The Devil's Dish

The morning light barely reached Izle’s shack in Greystone, sneaking through splintered shutters like it was afraid to stay. At sixteen, Izle was a wisp of a girl, her body shaped by hunger and hard days at the mill. Her short hair, dark and uneven, clung to her neck, damp with sweat from a restless night. She rolled off her straw mat, her fingers—rough from grinding grain—brushing the dirt floor. A patched cloak hung by the door, next to a rusty knife that felt heavier than it looked. Greystone was a dying place, its fields cracked, its people hollow. Izle’s brother, Kael, small and quick, had been her only spark, his crooked grin a shield against the world. But six months ago, raiders stole him, leaving a hole in her chest that ached like a bruise. Yesterday, she’d caught whispers in the market about a cart in the Vaelmoor Hills that could grant wishes. Izle didn’t believe in gods or magic—demons were just stories to scare kids. If gods were real, they’d have saved her mother. They’d have spared Kael. But hope was a stubborn thing, so she grabbed her knife and a crust of bread, ready to chase a fool’s dream.

Greystone’s streets were quiet, the cobblestones slick with dew. Izle walked fast, pulling her cloak tight to cover herself. The villagers saw her as nothing, their words sharp, their eyes hungrier than their bellies. Her figure, fuller than most despite her thinness, drew stares she couldn’t escape. Last week, Thom, the baker, had cornered her behind his shop, his hand grabbing her chest, his breath hot and sour. “Look at you,” he’d slurred, fingers digging in. Izle had shoved him, her knife flashing, but his laugh chased her, loud and mean. Others threw crude words, their gazes crawling over her like bugs. She’d learned to keep her head down, her fists ready. No god ever stepped in. At ten, she’d watched her mother die, crushed under a runaway cart in the market, her prayers swallowed by blood. “Gods are nothing,” Izle had told Kael, her voice shaking. He’d held her hand, his cheek bruised, and said nothing.

Her father, Torren, was a blacksmith whose hands had once been gentle, guiding Kael’s small fingers at the forge. But after their mother died, his love turned to ash. His fists found Kael most, but Izle wasn’t spared. She remembered a winter night, her at fourteen, Kael twelve. Kael had spilled coal, dimming the forge, and Torren’s belt cracked across his back, leaving red welts. Izle lunged between them, the leather biting her arm like fire. “Stop it!” she’d yelled, her voice raw. Torren paused, but their aunt Mara’s words followed: “You’re a waste, Kael.” Mara’s hate was a slow poison, slipping out when no one watched. Izle had fought back, once throwing a cup at Mara’s head, but it only made her meaner, her words cutting deeper in the dark. The pain wasn’t just on the skin—Izle carried older hurts, private and deep, from hands that took too much, leaving marks no one saw. She pushed those thoughts down, locking them tight.

Kael had been her reason to keep going. He’d talk about running away, his eyes bright despite the bruises. “We’ll find a place where no one hits us,” he’d say, his small frame curled close to hers. Izle’s heart would skip thinking of Micah, Thom’s son, whose soft smile felt like a safe place, even if his father was a monster. They’d planned to leave, but raiders came first, burning homes and stealing lives. Izle was at the mill, hauling grain, when screams tore through Greystone. She ran home to find Kael gone, the house wrecked. Torren swore he’d fought, but his hands were clean, his story thin. Mara’s tears were fake, her prayers useless. Izle didn’t trust them. She’d tracked slaver trails for months, finding only dead ends. The cart rumour was a long shot, but she’d walk through fire for Kael.

Her life hadn’t always been this hard. At eight, Izle remembered her mother singing, her hands soft as they braided Izle’s hair. Kael, just four, would giggle, chasing her through the fields. Torren would laugh then, his smile warm. But the cart accident changed everything. Izle had stood frozen, watching her mother’s body twist under the wheels, blood pooling on the stones. Torren’s face went blank, and the beatings started soon after. Mara moved in, her tongue sharper than any blade. The town turned too—neighbours who’d once shared bread now spat at Izle, blaming her for bad luck. Men’s hands grew bold, their words filthier. At thirteen, a miller’s friend had grabbed her, his fingers bruising, his laugh cruel. She’d fought, earning a scar on her jaw, but no one cared. The pain piled up, each mark a story she hid.

Another memory clawed up, from when she was twelve. She’d been fetching water when a drunk villager, Gav, pinned her against a wall, his hands rough on her hips. “Pretty thing,” he’d growled, his breath stinking. Fear turned to fire. Izle’s knife, small but sharp, slashed his arm, drawing blood. He’d cursed, but backed off. She’d run, her heart pounding, the knife her only friend. That moment taught her to trust no one but Kael. Even Micah, kind as he was, felt distant—his father’s hands made her wary. Greystone wasn’t a home; it was a cage, and Kael’s absence made it unbearable.

The Vaelmoor Hills rose as Izle left Greystone, their twisted trees clawing at a grey sky. Fog rolled in, cold and thick, smelling of dirt and something sharp, like old blood. Her stomach growled, her bread long gone. The hills felt wrong, the air heavy, like eyes on her back. Villagers called Vaelmoor cursed, spinning tales of ghosts and demons. Izle didn’t buy it—men were cruel enough without monsters. But as dusk fell, the silence turned eerie, her skin prickling. Her knife felt useless, her heart loud. She didn’t believe in magic, but something was off.

Her thoughts drifted to Kael, his small body curled in some raider camp, scared and alone. She’d failed him once, staying too long at the mill that day. Never again. The cart was a stupid hope, but it was all she had. She’d heard the rumours from a trader, his voice low: “A cart in the hills, run by something not human. Grants wishes, but there’s a catch.” Izle had scoffed, but his words stuck. She’d face anything for Kael—even a lie.

The fog thickened, wrapping the trees in grey. Izle’s fingers, rough and sore, gripped her knife. A faint scar on her face itched, a reminder of Torren’s belt. Her body ached, not just from hunger but from years of blows and worse. She pushed forward, the mud sucking at her boots. The air grew colder, the smell sharper. She didn’t believe in demons, but the hills felt alive, watching her every step.

A purple glow cut through the fog, pulsing like a heartbeat. Izle froze, her breath catching. This wasn’t firelight. She crept closer, her boots sinking, and saw it: a wooden cart, its sides carved with flames that seemed to move. A sign creaked above: Liliath’s Infernal Kitchen—Wishes Granted, Prices Strange. No one was there, but the counter held food that didn’t belong—skewers spitting sparks, pies glowing green, a pot of soup bubbling without fire. The smell was sweet but wrong, like rotting meat.

A figure stepped from the fog, tall and bent, their frame appearing like a broken tower. Their face was hidden, but their eyes—bright and strange—locked on Izle. Their voice, deep and cold, came from nowhere, cutting through her skull. “Hungry, little toy?” they said, stepping closer. Izle’s knife shook, her voice gone. She didn’t believe in demons, but this thing—Liliath—was real, and it knew her pain. Kael’s face burned in her mind, his voice begging. The cart was her only shot, but it felt like a trap. She took a step forward, her heart pounding, deciding to face whatever this was for her brother. The fog closed in, and Izle knew: this choice would change everything, and the real fight was just beginning.