The Food Of Gods

1

The night had a heart of its own.

High amidst the ancient hills where the sky kissed the earth in whispers, silence breathed heavily. The moon spilled its silvery sorrow upon the ridges, cutting soft shadows through the mist that curled like ghostly serpents between the trees. Pines stood tall like mourners frozen in grief, and the wind rustled their needles with a song that had no melody—only an ache, like forgotten lullabies.

Nestled deep within this mournful wild, shrouded in thickets so dense they seemed to have teeth, stood a house. It wasn’t built as much as buried—lost in the folds of the forest, crouched beneath the weight of vines and time. Its wooden walls bore scars of rot and rage, and its windows held the stillness of eyes that had seen too much. Something about it felt wrong, like a prayer interrupted.

Outside its crumbling porch, two men stood guard. Rugged and brutish, with faces carved by violence and time, their bodies bore the history of battles—scars that spoke of knives, fire, and betrayal. One leaned against a moss-ridden post, a rusted rifle beside him, gulping down cheap wine from a cracked tin flask. The other, slightly elder, sat on a rickety stool, his laughter hoarse, almost forced.

“How long shall this go on?” the younger one muttered, wiping wine from his beard.

The elder gave a slow smirk. “Till he’s satisfied.”

The younger man looked away, his eyes drifting into the dark, as if hoping to find his home hidden somewhere behind the veil of leaves. “It’s been days. I haven’t seen my children. Not even a letter... not even a whisper.”

“That,” the elder said, with a voice that had long buried regret, “is the life of law-breakers. You’ll get used to it.”

The wind howled, louder this time—as if warning the trees to brace themselves.

Inside the house, it reeked of blood and damp wood. The walls bled with stains that couldn’t be washed, and silence was louder than screams.

A man hung upside down from the beams—his body trembling, his face a canvas of fear and agony. Blood had painted half his face, trickling from his bruised mouth down his forehead, as if gravity itself had turned cruel. His eyes, wide and watery, scanned the room desperately.

And then he saw it.

A silhouette.

A man stepped into view—tall, broad, moving with the eerie calm of someone who had long stopped being surprised by death. His face was hidden by shadow, but his presence filled the room like a curse.

The hanging man whimpered, barely able to speak.

The figure stepped closer, the floor creaking beneath his boots.

He smiled. It wasn’t warmth. It was a promise.

“Tell them…” his voice was coarse, deliberate, almost poetic in its menace, “…to keep the guards of hell awake. I’m sending a token.”

The revolver rose, gleaming coldly under the dim bulb.

One shot. Echoes.

The body convulsed once, then stilled—like the hills outside, burdened by silence.

A laugh—cruel, sharp, and final—ripped through the room like a blade.

The hills, once again, stood silent. But now, they listened.

2

Unlike the bustling tourist traps that smothered their charm in neon and noise, Sandrampo had a soul that still hummed with nature’s hymn. Cradled amidst the hills like a forgotten verse of poetry, the city breathed peace with every cold breeze and shimmered with the kind of quiet that only the mountains could compose. It was a place where time chose to walk, not run.

Tucked in the heart of a cobbled alley, wrapped by pine shadows and prayer flags swaying with the breeze, stood a restaurant: Speise der Götter. The locals called it the food of gods, not just for its cuisine, but for the calm it served with every steaming bowl. Only a handful of trek-weary travelers, solitude-seeking poets, or storm-eyed painters knew of it. But once tasted, it became a ritual—an unspoken bond with the hills.

At a secluded wooden table near the frosted window, a man sat with his face hidden behind a large menu. Beside him, a younger gentleman—elegantly dressed in an alpine waistcoat, his hair slicked back with understated pride—sat with his hands clasped neatly on the table. The older man lowered his menu, revealing a chiselled face worn by wisdom, shadowed eyes like deep wells that had seen rain for decades, and a neatly trimmed beard that matched the grey of approaching dusk.

He raised his hand with quiet authority. “Two plates of Sandrampo special noodles,” he said, folding the menu precisely and placing it beside a soft-leather diary on the table. Embossed in faded gold letters on the cover were the words:

Sir Vulcan Freyman.

A man of artistic repute, Sir Vulcan was more than just a name in the galleries of Vienna, Berlin, or Prague. He was a seeker of the unseen—a painter whose brushes wept stories onto canvas. Every line he drew whispered something personal, yet universal.

Zomias, his secretary, looked at him with a mix of admiration and curiosity.

“Sir,” he asked, his voice crisp but gentle, “why the hills of all places?”

Vulcan’s eyes wandered beyond the window, where the mist caressed rooftops like a shy lover. A moment passed before he answered.

“Because here,” he said slowly, “the noise of the world fades. And when silence prevails, imagination walks in.”

Zomias smiled. “That’s why I thought of bringing you here, sir. I’ve been to Sandrampo several times. Each time, it feels like... paradise quietly waiting to be found.”

Vulcan nodded, adjusting his gloves. “You did well, Zomias. These hills… they carry echoes. Ancient ones. They help me listen.”

The waiter arrived, bowing with warmth as he placed a steaming cup of herbal tea before them. The scent of lemongrass and firewood lingered.

Vulcan tapped the diary with one finger. “And the Duke of Holenburg? By when does he expect his portrait?”

Zomias took out a small notepad, flipping it open. “By the end of next month. He wants it ready before the coronation ceremony. Politics, after all, is a grand theatre. And the old Duke is no exception. He wants to hang his legacy on a wall.”

Vulcan chuckled softly, his voice almost a breath. “Strange, isn’t it? The great ones of history bled for their names to be etched in time. Today, they bleed gold to frame their faces in oil.”

“True,” Zomias replied, leaning forward, “but a painter like you doesn’t just create images, sir. You capture truths. Like how Rembrandt captured pain, or how Van Gogh painted silence.”

Vulcan looked at him, eyes flickering with gratitude. “And yet, none of them ever truly lived in comfort. That’s the price art demands—it gives you immortality, but not peace.”

Just then, a subtle hush fell over their section of the restaurant.

She had arrived.

A woman—poised, elegant, and draped in a coat of royal plum—walked in like a secret that demanded silence. Her every step was calculated grace, her gaze firm, yet soft with age and dignity. She was perhaps in her mid-forties, but her aura had the timelessness of carved marble. The waiters bowed as if greeting someone who wasn’t just familiar—but revered.

She returned their greetings with a gentle nod. And then… her eyes paused.

They found him.

Sir Vulcan turned instinctively. And as his gaze met hers, something within him shifted—like a dam cracking.

“Rose?” he whispered, half a breath, half a memory.

He stood up. His chair barely made a sound.

The woman’s lips parted faintly, not in surprise—but in something deeper.

Recognition.

And perhaps… regret.

3

The air inside Speise der Götter had changed.

There are some reunions where words fail, and silence does the speaking. This was one of them. Rose Zylenthum stood like a page from a book once thrown into fire, yet somehow preserved—elegant, composed, and disarmingly beautiful. She wasn’t the kind of woman who turned heads with flamboyance. She did it with presence.

The hush that followed their locked gaze hung in the air like dew refusing to fall.

Zomias, ever the perceptive one, instantly read between the lines. He had seen enough portraits of longing and regret to know when he was witnessing one. Clearing his throat, he tapped Vulcan’s shoulder lightly.

“Sir, I just remembered—I promised myself a quick cigarette.” He smiled politely at Rose, nodded respectfully, and walked out, vanishing into the forgiving fog of the hills.

Rose stepped forward, her heels making no sound on the wooden floor. She stopped just across the table.

“I wasn’t sure it was you,” she said. Her voice—still soft as velvet, but now lined with the steadiness of age—broke the spell.

Vulcan gave a faint smile, nodding. “I wasn’t sure myself. Till I saw your eyes. They haven’t changed.”

She chuckled softly, folding her hands. “They’ve seen more now. But maybe you’re right. Some parts of us refuse to grow old.”

He gestured to the seat Zomias left behind. “Please.”

She sat.

For a few seconds, the space between them wasn’t a restaurant table, but a decade of unsaid things.

“You look well, Vulcan,” she said, taking a sip from the glass of water a waiter had placed before her. “Still the same black coat. Still the artist cloaked in winter.”

“And you,” he replied, looking at her coat, “still manage to turn a restaurant into a palace.”

Her smile turned wistful. “That’s what this place is for me. My little kingdom. No kings. Just good food and warm lights.”

They both laughed quietly.

“I’ve heard of your exhibitions,” she continued, “Paris... Vienna… Even Tokyo. Your name travels faster than the wind these days.”

Vulcan sighed gently, lowering his eyes. “And yet, no place feels like home.”

Rose watched him for a second, as if weighing whether to ask something. But she didn’t. Instead, she leaned back.

“Marriage suited you?” she asked, delicately.

“We lived well. She was kind. Thoughtful. Loved silence almost as much as I did,” he replied.

“And?”

“She passed. Two winters ago. Illness that gave no name, just time.”

“I’m sorry, Vulcan.”

He gave a quiet nod. “And you?”

“I married a banker,” Rose said, almost with amusement. “We were opposites in every way. I spoke dreams; he spoke spreadsheets. But we laughed, had our children… and when he died, I was grateful we’d managed to find a rhythm.”

There was a pause.

“You never wrote,” Vulcan murmured.

“You never asked me to,” she replied, not with bitterness, but fact.

The words lingered in the air like an unfinished brushstroke. They didn’t apologize, because grown hearts learn the futility of it. Instead, they sipped from memory, both smiling faintly at the ghost of what once was.

And then, Vulcan’s gaze drifted—absently at first—towards the far end of the restaurant.

A painting hung there, framed in rich walnut wood. It was a portrait—not flamboyant, but striking. A tall man stood in it, shoulders broad, dressed in a dark alpine suit. There was something about him—his stance, his expression—that unsettled the canvas. His eyes didn’t just stare; they challenged.

Vulcan tilted his head. “Who’s that?”

Rose turned to look. Her tone changed—just slightly—as she answered.

“That… is Konvo. The original owner of Speise der Götter.”

Vulcan raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. The name sounds... ancient.”

Rose said nothing for a moment. She just stared at the painting, her expression unreadable.

“Everyone who’s ever worked here knows that name,” she said finally. “But few ever met the man.”

Before Vulcan could ask more, a bell chimed near the door—the sound of another guest entering.

And the moment slipped away.