Chapter 116: The Waystation
The first milestone on the road to Lumeria was a half-buried waystation built into the side of a hill.
It looked like an abandoned cellar, at first. When they got closer, they saw a squat archway of stone with a few wind-worn flags, hanging limp.
But as Marron, Mokko, and Lucy drew closer, the scent of broth drifted out to meet them: rich, herbed, unmistakably welcoming.
"Smells like home," Mokko said, breathing deep. "Or at least, like someone who knows how to use a stockpot."
"I’d settle for chairs and a roof," Marron replied.
Lucy swirled lazily in her jar. "And water that doesn’t taste like travel dust. My kingdom for a rinse."
Marron smiled faintly, though her shoulders still carried the weight of the past few days. The smoke from Brookvale had long vanished behind them, but it lingered in her mind like the aftertaste of something burnt. She hadn’t told Mokko or Lucy that she’d been dreaming of the flames—that sometimes she saw Alexander’s face in them, too calm, too still.
They’d chosen to walk forward, but it didn’t mean the past stopped following.
The cart gave a low, encouraging hum as they approached the archway. Above the entrance, a carved sign read:
Traveler’s Haven — Lumerian Guild Outpost #7
Meals, Beds, Maps, Mercy.
Marron let out a slow breath. "Guess we found the right place."
Inside, the waystation was surprisingly lively.A long hall stretched before them, lit by hanging lanterns whose light glowed a soft amber. Wooden tables filled the space, most occupied by travelers with packs and weapons leaned nearby. The air buzzed with conversation and the clatter of spoons on bowls.
Behind a counter stood a stout woman with a sharp jawline and an apron dusted with flour. Her white hair was braided tight against her scalp, and her expression was one of brisk hospitality—the kind that tolerated nonsense only if it came with good manners.
"Welcome to Traveler’s Haven!" she called as Marron approached. "Rooms are a silver a night, food’s extra unless you wash dishes, and if you break anything enchanted, you buy it."
Marron grinned despite herself. "Sounds fair. I’ll take a meal and a place to sleep."
The woman squinted at her, taking in the cart. "You a cook or a courier?"
"Both, depending on the day."
"Then you’re in the right trade." The woman’s tone softened slightly. "Name’s Prue. You can park that contraption near the hearth. I’ll have the stablehands bring water."
Marron nodded her thanks and rolled the cart to a cozy corner. Mokko sank gratefully into the nearest bench, while Lucy’s jar was set on the table beside him, glowing faintly blue.
Prue soon returned with steaming bowls—rice porridge flecked with herbs, a side of pickled radish, and slices of poached egg. Marron inhaled deeply; the smell alone felt like a balm.
Mokko was halfway through his portion before she’d even picked up her spoon. "You’re sure we can afford this?" he mumbled through a mouthful.
"After weeks of dungeon moss?" Marron said. "I’d pay double."
Lucy bubbled softly. "You always say that before a disaster."
"Let me have this one moment," Marron said, smiling.
They ate quietly. The food was simple but perfect—soft, steady, and grounding. Every bite reminded Marron of why she kept walking. Cooking wasn’t just about flavor; it was about survival, hope, and sometimes forgiveness. Each meal was a promise that something could still grow after fire.
After dinner, Marron lingered at the counter to pay. Prue counted the silver coins quickly, then looked up with interest. "You’ve got the hands of a chef. You traveling to the capital?"
Marron nodded. "Lumeria. I’m hoping to join the Culinary Guild."
Prue’s eyes twinkled. "You’ve got good timing. The Guild’s opening its ranks next month for the Grand Concordia
. Big tournament this year. Every chef from here to the Ebon Coast will be showing off.""I heard," Marron said. "Halloway—the Guildmaster from Whetvale—recommended I enter."
"Ah, Halloway." Prue’s lips quirked. "Used to be quite the stirrer back in his day. You’re one of his, then?"
"Kind of," Marron said. "He vouched for me."
"Well, that’s half your ticket right there." Prue leaned on the counter. "And if you’re heading that way, you’ll want to stick close to the traveling chef’s caravan. They passed through here this morning, on their way east. Should be making camp at Willowbend by nightfall."
"Caravan?" Mokko perked up.
"Bunch of culinary guild apprentices," Prue said. "They haul portable kitchens across the routes between cities—feed travelers, gather ingredients, trade recipes. Good folk, mostly. You’ll learn more on the road with them than you will in a fancy lecture hall."
Marron smiled faintly. "Sounds like my kind of crowd."
"You’ll catch up to them easy if you leave at dawn," Prue said. "And... be careful, Chef. Word’s been spreading about strange sightings near the southern ridges. Smoke and lights, things moving under the soil."
Marron’s hand tightened on her cart’s handle. "I’ll keep an eye out."
"Do that," Prue said, and handed her a small wrapped loaf. "For the road. House bread. Keeps for days."
Marron blinked, taken aback. "Thank you."
"Don’t thank me yet," Prue said, smiling. "You’ll see what I mean when it saves your life."
They found a room upstairs—small, clean, two narrow beds, and a window that overlooked the winding road. Marron unpacked her things, Lucy’s jar perched on the windowsill, shimmering faintly in the moonlight.
Mokko sat heavily on his bed, exhaling. "Feels strange, sleeping in a real bed again."
"Feels like a lie," Marron admitted. "Like we’re pretending it’s all normal."
He studied her for a long moment. "You’re still thinking about him."
She didn’t need to ask who he meant. "Alexander," she said softly. "Yeah."
"Chef..." Mokko hesitated. "You can’t fix what’s already burned."
"I know. But I keep wondering if I could’ve changed it. If I’d stayed longer."
Mokko leaned forward, elbows on knees. "You saved who you could. That’s what counts."
Lucy’s voice drifted from her jar, softer than usual. "And if the rest of the world chooses to burn, that’s not your fault."
Marron looked at her companions and managed a small smile. "You two sound like an old couple."
"Excuse you," Lucy said, affronted. "I’m far too gelatinous for that."
"Sleep," Mokko said, tossing a pillow at her. "We move early."
Marron laughed quietly and blew out the lantern.
But when sleep came, it carried with it the faint smell of smoke and the whisper of Alexander’s voice—steady, resolute: "You gave me choice."She clung to that memory until the dreams softened.
They left the next morning at first light.
Prue saw them off with a wave and a small bundle of dried fruit. The road east unfurled like ribbon under the pale sky. The mist had burned away, leaving the land open and bright.
For a while, they didn’t talk. The rhythm of walking, the creak of the cart, the soft burble of Lucy’s jar—it all wove into a kind of quiet music. Peaceful. Ordinary.
Finally, Mokko broke the silence. "You think this Guild will really help?"
"I think it’s a start," Marron said. "I need to learn what my cart really is. What I am. If I keep cooking blind, I’ll end up breaking more than I heal."
"Then we’ll find the answers together," Lucy said, her voice muffled through the glass. "And maybe somewhere along the way, we’ll learn what happened to the others."
Marron nodded, eyes on the road. "Yeah. Maybe we will."
The wind picked up, carrying the faint smell of spice and smoke from far ahead.Somewhere beyond the next hill, faint laughter drifted—a campfire chorus, pots clattering, the rhythmic chopping of knives. The traveling chef’s caravan.
Marron’s heart stirred, a flicker of warmth beneath the grief. There was still cooking to be done, people to feed, new recipes to learn. She adjusted her grip on the cart’s handle.
"Come on," she said. "Let’s see if they’ll let us borrow a stove."
The cart hummed in agreement, its copper trim catching the sunlight like a wink.
They walked on, toward the smell of simmering broth and the promise of something new—never knowing that behind them, in the ashes of Brookvale, the wind had begun to whisper.Not words yet. Just hunger.