CHAPTER 149: SMELL OF BREAD

Dawn hadn’t quite broken.

It had more or less seeped in—pale and lukewarm, like a breath of warm milk over a badly healed wound. The sky, rinsed clean of stars, brightened into a dirty gray, still stained by the shadows of the night. But the cart was already moving.

The wheels creaked at regular intervals, and every bump tore a groan or a curse from Jonas, wedged in the back, still half-asleep despite the jolts. Up front, Marisse held the reins with a steady hand, her other wrapped in her threadbare cloak, eyes fixed on the hazy horizon where the mountains of Martissant rose like cinder-teeth.

Dylan dozed, slumped against a canvas sack, legs dangling off the side. At every jolt, he muttered half-coherently:

"Still not over that stew..."

"That’s ’cause you ate like a dog on cocaine," Maggie growled beside him, adjusting the strap of her pack. She was walking a fair distance from the rear wheel, scanning the surroundings with a gaze still foggy with sleep—but sharp. Her crossed arms screamed "no conversation before noon."

Élisa brought up the rear. Barefoot as always, her spear resting against her shoulder, she watched the dust kicked up by the convoy like it carried omens.

She didn’t speak much.

But every now and then, she tilted her head, as if something—somewhere—was calling her.

The bearded man—still as mute as he was massive—was leading the way today. His halberd dragged slightly behind him, scraping the ground with the sound of restrained alertness. He said nothing, but his back said it all: tight, ready, wired. The kind of man who relaxed only when the screaming started—not when it stopped.

A gust swept by, carrying with it the fading scent of last night’s fire—some ash, and maybe... something else.

A smell none of them recognized at first.

Jonas sniffed absent-mindedly.

"Smells like... bread?"

Marisse raised an eyebrow without turning.

"Wind’s from the south. From Martissant. If your nose is right, we’re getting close."

Dylan sat up in a rush, hair a mess, suddenly very interested.

"Wait... bread? Like real bread?"

Maggie rolled her eyes.

"Young man, try to be a little more mature. You’re embarrassing me."

But Jonas nodded seriously.

"No, really, it does smell like something baking... Not the kind of bread from nomad camps either. Something dense. The kind you could knock someone out with."

He reached an imaginary hand toward the smell, like trying to catch it.

Élisa frowned.

Not because of the bread.

Because of the echo.

A sound. Faint, very faint.

A clack—not metallic.

More like... hooves? A cart? A song? She slowed slightly.

Marisse felt it too. She gently pulled on the reins.

"We’re not alone on this road."

Dylan, for once, said nothing. His hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword. Maggie’s posture straightened, her whole body becoming an antenna.

The bearded man grunted something inaudible and moved to the side of the path, ready to intercept whatever was coming.

Then the silhouette appeared.

Small. Not threatening.

An old man, hunched, pulling a tiny cart covered in faded blue fabric.

He walked slowly, humming a lullaby, barely audible—a child’s tune... twisted by age.

Marisse sighed.

"A merchant."

Maggie didn’t lower her guard.

"Or bait."

Dylan shrugged.

"As long as he’s got bread..."

The old man stopped about ten paces away, legs stiff like twisted roots. He raised a bony arm in their direction—a slow gesture, not threatening, almost theatrical.

"Want some?" he rasped. "Black wheat bread and dry little cakes. Trade for... mmm... what you’ve got."

He pointed a crooked finger at the cart, then at Jonas, then at the sky, as if the gods themselves were part of the deal. Then he scratched his cheek, apparently forgetting what he was doing.

Maggie snorted.

"He looks like time chewed him up and forgot to spit him out."

Still, Marisse stepped down from the cart cautiously, letting the reins fall in a lazy loop.

"If this is a trap, it’s the worst one I’ve ever seen."

She approached slowly, hands open.

"Hello, merchant. Are you alone?"

The old man let out a hoarse laugh—a sort of strangled cackle that turned into coughing.

"Alone? Oh no. I’ve got me. And I’m plenty of company, sometimes."

He tapped his chest with a gummy grin.

"And I’ve got my mutt."

Dylan squinted.

"There’s no dog."

"’Course not. He’s dead. But he still follows me around."

Jonas swallowed. Maggie pinched the bridge of her nose.

Élisa, meanwhile, wasn’t watching the man—she was watching the cart. Her eyes gleamed faintly.

"There’s a ward on that fabric," she murmured.

"Not strong. Old. Like a magical curtain someone forgot to wash."

"What else does he sell?" Jonas whispered, half intrigued, half uneasy.

The old man, as if he’d heard, yanked the fabric off with a sharp motion.

Inside, nestled in old wicker baskets: blackened loaves, bundles of dried herbs, cloudy glass jars with unidentifiable things inside, a half-empty pot of jam, and... a goat skull decorated with feathers.

"Real bread," he said proudly. "Made with the scraps of a recipe no wizard’s ever managed to steal. And that," he pointed at the skull, "that’s to ward off idiots."

Dylan tilted his head.

"Does it work?"

The old man stared him down.

"You’re still here, aren’t you?"

Dylan opened his mouth, shut it, then nodded.

"Touché."

Marisse turned to the others.

"We could trade a bit of cloth or oil for a loaf."

Maggie scowled.

"He creeps me out."

"He’s a crazy old man with bread," Élisa said flatly. "Worst case, he curses us. But between two curses, we’ll at least have some crunch."

Jonas stepped up with a scrap of torn cloth. He handed it over, and the old man fingered it for a long moment, sniffed it, then nodded.

"Accepted."

He shoved a loaf into Jonas’s arms—so heavy he nearly dropped it.

"Good lord, you could kill someone with this..."

"War bread," the old man said with a wink. "Has to be as tough as the lives of those poor souls on the front."

Once the trade was done, the old man resumed his slow march, his warped lullaby trailing behind him like a thread of smoke.

They watched him go for a while.

Then, as if by silent agreement, everyone resumed their place.

The cart creaked back into motion.

Daylight had settled for good, the Martissant mountains sharper now on the horizon, and in the cart, a black loaf sat between two bags like a strange offering.

"I bet it’s poisoned," Maggie muttered.

Dylan smiled.

"Maybe. Still wouldn’t be the worst breakfast I’ve had this week."

And so they kept moving forward—

a little more tired,

a little more peculiar...

but fed.

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