He let the oil heat in the cast-iron until a thin gray smoke curled along its rim and drifted toward the rafters. Then he slipped in the garlic, flat slivers pale as bone. They hissed and danced in the shimmer of fat, edges turning gold, the scent climbing out of the pan with a quiet insistence. He watched them, arms folded over his chest, not stirring. Let them settle into that heat on their own.

  Next came the onions, broad white pieces, then the carrots. The sizzle rose thicker now, filling the air. He recalled how the Academy taught onions first, said they needed time. He never liked the smell that made—thought it overwhelmed the dish. Garlic was the anchor. Let the oil bear its body and the rest would follow.

  He reached for the leeks. Set them on the old board. Their green stalks rolled once before settling. He never cared for them—thought them too clean, their sweetness out of place—but they had a role. Tonight they would keep it. He picked up the cleaver. A long blade, curved edge, the metal folded so fine you could trace the lines if you had the eye. He pressed a handful of mint leaves into a tight roll and chopped them in brisk, rhythmic strokes. The fragrance rose like a soft, green cloud. He scooped the bits into a small dish and moved it beside the pan.

  A slow pour of water into the pan killed the sizzle in a dull, rolling hush. Steam lifted in sheets that clung to the rafters, ghostlike. There was a little river a few paces away from the hideaway. Clean water flowed from it. A bouillon cube—venison and salt, pressed hard as a stone—slipped from his fingers into the water. It began to dissolve, leaving dark strands in its wake. He watched them spin. Stirred once, gentle, let the spoon scrape the bottom. He glanced at the pepper grinder, ran his thumb across its polished surface, and set it aside. Let the meat speak plainly, unmasked.

  He turned.

  The elf lay bound on the floor, limbs pulled tight, ropes biting into the skin. A gag pressed between his teeth, damp with spit, corners of his lips rubbed raw. Sweat traced the contours of his face, shining where a band of moonlight caught it from the high window. The floor around him was dark-stained and wet. A faint tremor shivered through his frame, the ropes cutting into muscle.

  The man stepped closer, crouched low. The cleaver hung in his hand, its weight pulling his arm down. A slow swing caught the lantern glow, showing the dark steel in a fleeting glint. He studied the elf’s eyes, wide and wet, the breath rattling behind the gag.

  “My mentor used to say,” he said, voice steady, “that fear spoils the flesh. Called it a poison that runs deep.”

  The elf stirred, tried to shift. A muffled cry slipped past the gag, half air, half broken sound.

  He tapped the cleaver’s spine against his knee, a small dull knock. “But bitterness has its uses,” he went on. “Sourness too. If you let it settle right.”

  He rose to his full height. The elf squirmed on the floor, the ropes groaning against the strain. The steam from the pan still drifted in the corners of the hideaway, carrying the smell of garlic, onion, mint. He let his gaze pass over the wall’s dark stains, the battered boards underfoot, then fixed on the elf again.

  “Her meat was sweet,” he said.

  He lifted the cleaver.

  It fell.

  The spray reached his face and clung there, warm and fine. He ran his tongue slow along the edge of his top lip, tasting what had landed. Copper. Thin. Not bad. Maybe worth saving for sausage if he had the time. A honey mix might bring it to bittersweet—some folks liked that. Not him. Nutmeg might balance it. He had some still, wrapped in oilcloth in the back of the drawer. But blood was hard to keep, turned quick if not handled right. He didn’t have the time. Not this time. The meat would do.

  He crouched beside the body and drew the rope loose from the limbs. Unknotted it all. No need for it now. The skin was pale under the blood, almost colorless in the moonlight. He wiped the cleaver once against his apron, set it aside, and pulled out the skinning knife. The edge had a curve meant for lifting hide, and it slipped easy into the work. He opened the flesh along the centerline, peeled it back with slow hands. The skin came clean with care. Elves had good skin—smooth, thin, little hair. Would tan well. He left it. Took too long to cook, too rich in collagen. He didn’t need it for this.

  The muscle came next. He drew the blade down along the ribs and freed the chest meat first, cutting in long strokes that followed the bone. No jerks. No waste. The knife passed between the joints, under the shoulder blade. He braced the body with one hand as he worked. When he reached the back, he changed blades. The boning knife was smaller, sharper. The edge so fine it would take a thumb off if you blinked wrong. He eased it in beside the spine and shaved the loin clean. Thin lines of meat curled up as he worked. He left nothing on the bone.

  His mentor had taught him that. Twenty lashes for waste. Thirty if she’d had her drink. She’d often had her drink. She kept the whip hung on a nail by the oven and would take it down slow, like it was part of the process.

  He laid the stripped body aside. The meat went on the block, already red and clean. He worked the cuts into cubes no bigger than a thumb joint, stacking them neat. No fat needed trimming. Elves didn’t run with much of it. No need for salt, either. The flesh of the thinking folk ran brined from the inside. No one knew why, but probably the salted food everyone ate. He picked up one piece between his fingers and pressed it, checking the spring. Supple and soft. Good enough.

  He dropped the meat into the pan by hand, one piece at a time, careful not to splash. The cubes hit the broth and sank, hissed faintly, steam rising in pale whorls that curled through the air and vanished against the ceiling. He stood over it for a moment. Watched. The broth was dark now. Bits of onion drifted near the surface, translucent and limp. The smell had deepened.

  He stepped away and moved the lid into place, not tight, just enough to trap the heat. Then he ducked beneath the hanging curtain and stepped out into the night.

  The air was cold. Trees shifted against one another in the wind, their branches bare. The river was near, a narrow stream threading through stone and brush. He knelt on the bank and dipped both hands in. The water ran sharp and fast. He let it take the blood. Rubbed at the nailbeds until the red was gone. Some of it had dried on his wrists and needed scraping.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  When he stood again he wiped his hands dry on the hem of his coat and turned for the woodpile. What remained was mostly bark and splinters. He moved past it and into the trees, searching by the light of the moon. Found deadfall caught in the crooks of roots. Broke it down over his knee. Long dry limbs that snapped clean, brittle with age. He gathered what he could carry and returned to the hide.

  Inside, the fire had burned low. He knelt and fed it slow. First the bark, then the thin sticks, then the thicker. The coals caught quick. The flame came with a low rush. He sat back on his heels and watched it grow. Temperature mattered. Heat had to run hot and fast. That was the point. There were stoves built for this sort of thing—Dwarven work, he’d seen one once. Ran on polished stones that burned without fire. You turned a dial and the flame obeyed. But he didn’t have one. Just the pit and the pan and the work of his hands.

  He opened the lid. The meat had begun to color. Not browned. Just darkening at the edges, softened. The broth bubbled low and slow, carrying the scent of mint and game. Some might’ve seared the meat first. That was common. Said it sealed in flavor. He didn’t think much of that. Searing had its place, but only for cuts with fat or strong grain. Something to bind. Elves didn’t have that. Their meat was lean through and through. No use burning what little structure they had.

  He stirred the pot once, the spoon dragging through the thickening liquid. The meat turned over, sank, rose again. Searing here would’ve ruined it. It would’ve rushed the fibers, tightened them. He’d seen it happen. Had eaten it, too. Rubber. Tough as tendon. For this dish, the meat had to cook in the broth. Had to let the heat carry through it slowly. That was the way.

  He leaned back and set the spoon aside. The fire cracked. The wind outside had stilled. He waited.

  Eight minutes passed. He reached for the cast-iron by the handle, thick cloth wrapped around his hand, and lifted it from the flame. The broth had dropped low. The meat sat heavy and dark in the center, half-cooked and steaming. He set the pan on a flat stone beside the fire pit, where the cold would take hold slow and even. The cast-iron would keep its heat long enough to finish the job. That was the trick. Let the residual heat pull the last of the red from the center. Ten minutes, give or take. Any less and it’d be raw through. Any more and the protein would overcook, curl tight in the grain.

  He left the pan uncovered. Let the air do its part. He turned toward the carcass.

  It lay where he’d left it, stripped but not broken. He looked it over. The bones. The long limbs. It was too much. He could not store it all. His [Inventory] had rules. Couldn’t take whole corpses. Only cooking utensils and ingredients. Flesh, fat, bone. Rendered parts. That meant if he wanted to keep anything, he’d need to process it. Cut it down to usable pieces. A full breakdown would take time he didn’t have.

  He stood over the body. The skin was loose now, peeling back along the shoulders. Blood had pooled under the hips, soaked into the dirt floor. He let out a breath, not loud, and reached again for the cleaver. The smaller knife wouldn’t do. The cleaver would make short work of it.

  Respect your kill.

  He’d heard that once. Maybe from his mentor. Maybe before. Didn’t matter. It stuck.

  He began with the limbs. He didn’t bother with finesse. Chopped through bone and sinew, separated at the joints. Then again at the elbows, the knees. Ribs cracked under the blade. Skull split down the center. No waste in motion. The body came apart in sections. He worked fast.

  Once the pieces were small enough, he carried them to the river in a sack and poured them in by hand. One scoop at a time. The water was dark, but the chunks showed for a moment before they vanished. The current carried them off. He watched them drift, then sink. Fishes would come. Other things too. That was the way of it.

  The skin remained. Stiff now. Not good for eating. Not today. But it had weight still. It would feed the dirt.

  He walked back to the clearing and searched for a patch of soil dry enough to dig. Found one beneath the leaning tree where the ground hadn’t frozen. He took the spade from beside the door and opened a shallow grave. The skin folded when he lifted it, sagging like wet cloth. He laid it in the hole, spread flat. Covered it with soil. Pressed it down with his boots. The blood would leach through in time. Feed the roots.

  He returned to the river and rinsed his hands. The water had risen a little. Cold against the fingers. He scrubbed until the red ran clean, until the smell was gone.

  Then he stepped back into the hideaway.

  The air was thick with steam. It drifted low from the pan and clung to the rafters. He stepped across the dirt floor and reached for the lid. Lifted it slow. The scent came up with it. Game. Mint. The salt of old bone. He set the lid aside and picked up the ironwood spoon. Its handle was worn smooth where fingers had gripped it over the years, darkened with oil and ash. He stirred the pot once. The broth had taken on a deep, earthy color. Meat turned beneath the surface and rose, heavy with liquid. It shifted like slow animals in the dark. Then it stilled.

  He dipped the spoon again and brought it to his mouth. Blew across the surface once. The broth ran thick. He took it in.

  Chewed. Swallowed.

  The meat was soft. Pulled apart with little effort. The fibers gave way smooth, no resistance. The broth clung to it, thick on the tongue. Rich. Deep in salt and bone. But he paused. He stood still with the spoon in hand. Set it back in the pan.

  The venison cube had held too strong. That old flavor, bold and wild, had soaked through every cut. Covered it. What was underneath—what the Elf had carried in his flesh—was faint. Hints of it, maybe, but not clear. Not clean. The broth was good. The texture right. The cook time precise. But the flavor did not speak to the kill. It spoke to the cube.

  He stepped back. Wiped his fingers on his apron. He’d used the venison out of habit. Too quick. Too easy. Pork would’ve worked here just as well. Same salt. Same weight. Would’ve masked it all the same. And that was the thing.

  He looked down at the pan again.

  Could’ve been pork. Could’ve been goat. Didn’t matter. He couldn’t taste the difference. Not anymore.

  He frowned. Reached into his [Inventory] where the cubes were kept in their wrappings. Pulled one free. Held it up to the light.

  Too strong, he thought.

  Too strong for lean meat.

  Too strong for Elf.

  New Recipe Recorded!

  (Elf Cubes in Venison Broth)

  Level Up!

  You are now level 10!

  +1 to all Stats

  +4 Stat Points

  Name: Syras Valtin

  Race: Hybrid (Human/????)

  Main Class: Chef

  Sub Class: Hunter

  Main Title: The Gourmand

  Strength - 20

  Dexterity - 12

  Vitality - 25

  Spirit - 18

  Stat Points - 4