Chapter 175: Good Days
Three days. Just three days before the big leap into the unknown, and Maggie had kept her promise.
She had stuffed herself, quite literally, in that same filthy tavern tucked deep in Martissant’s underbelly—the one where Jonas had dragged her in his timid attempt at seduction.
The night had passed without a hitch, without drama, without any incident other than Maggie staying true to herself: a force of nature with the appetite of a titan and a disarming pragmatism.
"Ready to march into hell as long as there’s free food," she had muttered inwardly, thinking back to the feast. And in that smoke-choked dive, its floors sticky with centuries of spilled beer, they would’ve had a hard time killing her anyway—her, an Awakened. Her stomach, hardened by the wild abundance and brutal scarcities of the Great Forest, had endured greasy dishes and heavy mugs of ale with the stoicism of a boulder.
The other patrons—regulars with glassy stares—had watched her with a mix of horror and fascination as she devoured her third boar stew with a second stale loaf of bread. The overpowering smell of burnt fat, sour beer, and human sweat created an aroma that was filthy yet oddly comforting in its excess.
But Maggie, contrary to what her legendary appetite suggested, knew how to pace herself. An Awakened who survives alone in hostile zones learns moderation—even in gluttony. Sure, she had eaten two, three times more than an ordinary man, but she had controlled herself. She had left a space—a precious reserve in her insatiable gut—for another occasion. Because you never know.
A lesson from her old world: free food is a rare gift, but gorging now could rob you of tomorrow’s opportunity.
They had talked, Jonas and her. He, awkward, blushing under her frank gaze, stumbling through stories of his apprenticeship under a Lower-Belt shopkeeper. She, an expert at dodging questions too personal—"Where are you from, Maggie?" "Oh, around..."—while keeping the thread of conversation from disappointing the poor boy too quickly. She had thrown in a few questions about Martissant, about rumors in the underbelly, gleaning scraps of useful intel like a poacher laying silent snares. It had gone well. Pleasant, even, in a way. Jonas had a naïve honesty that disarmed her.
And Maggie, with a cunning she barely acknowledged in herself, had made sure to keep the suspense alive. A sidelong smile, a vague "maybe next time"—enough to let the boy leave with a light heart, nursing the hope of a second rendezvous. She had been there for the food, nothing else. But saying that outright would’ve been cruel—and pointless. She had liked his company, in its simplicity.
Thus ended her "date" with Jonas. A fleeting parenthesis of normalcy before the big plunge.
⸻
Now, the time had come.