Dromos 32 – Dromos 33, Imperial Year 1645
Newhope – The Square
The hunters returned at dusk. The travois creaked under the weight of meat. The hide was rolled and tied, the horns wrapped in cloth. Orin's arm was splinted, Lyra's ribs were bound, and Roderick's forehead bore a fresh scar. But they were alive. And the bull was dead.
The village gathered at the square. Edmund Voss stood at the center, his hands on his hips, a grin spreading across his weathered face.
"You did it," he said.
"It did most of the work," Gregor muttered.
"But you're still standing."
Orin raised his splinted arm. "Barely."
Voss clapped him on the shoulder. "We'll eat well tonight."
The meat was unloaded and carried to the kitchens. Children followed the scent of raw blood, their noses wrinkled, their eyes wide. Mira stood at the door of her kitchen, arms crossed, watching the slabs of beef pile up on the wooden tables.
"Enough for the whole town," she said. "But I can't cook it all myself."
She called for the Gerrards. Old Man Gerrard and his wife, Elara (not the class president, the other one), had been in Newhope for weeks. They had cooked for themselves, but never for a village.
"You know dishes from the southern valleys," Mira said. "Your accent gives it away."
Elara Gerrard smiled. "My grandmother was from a fishing village near the Gulf of Arden. She taught me."
"Good. You take the tenderloin."
Mira turned to her own fire. She had butchered the bull's shoulder into thick steaks, each one the size of her hand. She seasoned them with salt, pepper, and a crushed juniper berry she had found in the forest.
Then Miku approached. She was twisting her apron in her hands, her cheeks flushed.
"Mira," she said, "I want to cook something. Something my mother taught me."
Mira looked at her. She did not ask where her mother was now. She simply nodded. "Show me."
Miku had never cooked for a crowd. In her past life, she had watched her mother make sukiyaki on winter evenings, the smell of soy sauce and sugar filling the small kitchen. She had never made it herself. But she remembered.
She cut the beef into thin slices—paper‑thin, almost translucent. The class watched from a distance.
"What is she doing?" Celia asked.
"I don't know," Rosalind said. "But she's focused."
Miku dipped the slices into a bowl of dark liquid—soy sauce, she had made it herself from beans and salt, weeks ago, a secret she had not shared with anyone—then laid them on a hot stone. The meat sizzled. The fat bubbled. The smell was rich, savory, unlike anything the villagers had smelled before.
"What is that?" a child asked.
"Sukiyaki," Miku said. "Or close enough."
She added vegetables—wild onions, mushrooms, thin strips of carrot—and let them cook in the juices. The meat was tender, almost sweet. She offered a piece to the nearest villager, an old man with a grey beard.
He tasted it. His eyes widened. "It's… soft. Like butter."
Miku smiled. "That's the marbling." She added a splash of mirin—a sweet rice wine she had brewed in secret—and let the sauce thicken. The sweetness deepened, balancing the salt. A woman asked for the recipe. Miku shook her head.
"It's a family secret."
While Miku's stone hissed and steamed, Mira worked at her own fire. Her steaks went onto a cast‑iron pan—her own, brought from Luminara—and seared hard. The crust was dark, almost black. The inside remained pink. She cut one open to show the crowd.
"Vlad taught me these," she said.
Roderick raised an eyebrow. "The blacksmith?"
"The same."
He took a bite. His eyes closed. "He knows his meat."
"He knows a lot of things."
She served the steaks with a sauce of vinegar, sugar, and more juniper. The taste was sharp, then sweet, then savory. She had marinated the meat for two days in a mixture of wine, vinegar, and spices—cloves, bay leaves, peppercorns. The juniper gave it a piney edge that cut through the richness.
"This takes time," she said. "You can't rush it."
"How long?" Gregor asked.
"Two days."
He grunted. "Worth it."
She carved the remaining roast into thin slices and laid them on a wooden board. The meat was dark, almost purple, with a thin layer of fat that glistened. She sprinkled coarse salt over it and served it with a dollop of mustard she had made from ground seeds and vinegar.
"Try this," she said.
Roderick dipped a slice in the mustard. His eyes watered. "Strong."
"That's the point."
Across the square, the Gerrards tended their own fire. Old Man Gerrard had made a slow‑cooked stew of beef, carrots, onions, and potatoes. The broth was clear, golden, fragrant. His wife had baked bread, crusty and warm, to soak up the juices.
"From the southern valleys," Elara Gerrard said. "My grandmother's recipe."
"Which valley?" someone asked.
"The one we left behind."
They did not explain either. The stew had been simmering since dawn. The beef was fall‑apart tender, the marrow from the bones dissolved into the broth. Elara added a bouquet of herbs—thyme, rosemary, and a bay leaf—and let it steep for the final hour.
Old Man Gerrard ladled the broth into cups. "Drink this first. It warms the belly."
The villagers drank. The broth was savory, complex, with a hint of smoke from the fire. The vegetables were soft, the beef breaking apart at the touch of a fork.
"This is how we ate in the old days," he said. "Before the war. Before the flight."
His wife touched his arm. He said no more.
As the night deepened, Elara Gerrard brought out a final dish from the embers. It was a large crock, its lid sealed with a strip of cloth. She lifted it, and steam poured out. Inside was a slow‑cooked beef cheek, braised in red wine and beef broth, with mushrooms, pearl onions, and strips of cured pork. The sauce was dark, almost black, rich with the flavor of hours of simmering.
"This is called Boeuf à la Valley," she said. "My grandmother's grandmother made it for weddings."
"What's in it?" Celia asked.
"Beef. Wine. Time."
She spooned the meat onto plates. It was so tender it barely held its shape. The sauce clung to it like velvet. The villagers ate in silence.
"This is the best thing I've ever tasted," Miku said.
Elara Gerrard smiled. "That's the wine. And the patience."
The tables were crowded. The square was lit by torches and the glow of the fires. Children ran between the benches. Dogs begged for scraps. The air smelled of smoke, seared meat, and fresh bread.
Voss stood at the head of the long table. He raised a cup.
"To the hunters."
"To the hunters," the others echoed.
They ate.
Miku's sukiyaki was the first to disappear. The slices were thin, delicate, and the villagers could not get enough. They dipped the meat in raw egg—a strange custom, but they tried it and found it good.
Mira's steaks were rich and heavy. The men ate them with bread, wiping the sauce from their plates. The juniper gave it a piney taste, strange but addictive.
The Gerrards' stew was the heart of the meal. The broth was poured into cups, drunk like wine. The vegetables were soft, the beef falling apart. The bread was torn, dipped, devoured.
Gregor ate in silence, his cracked ribs forgotten. Orin ate with one hand, his splinted arm resting on the table. Roderick ate until his stomach hurt.
"I forgot what real food tasted like," he said.
"This is real food," Mira said.
"No. This is magic."
She laughed. It was a rare sound.
The fires burned low. The plates were empty. The children slept on benches, their bellies full. The adults talked in low voices, sipping the last of the broth.
Miku sat apart, staring at the stars. Celia joined her.
"That was incredible," Celia said. "Where did you learn to cook like that?"
Miku was silent for a moment. "My mother taught me."
Celia did not ask where her mother was now. She understood.
Mira washed her pans in a bucket of water. Elara Gerrard helped her. Old Man Gerrard sat by the fire, smoking a pipe.
Voss walked among them, thanking each cook, each hunter. He stopped at Beardless Corvin, who had not fought but had helped carry the meat.
"You didn't eat much," Voss said.
"I was watching."
"What did you see?"
Beardless Corvin looked at the empty tables, the sleeping children, the glowing embers.
"I saw a village," he said. "Not a refugee camp."
Voss nodded. "That's the point."
The sun rose grey and cold. The fires were dead. The tables were cleared. The square smelled of ash and old bread.
Mira was already in the kitchen, making breakfast. Miku was grinding beans for coffee. The Gerrards were baking more bread.
The alphis bull had fed them all. Its hide would become leather. Its horns would become tools. Its bones would become broth.
Newhope was not a town of survivors anymore. It was a town of people who knew how to live.
End of Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Eight