《The Arcanum Algorithm》

Chapter 7 A Banquet of Whispers

The Lord’s dining hall was a cavern of opulence that made the Viscount's estate seem quaint. Grimm sat stiffly at a table laden with more wealth in cutlery and food than he had ever seen in his life. Before him, a crystal glass held a dark, fragrant wine. Dozens of small dishes contained condiments with names he’d only overheard in the market—pâtés, jellied fruits, spiced oils. The centerpiece was a series of artfully arranged roasted meats, their aromas a complex symphony that was almost overwhelming.

He was dining with the Lord of Bitherl. The absurdity of it was not lost on him. His threadbare tunic was a stark contrast to the silks and jewels around him. He was here for one reason only: the shrouded figure of the Sorcerer sitting at the head of the table.

“Grimm.”

The Sorcerer’s voice was a dry rasp, neutral and oddly artificial, as if spoken through a layer of sand or by something that had learned to mimic human speech perfectly.

Grimm immediately set down his fork. “Master.”

“Those whose mental resonance naturally reaches ten or higher during the test often perceive a… glimpse. A glimpse of their latent affinity. Do not forget what you saw. It is not an enemy to be feared, but a path to be understood. Should you advance, you must learn to cultivate this aspect of yourself.”

Grimm’s blood ran cold. The frozen world. The eye-covered jellyfish. The pig-headed candle. The paper man being devoured. That was his *affinity*? It felt less like a talent and more like a glimpse into a surrounding madness that he was now doomed to join. “Yes, Master,” he replied, his voice steady despite his inner turmoil.

The Sorcerer’s obscured gaze turned to the Lord’s daughter, Lafey, and the tavern owner’s son, Weid. “Your resonance was insufficient. By the old measures, you would have been turned away. But raw potential is a crude tool. The true engine of Sorcery is intellect. Knowledge. Remember this.”

They bowed their heads in unison. “Yes, Master.”

“Master Sorcerer, you honor us with your presence!” the Lord boomed, having changed into a formal suit embroidered with gold thread. “Please, you must sample this rarity I procured for this occasion. A true delicacy from the Southern Endless Sea!”

He clapped his hands. Eight servants approached, each carrying a silver platter. They placed one before the Lord, one before the Sorcerer, and one before each of the six apprentices.

On Grimm’s platter lay a single, unassuming seashell. He stared at it, perplexed. This was a delicacy? How did one eat a shell?

“A Siren’s Kiss!” the Sorcerer exclaimed, his raspy voice tinged with genuine excitement. “I sampled one on a mission in the southern waters over a century ago. I never thought to encounter another in the Eastern Coral Archipelago. You have outdone yourself, Lord.”

“The honor is mine. Please, enjoy.”

Grimm watched the Lord closely. The man’s pudgy, ring-laden fingers gently lifted the shell. With a practiced motion, he pried it open.

Grimm’s breath caught in his throat.

Inside the shell, curled in a deep sleep, was a creature. It was a miniature, perfectly formed woman, no larger than his thumb. Her skin had a soft, pearlescent sheen, and she lacked any visible bone structure, her form utterly pliant. She was, unmistakably, a living thing.

As the shell opened, the light and air roused her. She stirred, blinking large, dark eyes that held a dawning confusion. She looked around, a tiny, vulnerable expression on her face.

The Lord brought the shell to his lips.

Realizing her fate, the tiny creature began to struggle. A sound emerged from her, a high, desperate keening, like the squeak of a newborn mouse. She tried to push herself away, her soft limbs flailing uselessly against the confines of the shell.

The Lord pursed his lips and inhaled sharply.

The tiny scream was cut short as the creature was sucked into his mouth. For a moment, a faint, muffled cry could be heard from within his belly before it faded into silence.

“Ah… sublime,” the Lord sighed, tossing the empty shell aside with a contented smile.

The Sorcerer and Lafey consumed theirs with similar, casual indifference.

The Sorcerer glanced at the five hesitant apprentices. “The taste is incidental. Its true value is alchemical. It purifies one’s connection to fire elemental energies. For any of you who pursue the path of pyromancy, it will be of great assistance.” He paused, the haze around his face seeming to deepen. “There is, of course, a price. It is said consuming one draws the attention of the deep ones. Your flesh will henceforth carry a scent… alluring to certain denizens of the sea.”

Grimm acted first. He needed to prove his resolve, to show the Sorcerer he was unflinching. He closed his eyes, tipped his head back, and brought the shell to his lips. He sucked.

The creature slid into his mouth—a soft, cool, squirming sensation—and down his throat. He felt it settle in his stomach. For a terrifying second, he was certain he could still hear a faint, desperate echo from within his own gut.

He fought down a powerful wave of nausea. Keeping his face a mask of neutrality, he picked up a piece of roast beef and dipped it in a rich pâté, chewing methodically.

The other boys—Yoric, Weid, and the quiet one, Gilram—exchanged pale, sickened looks. One by one, they followed suit, their faces grim. A chorus of faint, internal cries echoed briefly from around the table.

Only Yoric’s sister, Yorkiana, refused. She stared at the shell for a long moment, then gently pushed the platter away, a quiet act of defiance that made her seem far braver than any of them.

The banquet continued, a surreal parade of decadence. Grimm estimated the cost of the meal could have fed his old village for a year. The Siren’s Kiss alone was priceless.

He had taken his first step into this new world. It was a step that left the taste of despair on his tongue and a cold, squirming fear in the pit of his stomach.