Chapter 14 – First Flames, First Faces
The first night was a thing of magic.
Axel had not expected much, not truly. The sign had been simple—"Open at Sunset. First Bowl Free."—and the building still reeked of its former rot. But the fire burned hot in the hearth, and the air was thick with the scent of fresh broth. It was enough, for now.
The door creaked open as twilight fell, and the sounds of the city hummed just outside the Bathhouse. At first, there were only the whispers of the children who had begun to gather, peering curiously into the warm glow through broken windows and cracked doorways. They hadn't expected much either—perhaps a little meal, or at the very least, a story to tell the others. It wasn't often that something new appeared in the slums, especially something promising. So, they stood back, hesitant, but drawn in by the possibility of food.
Axel wasn't much of a chef. He wasn't some renowned cook from a distant land, nor was he a man with a name built on culinary expertise. He was just a man with a fire—both literal and metaphorical—and a need to give something back. The first meal he had chosen to prepare was simple enough: Sun-Spiced Bone Broth.
It was a dish designed to warm the body and soothe the aches that came with living a life in constant survival. The ingredients were humble: bones from the beasts he hunted in the wilds, an assortment of dried herbs, root vegetables scavenged from the market, and a few spices—sun-dried peppers and crushed turmeric—that would add a bit of heat to the otherwise mild flavor. The broth was designed not only to nourish but also to dull pain and help with muscle recovery, something the outcasts of the city desperately needed.
"Sun-Spiced Bone Broth," he said aloud, to no one in particular, as he stirred the pot, the thick liquid bubbling gently. The broth had been simmering for hours, and the rich aroma filled the small kitchen area. Elyria stood nearby, silently observing, her arms crossed, but even she couldn't deny the magic of the moment. This was the fire that Axel had promised to build.
"First bowl free," Axel murmured to himself with a grin, knowing that the city's hungry masses would surely find their way here soon. But for now, he focused on his dish, giving it his undivided attention.
The door creaked open again.
At first, it was just a shadow—small and slight, slipping in like a breeze between the cracks of the world. Two children, no older than ten or eleven, entered the Bathhouse quietly. Their clothes were ragged, torn in places, and their faces were drawn with hunger. One of them, a girl, looked up at Axel with eyes wide and curious, but there was no fear in her gaze—only something else, something Axel couldn't quite name.
Behind them, a one-armed beggar hobbled in. He wore a ragged cloak that hung too loosely around his shoulders, and his breath was shallow, rattling. His one arm, crippled and wrapped in dirty bandages, hung limply by his side, but his eyes—those eyes—held a sharpness that belied his physical state. He moved slowly, dragging his feet, but there was something about his gait that made Axel pause. This man had been through a lot, and yet, he had survived.
The beggar nodded toward Axel, his voice thick with years of disuse. "Heard you're giving out food. Thought I'd see for myself."
Axel glanced at Elyria, who had already moved to greet the trio. The children were hesitant, but Elyria offered a quiet smile and gestured toward the table where the broth sat steaming.
"Have a seat," Elyria said. "It's free tonight. The first bowl."
The beggar limped over, his ragged cloak trailing behind him, and sank down heavily into a chair at the table. The children followed, hesitant but drawn to the warmth, and each found a spot to sit.
Axel stirred the pot one more time before ladling the steaming broth into a wooden bowl. He handed it to the girl first, who took it with trembling hands and brought the bowl to her mouth almost immediately, inhaling the warmth of the spices. Her breath shuddered slightly as the first spoonful touched her lips. The boy beside her, smaller and more ragged, followed suit, devouring the broth like he hadn't eaten in days.
As the beggar took his own bowl, he let out a long, rasping laugh—a sound that hadn't crossed his lips in what seemed like a lifetime. The laugh echoed in the hollow space, loud and surprising. His eyes glistened with something that Axel couldn't quite place—was it relief? Joy? Or perhaps just the quiet contentment of having found something familiar, something that didn't hurt.
The children ate quietly, their faces softening with every spoonful.
But then, as the girl set her bowl down and wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve, a tear slid down her cheek. She wasn't crying from hunger, Axel realized. She wasn't crying out of need. No, this was something else. This was a different kind of ache.
The beggar noticed it too. His gaze softened as he glanced at the girl, and for a moment, something passed between them. Axel wasn't sure what it was—a memory, maybe, of something long lost. The beggar slowly extended his good hand, placing it on the girl's shoulder with surprising gentleness. His voice, though raspy, was warm.
"It's alright, child," he murmured, "you'll find your way."
The girl looked up at him, blinking as if coming out of a daze. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her tattered jacket and nodded, though the tears kept coming, running down her dirty cheeks. She looked back at the broth, her fingers clutching the bowl tightly, and Axel couldn't help but wonder if it was the warmth of the soup or something deeper—a moment of human connection—that had brought the tears.
And then the beggar laughed again, but this time, it was quieter, softer, as if the years of silence were finally lifting off his shoulders. "I've not laughed in years," he said, almost to himself. "Not like this."
Axel watched the three of them—two children, a beggar—and felt a quiet satisfaction fill him. This was why he had started this, he realized. Not just to survive, but to make something that would help others survive as well. The Bathhouse might have been broken, crumbling at the edges, but in this small space, with fire in the hearth and a bowl of broth in their hands, they were more than survivors. They were human, for a moment.
"You've got more," the beggar said, his voice rougher now. "More of that, right?"
Axel nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. "Plenty more."
Word, as it always did in the slums, spread quickly. By the time the sun had sunk below the horizon and the first flames of the night began to cast their eerie glow across the city, the Bathhouse had become something of a legend—at least, for that night. People came slowly at first, drawn by the strange light of the hearth. They stepped cautiously across the threshold, skeptical but hungry.
Axel had only expected a handful, but by the end of the night, at least twenty souls had passed through the Bathhouse's once-closed doors. Some were scrawny, emaciated from the hunger that ran rampant through the slums; others were scarred, twisted by years of street life. But all of them had one thing in common: a need.
And Axel was more than willing to give.
For every new face, another bowl was ladled out, steaming and hot. The kitchen crackled with the sound of firewood popping, the scent of broth and spices filling the air. The beggar returned to the table, laughing and telling stories to anyone who would listen, his demeanor unrecognizable from the silent, broken man who had first entered. The children, meanwhile, had returned to their usual spot by the wall, though now they weren't quite as afraid. The bowl of soup had given them a bit of light, a bit of warmth, and maybe even a bit of hope.
By the time the last bowl had been served and the fire had burned low, Axel stood by the hearth, wiping his hands on a rag, watching the crowd trickle out into the night. He had expected little more than a humble beginning.
But something had shifted. Something in the way the beggar laughed, in the way the children had eaten, in the way the city's outcasts had gathered around a simple meal. This was more than a free meal. This was a spark.
The fire he had promised was real.
The last of the patrons slowly made their way out, their faces warmed by the glow of the fire but their bodies still carrying the deep weariness of life in the Eternal Slums. Axel watched them disappear into the darkness, their silhouettes swallowed by the oppressive night, but even as they vanished, something inside him ignited. There was a quiet satisfaction in knowing that for a brief moment, he had given them something more than just food. He had given them a space—a place where they could be human again.