Soma stood in the dim, cavernous room, his eyes half-lidded as he watched the liquid bubble and swirl in the cauldron before him. The shadows from the torchlight danced along the stone walls, their flickers echoing the quiet rhythm of his own tired movements. The air was thick with the scent of fermented grapes and herbs, their pungency clinging to his senses, but Soma barely noticed.
His hands moved on their own, guided by memory, not passion. He'd done this countless times, yet each time he felt the same hollowness. His mortal body, bound to the laws of the world, made each action feel clumsy, imprecise. Every breath was a reminder of how limited this vessel was compared to the ethereal perfection he once knew.
But even as he mixed the ingredients with the precision of a god who had done this for eons, a part of him knew. The wine would turn out wrong. It always did. He felt the strain of mortal muscles as he poured, his fingers slightly unsteady as he adjusted the flame beneath the cauldron.
He had perfected every aspect of this process, and still, he could never replicate the ambrosia he had once crafted in the heavens. It was as if this world mocked him, shackling his divine skill to the imperfections of human flesh.
The room was spacious, a vast chamber carved from stone, with barrels stacked high against the walls and shelves filled with tools and herbs. And yet, it felt cramped, suffocating. The only source of light came from the brazier in the corner, casting long shadows that flickered like restless spirits. Soma's eyes, dull and distant, reflected the flame as he stirred, each movement slow and methodical.
He leaned in, taking a small ladle of the wine, and tasted it. As the bitter liquid touched his tongue, he felt a surge of disappointment. His fingers clenched around the ladle, the metal digging into his skin. The flavor was all wrong—too sharp, too earthy, lacking the balance he sought. But that was no surprise. He had grown used to failure.
He set the ladle down and stood there, staring into the cauldron's depths as the wine continued to bubble. The five stages of grief washed over him like a tide. Denial, at first. Perhaps it wasn't so bad this time, he thought. Maybe it was close. He shook his head, knowing it was a lie.
He'd tasted perfection once, and this was far from it. Anger followed, a brief flare of rage that dissipated as quickly as it came. He had no one to blame but himself, after all. Bargaining was next. If he added a bit more of the rose petals, maybe the flavor could be salvaged. But no, the proportions were wrong; adding anything now would ruin it further.
Depression seeped in like a slow poison. Soma stood, motionless, as the bitter taste lingered on his tongue. It should have been perfect, yet it was just another disappointment in a long line of failures. And finally, acceptance. He sighed, feeling the tension drain from his shoulders.
It was what it was—a poor imitation of the wines he once made. To any mortal, it would be a treasure, a drink worthy of worship. But for him, it was a shadow of the past.
He set the cauldron aside, his eyes scanning the shelves for his next set of ingredients. The process had to continue. It was the only thing that kept his hands moving, his thoughts occupied. But when his eyes fell upon the spot where the herbs and fruits were usually kept, he frowned. The shelf was empty.
There was nothing left.
Soma's brow furrowed, a rare expression of annoyance crossing his otherwise impassive face. This shouldn't have happened. His familia members knew better than to leave him without what he needed. They always made sure his supplies were replenished; that was their role, their purpose. It was a system that worked well—he brewed, and they provided. They got what they wanted, and he was left alone to perfect his craft. It was simple.
He waited, expecting someone to arrive with a fresh batch of ingredients. But the minutes stretched on, and the silence of the room gnawed at him. There was no sound from the adjacent chamber. Normally, there would be voices, the clinking of glasses, the murmurs of activity. But now, nothing.
Soma's eyes flicked to the corner where a small table usually held bread and water—his familia's way of making sure he didn't starve himself while he brewed. But that too was empty. His annoyance grew, a small ember of irritation flaring within him.
How dare they interrupt his work like this? They knew their place, knew their roles. His craft was the only thing that mattered, and they had no right to disturb it.
Finally, he had enough. He grabbed a bottle of his failed wine and stalked to the door, pushing it open with a creak. The light from the outside blinded him momentarily, and he squinted, letting his eyes adjust. The barroom beyond was not as he remembered.
The tables and chairs were overturned, smashed into splintered fragments. Dark smears—blood—stained the walls, trailing down to the floor where it had pooled. The air was thick with the metallic tang of it, mixing with the faint scent of spilled ale.
And amidst the wreckage, a small figure moved—a girl, barely taller than the tables, wielding a short sword as she practiced in the empty space.
Soma blinked. It wasn't a child, not quite. A pallum girl, he realized, though her appearance meant nothing to him. Her hair was tied back, her movements swift and precise as she swung the blade, her eyes focused. He watched her for a moment, his annoyance turning to confusion, then back to annoyance as the girl continued to ignore his presence.
He cleared his throat, the sound echoing in the ruined room. The girl paused, her blade mid-swing, and turned. She drove the dagger into a wooden log where it sank up to the hilt, the sharp crack of the impact punctuating the silence. Her eyes met his—cold, indifferent.
For a moment, Soma saw himself reflected in those eyes.
Ah. He remembered her now. Not her name—he never bothered with such details—but her status. She had reached Level 2 recently. He'd updated her Falna, what, a few days ago? It didn't matter. What mattered was returning to his wine.
"The ingredient stash is empty. I want it refilled," he said, his voice flat. The situation around didn't concern him.
She snorted, wiping her brow. "You really don't do anything else, huh?" She shrugged, "Sure, I'll refill it by tomorrow."
Soma's eyes narrowed. A whole day? He felt a pang of irritation.
"That is far too long," he said, tone sharp like a teacher scolding a slow child. "Tell one of the other members to do it."
At this, she laughed. It was a real laugh, bright and unrestrained, and for a moment, Soma felt something stir. It was odd, hearing such a sound, but her next words shattered that brief moment of curiosity.
"What other members?" she asked, still grinning.
Soma stared, his eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?" he muttered. She had to be drunk. Yes, that was it. The wine fumes must have gotten to her. She wasn't making any sense.
The Soma familia had at least a dozen members, didn't it? He racked his brain to remember the name of the captain, but it eluded him. He would manage without.
"Just tell the captain to come to speak to me." he said, turning to leave.
The girl's voice stopped him. "Zanis? I'm sorry to inform you that he unfortunately died of food poisoning...three days ago."
Soma's fingers tightened around the bottle in his hand. "What?" he breathed, the word barely audible.
The girl shrugged, her tone indifferent. "Tragic, isn't it? After that, the others fought for the position. You know how it is—the leader gets the most wine at the end of the month."
Soma nodded absently. Yes, he remembered setting that rule. A way to keep them motivated, focused on their tasks. But then—
"The others killed each other," the girl's voice was like a cold breeze, "Ambushed each other in the dungeon until only one remained...and then that guy died of food poisoning too." She tilted her head, her eyes bright with an odd glint.
Soma felt a chill run down his spine. Those eyes—they held nothing but cold calculation. He took an involuntary step back. But then, just as quickly as it appeared, the intensity faded, replaced by a look of boredom.
"So now you only have little old me, I suppose...but I'm a bit busy right now. You'll have to wait a day for the ingredients."
Soma felt his grip slacken, the irritation dissipating. He nodded absently, feeling the weight of his own indifference pull him back. Mortals killed each other now and then, no? It was like a hobby for them...
A day. It was just a day. He could endure it... especially after what he just heard.
He turned to retreat to his room when he felt a hand tug at his sleeve.
"And one last thing" he heard her whisper from besides him.
He spun, and suddenly the bottle was gone from his grasp. The girl now held it, studying him with a sharp gaze.
She took a swig, her eyes never leaving his...
And then, she spat it out, the sound echoing through the room like a slap.
"This tastes like vomit from a diseased rat," she said, her voice dripping with disdain.
His's eyes widened as the girl smashed the bottle on the floor, the sound of shattering glass like a symphony of destruction.
The wine spilled out, a dark, crimson liquid that seemed to spread like a stain across the floor.
Soma watched the wine seep into the cracks of the stone.
The girl turned around and left, not bothering with him anymore, but he couldn't tear his gaze away.
This was… unexpected.