Chapter 42: Silent Complicity
We eventually arrived at our destination: the Iron Feast.
Imposing, the building looked as if it had been carved from a single block of black rock, as though it had been torn from the very bowels of the mountain itself. A large sign made of raw metal, studded with rivets, hung above the double doors: it showed a hammer crossed with a fork, engraved in relief like crests. The smell wafting from inside was intoxicating—a mix of roasted meat, smoky spices, and fresh-baked bread.
Two statues of Gorr’Shan warriors flanked the entrance. Their stone faces bore the same tattoos as their living counterparts: warrior spirals, runes of strength, tears of war. Their crossed arms held an axe and a tankard each, symbols of honor and camaraderie.
— Here we are. I said with a smile.
Lysara nodded gently, silent as always, but she had drawn a little closer to me. Perhaps a sign of anticipation. Or simply curiosity.
Pushing open the door, we were greeted by comforting warmth and a muffled bustle. The inside of the Iron Feast was vast, carved amphitheater-style. The polished stone tables were arranged in concentric circles around a central hearth where massive cuts of meat hung roasting above glowing embers. Muscular slaves—or perhaps very well-paid employees—slowly turned them using chains and pulleys attached to the ceiling.
War banners decorated the walls, telling tales of ancient battles in gold and bronze thread. Each table seemed occupied by mercenaries, blacksmiths, or off-duty officers, their deep voices forming a constant hum punctuated by guttural laughs and the clinking of mugs.
We were guided to a table near the hearth, in a stone alcove carved directly into the wall. The heat from the embers bathed the area in an orange glow, and despite the room’s hustle and bustle, a strange calm surrounded us.
I sat across from Lysara. She sat without a word, hands laid flat on the table, her eyes following the flames, hypnotic. Her face, as closed off as ever, revealed nothing. But she hadn’t refused to come—that was already something.
The server returned, holding a rough slate covered in clumsy carvings representing the day’s dishes.
— Something light for the little one? he asked, casting me a sideways glance.