127. [INTERLUDE] Salt and Pepper

Inside the darkness of his cell, Petter Svensen sensed that the end was near.

It'd been three nights and three days since he last ate. And as sumptuous a 'last meal' as it'd been, even the Jotun-Yaki couldn't keep starvation at bay forever. Petter needed to eat, or he'd soon go the way of many a lost Pretjordian soul over the Kalpas—forsaken and forgotten, even by himself.

As someone who'd never had a stable job until recently, Petter was no stranger to flirting with starvation. The 'next meal' was always an adventure, fraught with uncertainty and therefore anxiety. Yet he could safely conclude that no next meal had ever been this uncertain nor quite as anxiety-inducing.

With the little strength left to him, Petter rolled onto his side. Even this innocuous effort left him light-headed and panting for breath. He allowed himself a short rest while he considered his predicament.

The soldiers had bound him at the wrists and ankles before dumping him in a cell of petrified wood—its gnarled branches and roots so densely entwined as to shut out all light. That was three days and three nights ago, and it was also the last time the cell's door had opened or shut. No soul had visited him since, whether to bring food, rescue, or news.

It's like they've already forgotten about me.

Perhaps they had. Petter was no stranger to being ignored by the rest of the Realm—relegated to an afterthought in someone else's story. There might've been a time—in his youth, perhaps, when his father was still around to have his back—when he would've thrashed and railed against such indignity. But over the years—as he tried, failed, and learned his limits—he'd come to accept that he only had himself to blame for his remarkably unremarkable life.

No one in this Realm ate for free. That was true whether he lived from scrap to scrap in Stamgard, clung to the hem of his Wayfaring friends in Rotgard, or lay rotting in a dark lonely cell in Krongard.

Come to think of it, maybe this is a fitting end—the best I could've hoped for. In my own way, I've experienced all that the Realm has to offer, from the wildest Realmhunt in living memory to the dizzying heights of royal hospitality. There aren't many other Stammers who could say the same thing…

This time, just one innocuous thought was enough to sap him of his energy. He remained in an awkwardly recumbent position, too tired and too defeated to move another inch.

What was the point? Unlike his Wayfaring friends, he couldn't visualize the state of his hunger as a number, but the same principle applied to all souls. Any exertion on his part would only eat into his satiety, thereby bringing the inevitable to pass even sooner. Better to stay still and let nature take its course.

But if it's inevitable, why do I care if it happens sooner or later?

Petter didn't have an answer to his own question. He lay still in the darkness, willing his biological hourglass to slow. He didn't know why he cared—only that he did. And right now, that was all he could hold onto.

More time passed, with no way for Petter to tell how much. The world just outside his cell moved on without him, as evidenced by the sounds of shuffling feet and the ripples of restless bodies.

A changing of the guards? The thought of it sparked new hope—as if this fourth night would somehow be different to the previous three. But instead of food, Petter was treated to a muffled conversation that barely made its way past walls of petrified wood. "—hear about the new—?"

"No, what—?"

"—realmers. Here to make good on—with Prince Rathor."

"Truly? Does that mean they—Kronvakt? Are we to—them on sight and obey their—?"

"—don't know, but all will be—soon enough. In the meantime, we best—names. Doubt calling them 'outrealmers' would—any longer."

"—were they? Serac Edin and Zac—ventus?"

Petter stirred again. He forced himself into a half-sitting position as he strained his earholes. Now, the voices came through just clearly enough to form near-complete sentences.

"—be it for me to question the Prince, let alone the King, but you have to wonder if this is wise. Were you there when they captured the Finless?"

"No, but I did hear it was mostly bloodless, as incredible as that is. But why bring the Finless into this? You think the outrealmers might be here for her?"

"They say she manipulated them into helping her win the Realmhunt. Stole a smite from right under Prince Rathor's nares. Who's to say they're not still working for her? If the Finless can command an army of Wildspawns, is it so strange to suspect that she's bound a pair of outrealmers to her spells? After all, one of them is a Narakite—and a simpleton to boot, from what I've heard."

Even in his weakened state, Petter found it in him to burn with indignation on Serac's behalf. These soldiers knew nothing about her, and it'd serve them right to learn the hard way.

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"Careful," the other guard said with a chuckle, clearly more amused than worried by his colleague's impertinence. "Don't let our new superiors hear you say that… or worse yet, the Queen. Regardless, even if it were true that the outrealmers are here at the Finless's behest, I doubt aught will come of it. The royals let her slip away once; they shan't make the same mistake again."

The rest of the conversation became inaudible as both guards walked away from Petter's cell. Soon, all was silence and darkness once more—and still no food or rescue.

But there had been news.

Petter allowed himself to relax and lie back down, as he pondered what he'd heard. Miss Serac and Mister Zacko are both here in the palace! Maybe there's hope for me, after all…

And yet, ironically enough, it was this latest spark of hope that instantly and most decisively killed the last of his energy—his will and hunger to go on. For here he was again: powerless, witless, helpless—scavenging for scraps left behind by souls far nobler and stronger than him.

It was the throughline to his remarkably unremarkable life. In a Realm where no one ate for free, Petter Svensen had survived purely by relying on others. On his father when he was little. On the kindness and excess of strangers when he was older.

Even the last two months working as Serac's and Zacko's personal chef, he now realized, had been but a lucky accident—and a temporary one at that. He could pretend all he wanted, but the truth was that the outrealmers didn't need him. He was as replaceable as the soles of their cleats.

In the blink of an eye, Serac and Zacko had shot well past Karmic Level 40, and had likely soared even higher after their latest escapades on ice. No doubt they were poised to have another romp here in the palace, reaping more Karma for their trouble. And before long, they'd find a way to ascend from Pretjord altogether, leaving the Realmtree and all its wonders and banalities behind—including Petter himself.

Because that was just what Wayfarers did—at least the pure, genuine Wayfarers like Serac and Zacko, whose Paths pointed ever onwards and upwards. Not like the Kronvakt Petter had so idolized all his life. Those idlers seemed far more interested in holding onto their Pretjordian lives than to continue their adventures in another Realm.

So, who could begrudge Serac and Zacko their ever-soaring Paths? Certainly not Petter. He'd cheer them on with every last drop of consciousness before he lost himself. And he hoped fervently that they wouldn't come to his rescue… because the last thing he wanted was for the outrealmers to stray from their Paths for his worthless sake.

He only wished… that they would remember him—even if he himself might forget.

More time passed in silence and darkness. Only, at some point, Petter realized that not all was silent. Nor was it all dark.

For one thing, the air quivered with a high-pitched, mewling whimper. It startled and shamed Petter in equal measure to learn that the whimper was his own. Tears ran sideways down his recumbent face, as hot and angry as his stomach was empty. Where had he even found the strength to cry?

And for another, faint light now seeped into the room. That was how Petter learned that his fourth night had turned over to a fourth day. But more importantly, he realized that he could read rather than see the light—as ripples that bounced through petrified wood.

Petter considered himself a passable ripple-reader, at least as far as Anchored souls went. Yet, the ripples around him now communicated the shape of the world with the most intricate clarity he'd ever known. The walls of his cell should've been as dense and impenetrable as solid rock, and yet he could read and trace the minute imperfections within their structure—the cracks in their defense.

Petter's tears began to dry, even as he reconsidered his predicament—nay, his options. If he had only himself to blame for his meager lot in life, then it was also up to him to change it.

Thrash. Rail. Fight. Why give up before he'd even tried? Why listen to the part of his brain that kept telling him 'no', when he had every right to say 'fuck yes'? Why cheer on the Wayfarers from the sideline when, instead, he could meet them as their equal?

Petter considered his options, then came to a decision.

The 'biggest' and most obvious imperfections were concentrated within one wall in particular. This would be the door, with its frame and hinges. He'd do well to stay away from that side. Even if—by some miracle—he made his escape, he'd only run straight into a guard on the other side.

Surging with renewed strength, Petter rolled himself towards the opposite side—the back of the cell. He then pressed against the wall. This direct contact between his scales and the 'substrate' clarified the picture even further. It was almost like reading a map, one for navigating the tenuous link between his cell and the outside world.

But a map was useless without a means of travel. What could he do? He didn't possess the strength to punch a hole in the wall, even if he could read its imperfections (not to mention his wrists were still tightly bound!). A slower, more insidious process, then? If he could wedge something just as small into the cracks, perhaps there'd be a way to widen them? But what—?

A good Pretjordian chef never goes anywhere without them!

Petter struggled and twisted against his restraints, until he managed to pull loose the shakers of salt and pepper from his sash. The soldiers hadn't bothered to confiscate these, and who could blame them? What was Petter to do—season himself out of prison?

Not that he had any clearer idea what he might do with them now. But he'd already decided that anything was better than nothing. He rolled himself again to face the wall, then shook clumsily with both hands.

As it turned out, salt and pepper were small enough to fit through the cracks. With his heightened senses, Petter read clearly each and every crystal and granule as they embedded themselves into the wall's imperfections. He'd never before felt such pure and powerful connection with the 'tools' of his trade, and yet, the question remained: just what in the drowned god's name was he meant to do with any of this?

Perhaps it was a stroke of obscure genius. Or perhaps only the delirium of a starving man. Whatever the cause, Petter was suddenly struck by a truly bizarre thought.

The wall is my ingredient. The salt and pepper are the seasoning—simple but reliable. But I'm still missing something if I want to cook. I still need—

A heat source.

Petter Svensen struggled and twisted against his restraints… until he managed to retrieve his most prized possession. It was a small, painted box—now down to its one last matchstick.

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