They walked in single file, down a path thick with scent-tags.
Little cloth streamers fluttered between trees—each soaked in oil or ash or something sharper. Marron recognized the emotional ranges by accident: sorrow in violet, distrust in copper, mild humor in old ginger. None of them smelled like welcome.
The elders led them to a circular clearing sunken into the earth, half-ringed with mossy stone and low smoke vents.
There, they searched her food cart. She heard the wolf-men sniff and cough through her spice jars. When one of the wolf-men opened her coldbox, he winced and shook his whole body.
"She kept duskmeat here."
Another wolf joined him with a bag of salt-ash. "We need to cleanse. Take out the other ingredients."
It was a snug fit, but Marron and the two wolfkin crowded around the coldbox, removing the jars of butter, milk, and the remaining vegetables.
After they covered the entire storage unit in salt-ash, a wolf-shaman put a paw over her coldbox and started chanting.
Marron gasped as she saw a malevolent purple aura escape from the cold box with an unearthly scream.
"OOOAAAAAUUUGGGGHHHH!"
That was traveling with us all this time? I-is that what the snakekin put in the meat?
"Mokko told me that duskmeat can consume you from the inside out, if handled wrong. Is it true?"
The shaman nodded solemnly. "Even cutting the meat needs careful preparation." He lifted his hand and a wolfkin salted her cutting board and the wooden counter.
"It's hard to cook duskmeat because it leaves problems even after it's been consumed. Double because snakekin cursed it."
As they exorcised the wood, Marron's heart felt lighter. She turned to look at the site.
In the center sat an old pit, lined with flat heat-stones instead of firewood.
Marron stepped toward it.
"No fire," said an elder wolf. "Only stone and breath."
A pair of younger beastkin brought out a set of unmarked wooden tools—long-handled tongs, a shallow fermentation bowl, a ceramic scraper.
One of them raised her hand, fingers held together like a flame. "Cook what lives under your tongue. What you remember without needing to name."
Marron knelt by the heat pit. Lucy slid up behind her, folding in close, her body soft and still. Her glow was faint pink now—apology, if Marron was reading her right.
They had removed the ingredients from her cold box, but she still had a backpack. Mokko advised her not to rely on the food cart for all of her supplies, since it was still made of weathered gray wood.
Her fingers brushed against folded cloth, flasks, and a pouch of loose spices. It had been a gift from one of her Whetvale customers. "Just a little bit of everything."
Marron kept searching until she found a wax-wrapped leaf bundle. Inside was a container of cooked rice, shredded chicken, garlic, and chives. The last item was a knob of ginger.
Congee was a simple recipe, but it always had a place in her heart.
When she saw the ingredients being sold in Whetvale and Frostfall, she couldn't help herself.
Nostalgia was, indeed, a powerful thing.
She placed the leaf beside her as she knelt in front of a flat heating stone. It sizzled faintly, like it was saying hello.
Marron put an iron pot over the stone and added some rice and water into it. When steam started to rise in a slow ribbon, Marron breathed it in. She let her breath mingle with the steam.
Across the circle, the elder tilted her head. Her nostrils fluttered once.
Marron could feel the others' attention, but none spoke.
She reached for the pre-boiled shredded chicken and ripped it into even smaller pieces before throwing it in the pot.
Lucy huddled closer, her from rippling with restraint.
But then—
The scent shifted.
It began slowly, like someone tiptoeing into the kitchen at midnight for a late-night snack.
Like she was sleepwalking.
Very much not her.
Marron's hands froze. Nausea rolled through her stomach like cold water.
This wasn't right.
This wasn't hers.
She tried to pull her hands away from the shredded chicken, but they wouldn't move.
Something else was guiding them, controlling them.
Stop, she thought desperately. Stop, stop, stop—
It was like someone else had touched the meat. Not enough to ruin it, but...
wait.
The scent unfurled up and out, across the circle and toward the elder wolf.
She inhaled.
The youngest let out a sharp exhale and whispered, "It asks a question."
Another said, "This isn't just her flavor."
The elder wolf lifted her chin. "There's a second cook."
Marron felt her chest go tight. The violation crawled up her arms like spiders under her skin.
No one else had stirred the bowl. But somehow, someone else's intent was steeped in it.
Not controlling it.
Not fighting her.
But it was present.
Watching.
Waiting.
Cooking through her.
A new presence entered the clearing—different from the others. This beastkin moved with measured steps, wearing bone chimes that barely whispered as they walked. Intricate tattoos spiraled up their forearms, and their eyes held the deep knowing of someone who dealt with things that lived in shadows.
The elder shaman's nostrils flared once, and their face darkened with recognition.
"Child," they said, voice carrying unexpected gentleness. "What started all of this? When did the shadow first ask you to cook?"
Marron's voice came out small and shaking. "There was a customer. Hooded. They... they asked me to cook duskbeast meat. Said they wanted to see what I could do with it."
The shaman's expression turned to one of deep displeasure, and several other beastkin began to growl low in their throats.
"It isn't your fault," the shaman said firmly. "They tricked you. These kinds of creatures don't protect, they stalk and eventually they will consume you." Their eyes met Marron's with serious intent. "I can teach you how to combat them, but it will take some time."
The shaman turned to a younger beastkin with pouches of herbs and glass vials hanging from their belt—an alchemist. They spoke in low, urgent tones before the alchemist nodded and began mixing something with swift, practiced movements.
"We need to act quickly," the shaman said, returning to Marron. "I fear that they are trying to take over your body to walk in our town. This potion will help you reject the possession, but the process will not be pleasant."
The alchemist approached with a clay cup filled with something that smelled like bitter roots and lightning.
"Drink this," the shaman instructed. "And prepare yourself. The shadow will not give up its hold easily."