozed in sweating streams, curdling along the walls like rot in motion. The air shimmered with heat. It was steamy. Brothy. Each breath felt like choking on soup.

But the smells. The smells were mouth-watering. Delectable. Casimir’s vision funneled to a cone. All he saw was food in his mind. His gut was writhing like the rapacious tides at sea trying to sweep him away. 

In the distance, he could hear the clattering and clinking of what seemed to be metal. Chopping. Preparations. Knives striking wooden boards. Bubbles bursting over and sizzling flames as water kissed hot pans.

Casimir crept forward.

But the door—the door behind—closed shut.

CLICK.

It locked.

His heart raced. The beat of it pounded up his throat like a swallowed drum. He spun and lunged for the door, hands gripping the iron handle.

It didn’t budge.

He yanked again. Harder. Still nothing.

Too late now. Breath shallow. Eyes stung—not just with sweat, but with something thicker. Grease, maybe. With a gentle swab, it didn’t wipe away… it smeared.

“Welcome,” came a voice—so heavy, so wet. It gurgled more than it spoke. “Casimir. I’ve long since awaited your arrival.”

Casimir’s eyes were wide. His lips quivered, curled not in a grin—but in fear. Trembling in place, he still clung to the iron door handle. He turned slowly—carefully.

But behind him rose a wall of steam. It crept like tendrils from rooted trees, growing, thickening. Through it, a figure waddled forward—girth like a boulder, every step sloshing.

“You cannot leave,” the voice rang again. The shape beckoned him closer. “The door is locked until next service. But come this way. I am almost ready to serve.”

Casimir glanced to his side—Hal said nothing. Not a word. Not a mutter. His silence was more dreadful than the shadowed behemoth itself.

“Hurry now. Don’t keep your host waiting…”

The waddling shadow turned and disappeared into the steam, the floor trembling with each step.

Tiptoeing, Casimir obeyed—there wasn’t much else he could do now. He walked past the stairs, still looking up. The eyes that had melted on those paintings seemed to have followed him. Their faces drawn, gaunt—famished. But their eyes wandered—if they could speak, they’d tell him to leave.

Turning into where the behemoth vanished, the steam lifted.

There he was….

Hunched behind the hearth, ladle in hand, as if he had never moved. As if he had always been there—stirring, sweating, waiting. Much like the Preacher before him, a duty never resigned.

Was he a man… or was he something else? His body was wide in the middle, taut with bloat, tapering down to legs like knotted tree roots dipped in oil. The skin of his arms glistened with a sheen too smooth for sweat, slick and pale like a frog pulled from a pond, and varicose veins that bulged from his skin like chopped-meat being squeezed.

His apron was stained black and brown and resembling that of a bruised plum. It clung to him like a second hide. Years of caked grease and grime glued him to his crusted vestments like the Preacher fused to his pulpit.

His face—gods. His face was a hanging mess. A jaw too large for his head with a slight underbite, lips loose and soft, like the rim of a burlap sack left in the rain. Two bulbous eyes sat high and wide, unblinking, their whites tinged yellow like smoked glass.

When he smiled, it wasn’t with joy. It was with permission.

He turned, cautiously. His round eyes blinked—once.

“You look hungry,” he said, in a voice that sloshed. “Come closer. The stew’s nearly ready.”

Casimir’s gut groaned to the Glutton’s delight.

“Ah… I see now,” the Glutton mused, with a smirk that looked like a pair of sausages crossing his face. Those fat, inflated lips were wet. He curled them inward and licked the stream of saliva away. Eyes locked onto Casimir—unfazed. Unblinking.

Eyes still leering Casimir's way, he finished peeling the skins of a potato and dropped it into the boiling pot with a smile.

Chapter Four

A Hunger and a Whisper

“You bring a friend,” Those sausage lips of his parted revealing a mess of sparse, spotty teeth. Teeth that had seen too much decadence. Too much delight. “I wasn’t prepared for two—wait.”

His bulbous eyes narrowed, leering down at Casimir’s hip.

“Ah–haa…” the man groaned, swaying upright like lifting a full cauldron. “I know that aura… Hal, have you come for seconds?”

Casimir’s eyes dropped to the satchel—Hal hung silent within

But then, breaking the cold quiet, Hal’s voice stirred quietly. “Not hungry this time.”

“You came to me as a traveler once. Hungry,” he bellowed—words sloshing like broth from a broken bowl “I provided you for your journey.”

“I knew what you were doing before… and I looked away.”

“What I did, Hal.” The Glutton walked closer, surprisingly calm with his large size. “I did for everyone. I filled a void. A hollowing. I gave. What did you do?”

“I—I don’t remember… not all of it anyways.”

“Ha!” The Glutton sneered. “You don’t remember? Funny. A man always buried in books cannot remember. How ironic.”

Shaking his head, he turned back to his boiling cauldron. Sniffing, he breathed deep the sweet steam—then turned, slowly, to Casimir.

“Doesn’t it just smell,” his eyes narrowing—lids closing partly to squint his way. He wafted the aroma, drinking in the brothy steam, he sucked in so much of the vapor that the room cleared out. The haze had lifted ever so slightly revealing his grotesque form even more sharply. Welts and gaping pores filled with what looked like black soot. “Delicious.”

Casimir was lulled into a near hypnotic state. He too licked his lips with each passing moment forgetting the horror that stood before him.

“Come—sit. There are others.” He waddled through another archway. Passing peeling wallpaper, slime-ridden walls, and a host of laid out boxes. Some long and shut tight. They’re shapes resembled coffins, but also some were open and full of produce. Copious sums of unpeeled potatoes, beets, radishes and more. They passed through the pantry that had a library of seasonings. Shelves presented themselves with scrawled notes plastered upon glass jars: Garlic, Pepper, Salt, Cinnamon, Cayenne, and more. Dried herbs dangled over head like pennants. Arugula, Basil, Thyme, Scallions, and roves of ingredients never needed for a normal kitchen. The odors in this space were potent. Coriander and peppercorn blends. Cloves that sent out a sharp, biting stench: aromatic, but strong. The glutton grabbed bits of parsley, and sheaves of basil leaves. Dried and cracking, he crumbled them in his hand as he walked forward.

Another room they walked—preparation. Children. Young girls chopping mechanically without hesitation. Knives pressed down eagerly into herbs and greens. Juices, skins, and chunks of veggie flesh flung out in every direction. Careless.

The onions were so strong. That stinging whip that went right for Casimir’s eyes. Welling up—sniffling. But none of them seem moved. They must have been doing this for a long time. None of them winced like he, nor did they shed any tears. Glassy-eyed, unprovoked, unperturbed. They chopped—save for one. She chopped, but she lifted her gaze. She leered at Casimir, not through him. Her head movement was subtle—waiting for the lumbering Glutton to pass. She presented him a head gesture to a cabinet that was only slightly ajar—too dark to see in. Curious, he tried to look. But could only see a faint halo surrounded in pale silence. “Come now Casimir—we’re almost at our setting.” He grumbled with a wet, gurgling voice.

His eyes widened and swallowed down the hardening saliva in his throat. Gazing at the girl who shook her head ‘no’.

They passed a rough looking archway into the next room. Grand. A table was presented. Long. Created to serve the masses—or at least a large communion of the wealthy centerfold in the Town Hall. Candles flickered, lit recently and placed neatly across. Fine silver-etched bowls littered from one edge to the other, full of food and gravies. A feast. A bountiful one at that. The Glutton certainly knew how to prepare an impressive spread. Especially his use of spices: that savory aroma of Rosemary and Thyme crisping into flesh echoed throughout the room.

Perfectly placed silverware atop carefully folded napkins. But then there it was. Neatly written in cursive. A placard that read, Casimir.

“Take a seat.” 

Casimir nodded and sat himself. The chair was cushioned, though untouched by the grease. In fact, this whole room seemed void of the grime that infested the rest of the chambers. No sweat, no fear, no yellow-hued stains. He clapped. Briefly. Three strikes of his palms and out came two girls. Dressed in the proper serving attire. White and black. Short hung skirts, and eloquently looped threads. They resembled the same embroidery of the mayor: Cotton. Plush—soft.

“Whom who serve may not lead.”

They flanked Casimir to his left and right. Positioned his wrists properly to the table and draped his lap with a finely knit cloth.

“To prevent messes.” One whispered.

“Now,” the Glutton stirred in his seat far from Casimir. Like long down a spanning corridor. Before a roaring flame he sat. His silhouette: bulbous, near engulfing the orange patchwork of fire that seemingly trembled in his shadow. 

The mantle of the pit was dressed in old artifacts. Brass, pewter, and even some shimmering gold figurines. “Let me show you….”He reached, turning his barrel body slightly askew as he pulled out something of his own. Shiny. The ladle he stirs with. An Ivory molded grip with a solid pewter arm to the cup of the ladle. The relic.

Casimir’s brand began to throb—he winced and gripped his chest. That burning sensation ran straight to his heart and churned voraciously. His breathing shallowed as an intense hunger took him by force and without hesitation.

Just then, from beyond… or within.  

“Ahhhhh…. Glutton—that relic has served you well.”

“Like flies to a rotting carcass, I know you all too well.” The Glutton stirred in his seat and rose up. “I know the brand—I know that feeling. That aching, devouring burn.”

Waddling nearer and nearer, he kept his eyes locked on Casimir, churning out his sloshy words.

“I know whom you feed. Who you work for—”

A voice, shallow, crept into Casimir’s mind.

“Take his relic and watch him wither.”

“Watch him suffer….”

“Like those he made before you.”

“I served him once. I worked tirelessly trying to feed his brand. His mark. His damn curse!” Angrily, he stormed closer, stamping his feet. The table shook violently as he lashed out. “So I left him. I served others. I helped—and I helped—until I could no longer!” A pause, a moment of silence. “But, it grew, and my deeds changed. To live I now must feed.”

Standing now, grumbling behind Casimir. His protruding belly inches away. Pungent. His body gave off an odor so vile that his nose wrinkled. The very hairs in his nostrils curled and wilted. Whatever sweetness he was cooking faded away in the snap of a finger.

But then, seasoning. Sprigs of parsley and bits of pepper fell onto Casimir’s arm. The Glutton ground the herbs he grabbed earlier over his body. Now drooling, pools of saliva dripped around him dampening the table cloth.

“Go on… eat. Surrender.”

Casimir’s gut groaned, but the stench, the horror—the pungent body odor changed his mind. But it wasn’t that alone, Casimir looked to the far corner of the room to see that girl once again, she shook her head

"...no."

Trembling, Casimir sat cold in the dark beneath his hulking body. The stew before him, bubbled as if it were over an open fire still kissed by hot ash and flame.

“Eat.” The Glutton insisted.

Casimir paused, staring into the bowl—his reflection mirroring back he and the towering behemoth behind. His face changed, Casimir's reflection blurred into a purplish, violet hue—like the color of his brand.

“No.” Casimir said pushing the bowl away.

“Eat—that was not a suggestion.” The Glutton leaned over Casimir and whispered into his ear. “If you don’t eat, you will become a shadow of me one day."

“No.” 

Casimir did not move even with the Glutton standing above him—hulking, breathing, steaming.

And the bowl? It still bubbled, but it churned differently now.

Chapter Four

Let Me Rest

The Glutton froze.

Not with rage, but confusion.

“I wasn’t asking… EAT, DAMMIT!” The Glutton bellowed so loud that the table shook and glasses full to the brim of red wine tipped.

All was silent again—save for the crackling of the observant fireplace. Until:

“No.”

His hand still hovered over Casimir’s shoulder, herbs wilting between his fingers. The drool stopped.

“No?” he muttered, as if tasting the word for the first time.

The girls did not move.

The stew bubbled.

The whisper did not return.

“But you are hungry,” the Glutton said, voice cracking. “You are branded.” He stepped back. Not far—but enough. Enough to make room for the realization.

“If you won’t eat…” His voice trembled. “Then what am I for?”

“You exist as you shouldn’t,” Hal’s quiet tone broke the eerie somber moment. “Like me.”

“No… no… no.” The Glutton began to tremble. He quaked where he stood. The ritual had begun to crack and wane.

The stews stopped boiling. The fire went silent. Candles melted to their roots—puddling into cooling wax. The cloth on the table began to fray at its edges. And the food began to rot.

The stew changed from a brothy brown to a mire green. Patches of mold floated atop the liquid like they had always been there. The roast collapsed—flesh slipping from bone—until only a brittle pile remained.

“No… This cannot be.” He whimpered. His bulbous eyes quaked. “How—” He waddled away from Casimir, head slouched, shoulders sinking. “I—” Facing the now dead fire, he leaned over the mantle.

“No one has ever said no,” he sniffled almost, a sense of rejection for once. “I….” He turned back to look at Casimir as his body began to bubble.

His skin convulsed. The ritual collapsed inward.

THUD

Behind him, the two girls who had served Casimir fell over. Cold. Pale. Their faces gone bluish, lifeless.

Casimir stood frantically, recoiling from the rotting food that now stank of mold and bile, choking the air.

“I only ever meant—for the best.”

“You only ever meant for yourself,” Hal insisted. “You took more than what you gave—stop living a lie.”

“A lie…” The Glutton, in his dying form—now shrinking as the fat pooled from his limbs like leaking fluids—murmured. “I wish it was all just a lie. But I became it. I see now… I was distant, but still his. Still it.”

His voice sounded exhausted as the last bit of the ritual drained him dry. His plump skin withered—dimpled, shriveled, raisin-like.

“Here.” In his final breath, he dug for the ladle and handed it to Casimir. “Give it to him. Tell him I fed him enough… let me rest in peace.”

His voice trailed off as his last breath came through like a subtle breeze.

And the rest of his flesh melted into yellow-stained grease.

Paused. Casimir stood there—relic in hand. Then a grip—his chest.

"Ack!" He groaned keeling over as his mark stretched for the relic like worms again. They greedily stretched outright trying to take the relic. In his pain a softer voice broke the ritual.

“Mister.”

Casimir turned, still with a hand over his heart. The young girl watched from the archway—the same one who had looked at him while chopping.

“Thank you.” She bowed, her voice fragile.

“I—” Casimir paused, scratching the back of his head.

“I would’ve been lost if not for your rejection,” she said, sniffing. “Please—follow me out.”

Casimir looked back at the puddle of grease, then at the ivory-laced ladle in his hand. He sighed. Did he feel for the Glutton? Maybe. But he followed the girl’s silhouette into the shadows.

They passed through the kitchen—the place where the girls had chopped. Now, it was silent. The others lay lifeless, husks strewn across the tile like dropped garments.

“How…?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. Perhaps she didn’t know.

Instead, she walked to the cabinet—the one that had once been slightly ajar.

“Please,” she said. “Can you break this chain?”

Casimir, stunned, nodded. He gritted his teeth and yanked. The chain screeched and snapped as he tore it loose, revealing the room beyond.

“Oh… my—”

His hair stood on end. His stomach turned.

“This is what happens….” Hal whispered, barely audible.

The room was full of bodies. Townsfolk. Pale. Dressed. Still.

There—in a chair, chained to the wall—sat the Mayor. Upright. Cold. Long dead.

“Go,” she said, voice trembling. “Please. I wish to say goodbye to my family.”

Casimir simply nodded and turned away to give her privacy.

"I saw no wholesome deeds here...." Hal muttered.

Casimir said nothing, he simply the length of the building that no aged before his very eyes—dust and cobwebs now tracing the walls where grease once glistened.

He spotted the door and rushed to it—it opened without resistance.

No lock. No clink. Just a rusty groan as it rolled open.

He stumbled out, dropped to his knees, and drank in the cold night air.

“I could kiss you, oh cobblestone rock.”

Sighing a deep relief, Casimir prayed to the cobble ground—albeit still hungry.

“Well… you did say you were going to grovel. I’m impressed.”

“Shut up, Hal,” Casimir snapped, voice hoarse. “You knew him. What aren’t you telling me?”

“I didn’t know until the end," Hal whispered, he paused a moment. "They called him: The Soup-Maker.”

Hal’s tone shifted—quieter now, the rattle subdued.

“He was like you. Scarred. Branded. But he disobeyed. He was kind. He found this town and fed it… but he forgot his duties. And the curse spread.”

“And that made him a monster?”

“It didn’t,” Hal said, his voice trembling. 

Casimir clutched his chest in agony. “That did.”

Looking down to the relic now in his palm, his chest flared.

“Feed me…. Don’t wait so long again.”

"I want what you earned."

A fog, steady and thick began to roll in from the surrounding forest. It was like a wall moving inwards creepily reaching.

Hal said nothing.

Eerie and silent, nothing broke the stillness—not even the creaking old buildings.

But a light—far off in the distance, somewhere beyond the trees, it blinked once in the darkness… and stayed.

“This town may be dead, but we’re not alone.”

This fable has ended, but the Brand still burns. If this story fed something in you, you can offer a coin to the bearer:

👉 https://ko-fi.com/ashandaltar

© 2025 Michael H. All rights reserved. This work is part of the Brand & Bone series. Do not reproduce or adapt without written permission.