Chapter 19: Ember-Grilled Flatbread and Guts
The shop was beginning to take on a rhythm. The constant flicker of the hearth, the steady hum of the wind outside, the quiet rustling of the children who came and went—everything felt familiar, settled, like the world outside had ceased to exist. Axel had grown accustomed to the routine: tending the fire, slicing vegetables, mixing herbs, occasionally sharpening his knives. The shop was more than just a place to trade, it had become a haven—a brief respite from the violence and decay that lay just beyond the door.
Veya had become more than just a helper. She had grown into a presence, a quiet force. Her careful manner with the children, her sharp, instinctive reactions to danger, and, most of all, her enigmatic silence—all of it had drawn attention. Axel could feel it in the way the regulars spoke in hushed tones as they came through the door. Some came for food, some for the warmth, and some just to glimpse her—a strange girl with a fox at her side, who seemed to carry an aura of mystery that both intrigued and unsettled them.
But it was the food that had begun to speak for him. For both of them.
Axel had been toying with an idea for some time—something he could serve that would be more than just filling. More than just a way to stave off hunger. Something that would leave a mark, a taste that lingered even after the last bite. A dish that could bring warmth in more ways than one. He wasn't entirely sure why the idea had come to him, but the moment it did, it felt right—like a spark that could grow into something more.
And so, with a handful of wild spices, a few dried herbs, and the last of his monster lard, Axel set about experimenting.
He'd always been a tinkerer in the kitchen, mixing flavors and textures, finding new ways to make the most of what little he had. The wild spices he had foraged over the past weeks—tangy herbs with a sharp bite, spices that could scorch the tongue—had the potential to make something extraordinary. And the monster lard? Well, it was a risk, but it had a rich, savory quality to it that he couldn't ignore.
The first attempt was rough. The flatbread had burned on the outside while the inside remained raw, and the flavor was heavy—unbalanced. But with each failure, Axel refined the recipe. More fire, less time on the grill. A little more seasoning, a touch more fat to carry the flavor.
He had a vision of what he wanted—a crispy, golden crust, soft on the inside, with just enough heat to warm the body and soul. After several attempts, he finally had it.
Ember-Grilled Flatbread.
It wasn't just food; it was a promise. The spices would heat the body, the fat would soothe the stomach, and the heat from the fire would seep into the very bones of whoever ate it. It was a food designed for the cold nights that gripped the slums, the kind of nights that gnawed at your skin, made your teeth chatter, and left your muscles shivering no matter how many layers you piled on. And it had a secondary effect—one Axel had hoped for but hadn't quite expected. A gentle morale boost, something that made the darkness seem a little less suffocating.
He served the first batch to Veya and the children that evening. The smell of the bread sizzling over the embers filled the shop, and the familiar warmth wrapped around him like a comforting embrace. Veya had been watching him closely as he worked, her head tilted slightly as if trying to understand his process. When the bread was ready, he handed her a piece, along with a slice of the thin, tangy goat cheese he had also managed to scrounge together.
Veya took the bread without a word. Her fingers were light as they wrapped around the warm flatbread, and for the first time, Axel saw something that hadn't been there before—a flicker of something approaching joy. She bit into the bread, her eyes closing for a moment as the heat spread through her, her face softening. The silence between them seemed to stretch, as if both of them were savoring the moment, not just the food, but the connection it created.
Axel leaned back against the counter, watching her.
"Good?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. Her expression said it all.
Veya nodded and then did something Axel hadn't seen her do before—she smiled. It was subtle, barely there, but it was unmistakable. It wasn't the kind of smile you'd expect from someone who had seen nothing but hardship. It was a soft, almost secretive thing, like a flicker of warmth in the heart of winter.
As Veya finished her first piece, the children began to gather around, drawn by the smell of the fresh bread. They stood by the counter, their eyes wide, their stomachs rumbling in anticipation.
One of the younger children—maybe seven or eight—tugged at Veya's sleeve, holding out a small, trembling hand.
"Can we have some too?" the boy asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Veya glanced down at the boy, and her smile—albeit small—widened. She didn't need to say anything. She simply handed him a piece of the flatbread, tearing it into smaller sections for the others.
A few moments passed, and soon, the once-quiet shop was filled with the sounds of contented chewing, the crackling of the fire, and the faint murmur of laughter. It was the kind of sound Axel hadn't heard in years—kids being kids, forgetting for a while the weight of their lives, just enjoying a moment of warmth.
Axel couldn't help but feel a sense of pride swell in his chest. It wasn't just the food; it was the feeling it created. The way it brought people together, the way it warmed them from the inside out. It was more than just survival—it was a form of living.
And then, he saw it. The first of many.
A few of the children, their faces flushed from the warmth of the bread and the fire, began to cheer when Veya passed by them. It wasn't just the food they were celebrating; it was her.
"The Mad Cook heals pain!" one of the older boys shouted, his voice filled with mischief and awe.
"His food makes you warm!" another child added, her voice bright with wonder.
Veya's eyes flicked over to Axel at that moment, a look of uncertainty crossing her face, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come. She didn't speak, didn't acknowledge the growing murmurs, but there was a shift in the atmosphere. The children seemed to feel it too. They weren't just here for food anymore. They were here for her, for the presence she had come to represent.
"The fox sees your soul," a little girl whispered, her wide eyes watching Veya as if she were something beyond human—a guardian, a healer, something mystical.
Axel, for a moment, stood still, unsure whether to laugh or to be concerned. He had never meant for the food to take on such significance. But as the rumors spread, as more children began to tell their friends and family about the "Mad Cook" and his "healing bread," he realized that something was happening—something bigger than he had anticipated.
The food itself had become a kind of legend. But it wasn't just the flatbread. It was the girl. Veya.
Word spread quickly through the slums. Axel had no idea who the first person was to start the rumors, but they were growing stronger by the day. There were whispers that the flatbread had the power to heal, that it could ward off the cold, and that Veya, with her silent, knowing eyes, could see into people's souls. To the children, she wasn't just the girl who helped serve food. She was something more. A protector, perhaps. A figure of mystery and strength. A beacon of warmth in a dark world.
Axel didn't know whether to be concerned or proud of the attention. His food, his simple experiment with ember-grilled flatbread, had somehow woven itself into the fabric of slum lore. He didn't want to be the center of attention, but he couldn't deny the impact it was having. The morale of the children, and even some of the adults, seemed to lift whenever they ate. The flatbread didn't just fill their stomachs—it filled a deeper hunger. It gave them warmth, if only for a little while. And that, in this world, was something to be treasured.
As the rumors spread, so did the number of visitors to the shop. More and more people were making their way to Axel's door—not just for the food, but for the quiet solace of Veya's presence. And with every passing day, Axel found himself standing a little taller, his sense of purpose growing stronger. He wasn't just surviving anymore. He was creating something. Something that mattered.
But as the crowds grew, so did the dangers. The slumlords, the ones who had once threatened Axel for not paying their protection fees, began to take notice. Word of his food and his mysterious companion spread to ears that Axel had hoped to avoid. The last thing he wanted was to draw the attention of the gangs or their enforcers. But it seemed he was powerless to stop the tide.
He had built something here. But would it be enough to protect them from the darkness that was always just beyond the edge of the light? Would the warmth of the ember-grilled flatbread be enough to fend off the cold, both inside and