CHAPTER 148: FRAGRANT NIGHT

Night had fallen all at once, like a lead curtain dropping over the desert plain. The air still shimmered with the heat stored in the ground, but a sharp chill had begun gnawing at the edges of the darkness.

Around the fire Marisse had lit — a small pile of dry branches crackling softly — the group moved in a quiet choreography. Jonas, his face etched by the dancing shadows, was indeed pulling a blackened, dented pot from a patched-up chest at the back of the cart.

That’s when Maggie pounced. Her movement was so sudden, so feline, that Jonas flinched, nearly dropping the heavy pot. She planted herself in front of him, eyes usually hard as stone now transformed into two lakes of near-frightening intensity. Her question cut through the air: "Isn’t that a pot you’ve got there?"

Jonas, thrown by the abrupt invasion of his personal space, stammered, "Uh... yeah?" He lifted it slightly, as if to prove its existence. "It’s a pot. A metal cooking thing... I think?" His confusion was plain, tinged with the kind of concern reserved for people who suddenly act like a different species.

Without another word, Maggie stepped back and rushed to her military bag, slung along the side of the cart. The zipper shrieked under her violent tug. Her hands dove in with feverish urgency and emerged holding a parcel wrapped in coarse oilcloth. She unwrapped it in a single, efficient motion, revealing a thick cut of meat, dark red and marbled with pearly white fat. It was heavy, solid, and gave off a wild, feral scent that overpowered the smoke of the fire.

She held it out to Jonas, her grin growing far too wide, showing far too many teeth. "Think you can do something with this?" Her voice was low, humming with contained excitement.

A silence fell, heavier than the meat itself. Camp noises faded to nothing. The bearded man, checking the horses’ harnesses, froze mid-movement, one hand resting on a horse’s neck. Dylan, seated on a rock polishing a chipped blade, looked up, his grey eyes wide. Élisa, standing guard at the edge of the firelight, slowly turned her head, sharp gaze passing from the meat to Maggie’s face. Marisse, crouched near the flames, paused in the act of feeding in a branch.

Jonas, still stunned, looked at the meat, then at Maggie, then at the pot in his hands. The rich, primal smell tickled his nose. Instinct overtook surprise.

"Where...?" he began, but Maggie cut him off with a look that said this was not the time for questions.

He nodded slowly, regaining a measure of control. The man who had carried a broken axle, cursed the roads and the gods, seemed to step into an older role. "Right..." He took the meat. It was cold, firm, excellent quality — an unthinkable luxury in their current state. "We’ll need water. And salt. If there’s any." His voice held the steady tone of someone given a clear task.

Dylan stood, unable to contain his curiosity — or his hunger. "Holy shit, Maggie, you had that stashed away? Since when?" He stepped closer, exaggeratedly sniffing the air. "That’s not mutant rat. More like venison. Or..." His eyes met the bearded man’s, who wore a grim expression. "Or something else."

The bearded man grunted, stepping in. He squinted at the meat in Jonas’s hands. "Smells fresh. Too fresh to have been in a bag for days." He fixed his eyes on Maggie. "You hunt that along the way? Without us noticing?"

Maggie didn’t answer directly. She crossed her arms, the forced smile gone, her usual hard expression back — but her eyes still gleamed with something strange. "I have my ways. We eating or talking?"

Élisa had approached silently. She studied Maggie with new intensity, as though trying to read beneath the surface. "The smell is strong," she murmured, more to herself than the others. "It’ll carry. Far." Her gaze drifted past the firelight, where the night thickened unnaturally. She subtly adjusted her grip on her spear, the air around her bare feet shimmering faintly — a quiet sign that her essence was still coiled and ready.

Marisse, always practical, broke the rising tension. She grabbed a leather water flask and handed it to Jonas. "Water. Salt, I’ve got a bit in the trunk." She looked at Maggie with a mix of respect and suspicion. "If you pulled that off without drawing anything’s attention... well done. But next time, give a heads-up. There’s things out here that come for less."

Jonas, now absorbed in his task, had begun slicing the meat into cubes with a knife from his belt. The clean shink of the blade through firm flesh was the only sharp sound amid the fire’s murmur. The scent of fresh blood mingled with hot earth and burning wood, forming a heady, primal perfume.

Dylan, abandoning his questions in the face of a real meal, rubbed his hands together. "A hot bath is nice..." He shot Maggie a cheeky look — she returned one that could split granite. "...but a fresh meat stew? That’s worth more than gold." He ducked just in time as she flung a small rock at his head with frightening accuracy.

As Jonas dropped the first chunks into a little melted fat at the bottom of the pot, a rich, sizzling sound rose up, melting away the last of their hesitation. The fire danced higher, lighting tired faces, drawing out small flickers of something like hope — or at least hunger strong enough to drown out fear.

They made a strange circle, bound by flickering light, the intoxicating scent of cooking meat, and the massive, silent weight of the secrets they all carried — secrets waiting to boil over in the bubbling stew or in the night’s softest murmurs.

They ate.

Not in silence this time. Not completely. Spoons scraped against bowls with gentle, comforting sounds. The stew steamed, rich and spiced, and for the first time in a long while, their bodies didn’t tremble from cold, or fear, or exhaustion — but simply from letting themselves exist.

Jonas winced after a bite.

"Too salty."

"That’s your giant hand, not the seasoning," Marisse shot back, chucking a piece of dry bread at him. He caught it mid-air, already chewing.

Dylan blew on his spoon before eating. He’d regained his weary poet air.

"Maybe a little overcooked, but I think I’m developing an emotional attachment to this broth."

"You get attached to anything that doesn’t bite you," muttered Maggie, though she didn’t sound displeased.

Dylan turned toward her, eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Oh well... I wonder how I ended up with you."

Maggie smacked him in the shoulder — quick, sharp, efficient — and he teetered backward, nearly spilling his bowl.