Chapter 98: The Morning After the Ant Kill
The next morning, Marron heard the sound of scraping. Either claws or fingernails were dragging across the polished wood floor. It made her want to grind her teeth.
She rolled over, muscles protesting. Every part of her body had an opinion about yesterday’s fight, and none of those opinions were positive. Her shoulders burned where she’d rolled across the shrine floor. Her hands were stiff around invisible knife handles, fingers still curved as if gripping weapons she no longer held.
The scraping continued. Scratch, scratch, scratch.
"Chef?" The voice was muffled by the door, high and eager. "Chef, we smell the meat. The sweet meat. Are you cooking?"
Marron pulled her blanket over her head. "It’s too early."
"But we’re hungry. The hunt made us hungry. Your food made us strong, and strong things need more food."
More voices joined in, a growing chorus outside her door: "Cook for us, Chef." "Feed us the ant." "Make us stronger."
She sat up, rubbing her eyes. Through the thin walls, she could hear more mimics gathering, their excitement building like steam in a kettle. If she didn’t do something soon, they’d probably break down the door.
"I’m not cooking breakfast," she called out firmly. "The ant meat is for tonight. For the Lieutenant."
A disappointed whine, followed by angry muttering.
"But we helped hunt—" "We deserve—" "She owes us—"
"I’ll make you something else," Marron said quickly, before their disappointment could turn into something more dangerous. "But you have to wait. And you have to be quiet. The Lieutenant doesn’t like noise in the morning."
That silenced them. Nothing scared mimics more than an annoyed Lieutenant.
Footsteps shuffled away reluctantly, leaving blessed quiet.
Marron exhaled and swung her legs out of bed. Her storage box sat in the corner, the ant meat sealed safely inside, but she could still catch hints of that garlic-honey aroma. Her stomach growled—she’d been so exhausted last night that she’d forgotten to eat anything herself.
She opened the box and pulled out the dusty journal she’d found at the shrine. In daylight—or whatever passed for daylight in the dungeon—the dwarven writing was clearer. She flipped through pages carefully, not wanting to damage the brittle parchment.
Most of it was daily records: supplies delivered, prayers offered, maintenance notes. But scattered throughout were warnings:
"The moss glows brighter each day. Something stirs in the deep chambers."
"Brother Thorik says the shrine flowers bloom out of season. Unnatural growth. The dungeon feeds on more than stone."
"Found another cook’s journal in the collapsed section. Poor soul. The recipes grew too powerful. Fed the wrong things."
That last entry made her pause. Another cook? She wasn’t the first chef trapped down here?
She flipped forward, looking for more details, but the pages were too damaged to read clearly. Still, the implications sent ice through her veins. What had happened to the previous cook? Had they tried to escape? Had they fed the dungeon too much and...what? Been consumed by it?
Marron closed the journal with shaking hands and reached for the bone shard at her hip.
The moment her fingers touched it, warmth spread through her palm. But something was different. The pulsing was stronger now, more insistent, and there was a new quality to it—like recognition. As if the shard had tasted combat and approved.
She held it up to the dim light. Was it slightly brighter than before? The bone surface seemed to shimmer with an almost imperceptible glow, responding to her touch with eager warmth.
"You liked the fight, didn’t you?" she murmured. The shard pulsed once, definitively. "Well, there might be more where that came from."
She tucked it back into her apron and turned to her real prize—the Phantasm Moss. This was what she’d risked everything for, and now she could finally see if it was worth it.
The moss samples glowed faintly in their jars, that complex herb-bouquet scent still strong. She could already feel her excitement building as she calculated the possibilities. If her theory was correct, this upgraded broth wouldn’t just last fifteen minutes. It could last forty minutes, maybe even longer.
She pulled the small jars from her pack, examining the moss samples in the morning light. The ghostly green glow had faded overnight, but the herb-bouquet scent was still strong. She could almost taste the complexity—rosemary, thyme, sage, all bound together in one impossible plant.
Her hot plate hummed to life as she began the delicate process of extraction. Phantasm Moss couldn’t be boiled like regular herbs; too much heat would destroy whatever gave it those stealth properties. Instead, she used a cold infusion method, letting the moss steep in clean water while channeling just enough magic to coax out its essence.
Her excitement bubbled up as she worked. This wasn’t just any upgrade—this was the difference between fifteen minutes of invisibility and over forty minutes. Enough time to explore properly. Enough time to reach the eighth floor and beyond without rushing.
And she’d learned from her mistake. One dose had nearly gotten her killed when it wore off at the worst possible moment. This time, she was brewing multiple portions. Three, maybe four small bottles. She was only on the fourth floor—if her cart was deeper in the dungeon, she’d need every advantage she could get.
As the first batch steeped, her mind wandered to the Lieutenant’s dinner. The ant meat needed to be perfect—impressive enough to keep her in his good graces, but not so enhanced that it raised questions. The journal’s warnings about feeding the dungeon still echoed in her thoughts.
"Each enchantment consumed returns not to nothing, but feeds the Core itself."
She had to walk a tightrope: good enough to survive, not good enough to make things worse.
The moss infusion slowly turned from clear water to pale green, with threads of silver light swirling through it like captured starlight. Perfect. She immediately started a second batch, then a third. By the time she finished, she’d have enough stealth broth to stay hidden for over two hours if needed.
Long enough to find her cart and get out.
A soft knock interrupted her brewing. This time the voice was different—older, more careful.
"Chef? The Lieutenant requests your presence. He wishes to discuss tonight’s menu."
Marron’s blood chilled. The Lieutenant never discussed menus. He ate what she cooked and that was the end of it.
Unless he suspected something.
"Tell him I’ll be there shortly," she called back, proud that her voice stayed steady.
As she quickly bottled the finished stealth broth portions, her mind raced. What did he want to discuss? Maybe she could turn this to her advantage. She’d lost one of her borrowed knives in the ant fight—buried it to the hilt in the creature’s eye—and cooking with a single, increasingly dull blade was becoming a nightmare. Every cut took twice as long, every prep twice the effort.
If the Lieutenant wanted to talk, maybe she could convince him she needed proper tools. A chef was only as good as her knives, after all.
She tucked the stealth broth bottles deep in her storage box alongside the ant meat and journal. Whatever the Lieutenant wanted, she’d face it as the chef she was supposed to be—grateful, obedient, and completely uninterested in escape.
But four bottles of upgraded stealth broth sat heavy in her storage like promises waiting to be kept.
Tonight, she would find out what the deeper levels were hiding. Tonight, she would take the first real step toward freedom.
If she survived the Lieutenant’s "discussion" first.