"A banquet built on the agony of the wretched and the poor yields the most exquisite flavours."
– An Ecstatic Chef
We left the brewery intending to locate the hidden compartment in the main hall's ceiling—not the brewery's. Naturally, I concealed myself in Richard's shadow—where else would I hide? —while he moved openly as a waiter.
I had already commanded every phantom to scour the venue once more, spawning additional ones to expand the search radius. The effort consumed residue at a dangerous rate, but we had no choice. Richard had imposed a strict one-hour limit: find it, or we withdraw to await reinforcements.
My phantoms delved into every crevice, uncovering fresh horrors: hidden rooms hosting orgies amid cooling corpses; guests devouring living victims, screams stifled by arcane gags; and casinos where slaves were wagered and lost. None led upward. Residue dwindled—already below half capacity after thirty minutes. At this rate, I would not last the hour.
The shadow-cloaking pressed against my shoulders like iron bands—constricting and uncomfortable. I would return to a bathroom stall if it became unbearable.
I summoned the three waiters' corpses from storage. Darkness coalesced; three bodies reformed before me—pale, lifeless, with tongues excised. Mind-reading was distasteful—head-splitting headaches and lingering habits—but necessary.
I cast the spell on the first. Images flooded in: endless cooking recipes, pornographic scenes in graphic detail. Nothing useful. I waited—ensuring no unwanted impulses took root—and then moved to the second. More recipes, more pornography. The headache bloomed behind my eyes—sharp, insistent. I materialised in an empty stall, dumped the third body on the tile, and stepped to the sink. Gloves removed, I splashed cool water on my face. Refreshing. The pounding eased slightly. I dried my hands, redid the gloves—and froze.
Behind me, I saw a male guest standing there with two women. All three stared at me in silence. I did not know how long they had been watching, nor did I particularly care to find out.
I flicked a hand. Shadows surged—viscous, hungry—swallowing them whole. Their screams echoed briefly, cut short. The sound grated more than expected.
I rested a minute, then cast the spell on the third body. Nothing. No intel. Only the lingering headache—and, annoyingly, a fleeting, disgusting urge toward equine pornography. Humans.
I stored the body again and stretched—joints cracking satisfyingly. The headache dulled; side effects were temporary. I returned to shadow.
My phantoms reported a hidden room accessible only to select individuals. No location yet. I ordered an intensified search.
One phantom relayed through a nearby mirage to Richard. He nodded subtly—still playing waiter—and continued.
Residue now critically low. I dismissed most phantoms, keeping only essentials. The mirage spell remained active—residue-heavy, but necessary for cover.
Then—success, as if the gods themselves had taken pity on us. A phantom slipped through a butcher's assistant into a freezer-like door. Inside: the chamber we sought.
I emerged from the shadow within it—small, ceremonial, and incense-heavy. The air smelt of myrrh and iron. A pit of human remains dominated one corner—discarded entrails, limbs, and whole bodies, raw and cooked alike. In the centre stood a modest altar: five vases arranged in a circle, etched runes glowing ethereal blue. The sigils formed a perfect ring around the vessels, lines of light pulsing downward into the floor.
Residue flowed visibly—thin streams spiralling into the vases, harvested silently. Miasma potential. Already thick.
I texted Richard: Found it. Freezer door in the butcher area. His reply: On my way.
I waited. The door opened—a red curtain rippled, morphing into an exit. A waiter stepped through—image flickering—and then froze at the sight of me.
I offered a theatrical bow and gestured toward the altar.
Richard ignored the flourish and approached the vases. "This is it?"
"Yes. Residue flows directly into them. Already borderline miasma."
"We can't rule it out."
He scanned the room. I studied the runes—teleportation-linked binding wards. Proficient or not, I recognised the pattern.
"We must hurry," Richard said. "Take the vases. Evacuate."
"Sadly, my friend, we cannot."
"Why?" Anger edged his voice.
"These runes are teleportation-linked. Disturb the vases—they vanish. Likely to a secure location."
He muttered a string of curses, then pulled out his phone and snapped photographs of the altar. "Evidence. We leave. Now."
Unfortunately, fate had other plans. Just as we turned to leave, the vases shimmered—then vanished.
We exchanged a glance.
A low rumble began behind us. The pit of remains stirred—flesh quivering, bones grinding, and limbs fusing. Muscles knitted, organs pulsed, and bodies merged in grotesque unity.
I seized Richard's shadow and pulled us both out, reappearing in the bathroom stall. Two waiters kissed passionately nearby. They froze, then resumed with knowing smiles.
We burst from the stall and ran toward the main hall. A deafening crash shook the building—the ceiling cracking, screams rising in waves.
Whatever had formed in the pit had broken through.