The chaos of the lunch rush had finally bled into a hollow, haunting silence. The heavy oak chairs, once occupied by the city's elite and its hardiest warriors, had been straightened by Michelle and Diane with a mechanical, somber efficiency. The echoes of insults and the clatter of rejected cutlery still seemed to vibrate in the wood of the walls.
August stood by the large hearth, the embers of the morning fire glowing like the dying eyes of a fallen beast. He gripped two small leather pouches of coin, his knuckles white. His heart hammered against his ribs—not with the heat of passion, but with the cold, hard weight of a decision that felt like a betrayal of his bloodline.
Michelle! Diane! he called out, his voice cracking slightly before he steadied it. Please, come here.
The two young women approached, wiping their hands on their aprons. They looked exhausted, their eyes rimmed with red from the stress of the day's verbal assaults. They stood before their young master, waiting for a plan, a spark of hope, or perhaps just a word of comfort.
August reached out and placed the pouches on the scarred surface of a prep table. This is your payment for the week, he began, his gaze fixed on the floor. And… it is the last payment you will receive from me.
The silence that followed was heavier than any mountain. Michelle gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, while Diane simply stood frozen, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and a terrible, dawning realization.
I've tried my best to keep this tavern afloat, August continued, his voice dropping to a pained whisper. I have looked at the ledgers until my eyes bled. I have tried to mimic my father's hand over the stove. But I can't. I am failing you, I am failing the city, and I am drowning in a sea of flavors I cannot navigate. I need to find myself—to find a way to contribute that doesn't involve poisoning our guests with my incompetence.
Master August, you cannot be serious! Michelle cried, her voice echoing through the empty rafters. We've been here since your father first hung the sign! We know it's hard, we know the grief is a mountain you're still climbing, but to close? To just… stop?
It's not just about the grief, Michelle, August snapped, finally looking up, his eyes bright with unshed tears. It's about the math! Look at the tables! Look at the reviews! We are bleeding gold, and more importantly, we are treading on my father's memory. Every bad meal served is a shovel of dirt on his legacy. I won't be the one to bury him in shame.
Diane reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of the coin pouch but not taking it. We don't care about the gold as much as you think, she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. We stayed because we believed in the house of Bruno. We believed that his genius was in you, too. If you send us away, where do we go? Mirveren is a city of crossroads, yes, but this tavern was our home.
I know, Diane. And that is why I have to do this, August replied, his chest heaving. If I keep you here, I am tethering you to a sinking ship. I am asking you to endure the insults of merchants and the threats of adventurers for a dream that is currently a nightmare. I cannot be responsible for your suffering alongside my own.
Michelle shook her head, a stray tear rolling down her cheek. What will you do now, Master August? Will you truly just bolt the doors and let the dust take it? The Mirveren Feast is coming up next week. It is the busiest time of the year. Travelers from the four corners of Castellanza will descend upon the city. It is our best chance—perhaps our only chance—to earn enough to pay the back-taxes and restock the larder with quality goods.
August let out a bitter, hollow laugh. And how are we going to earn anything if the food is not good, Michelle? Tell me the equation for that. Do I multiply the disappointment of the customers by the number of visitors? The result is zero. Less than zero. It is ruin.
But the tradition— Diane started, but August held up a hand.
I need to figure out what is best for this tavern, he said, his tone turning clinical, a defense mechanism against the raw emotion in the room. I have to decide if I should close it forever or find a path of business that doesn't rely on a magic I don't possess. I've tried to hire help, but word travels fast in Mirveren. The professional chefs… they won't come.
He paced the small space between the table and the hearth. They despised my father. He was too good, too talented. He put their businesses to shame for thirty years while they were trying to build their own dreams. Now that he's gone, they see this tavern as a wounded animal. They won't help me heal it; they are waiting for it to die so they can scavenge the remains. Why would they work for the house that shattered their pride?
The weight of the situation seemed to settle on all three of them like a physical shroud. The tavern, once a place of laughter and the intoxicating aroma of roasting meats, felt like a tomb.
Diane took a step forward and finally picked up her pouch, though she held it as if it were a heavy stone. Whatever you choose to do, Master, just inform us. We will be right here. We won't take other jobs just yet. We'll wait for your word. If you decide to fight, we will be your soldiers. If you decide to burn the keys, we will walk away with you.
Thank you, Diane. And you, Michelle, August said, his voice thick. Thank you for being here when the world felt like it was ending. I will inform you of my final decision soon. I promise.
The two girls curtsied, a gesture of respect that felt more like a goodbye than a routine. They gathered their meager belongings, their footsteps echoing lonely and sharp against the floorboards as they walked toward the heavy oak doors. When the doors creaked shut, the sound was final, like the closing of a book.
August was alone.
The silence was absolute, save for the ticking of a clock in the corner and the whistling of the wind through the kitchen vents. He looked around the room. This wasn't just a business; it was his childhood. He had crawled on these floors, learned his sums by counting the flagstones, and watched his father transform raw earth into edible gold.
What have I done? he whispered to the shadows. How did I end up the guardian of a ghost?
He felt a desperate need for air, for space, for something that wasn't the smell of scorched fat and failure. He grabbed a glass of water, his hand trembling so much the liquid spilled over the rim. He moved to the center of the dining room and sat at the long, scarred table where his father used to sit during the lean months of winter or when the crown's taxes were too high.
He closed his eyes, trying to summon the man's presence. He wanted to hear the scratch of a quill or the booming laugh that could settle any argument. Instead, he heard only his own frantic thoughts. He was a boy of numbers in a world of taste. He was a square peg in a round hole that was rapidly closing around his neck.
Could he bring back the glory? Was there a formula for excellence? He looked at the water in his glass, watching the way the light refracted through it, creating a perfect spectrum of color on the wood. Even in his despair, his mind looked for the geometry of things.
The stress was a physical cord tightening around his throat. He needed to move. He needed to see something vast and unchanging, something that didn't care about Beef Bourguignon or failing legacies.
August stood abruptly, the chair screeching against the floor. He went to the cloak rack near the door and pulled down his heavy, charcoal-gray cloak. He wrapped it tightly around his thin frame, pulling the hood low to hide his face from any passing merchants who might recognize the 'failure of Mirveren.'
He stepped out into the cool evening air. The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and gold. He didn't head toward the market square or the residential districts. Instead, he turned his back on the city and moved toward the outskirts, toward the sound of the rhythmic, crashing waves.
The seashore was a place of mathematical perfection—the tide, the moon, the infinite horizon. As August walked, the salt air began to clear the scent of the kitchen from his lungs. He walked with a purpose he didn't quite understand, his boots sinking into the wet sand as the city of Mirveren became nothing more than a cluster of distant lights behind him.
He reached the edge of the water, where the kingdom of Castellanza met the Great Maw of the sea. He stood there, a small figure against the vastness, watching the waves retreat and advance in their eternal, calculated dance.
He didn't know what he was looking for, but as the first stars began to pierce the darkening sky, August felt the stirrings of a different kind of thought—a realization that the world was governed by laws that were much older than his father's recipes.
If he was to save the tavern, he couldn't be his father. He had to be something entirely new.
But as the wind picked up, biting through his cloak, the sheer impossibility of the task ahead felt like the cold tide rising to drown him. He stared out at the black water, the hanging silence of his future mirroring the dark expanse of the ocean.