I woke to the scent and feel of the ocean. Pressing a hand over my mouth to stifle a startled yell, I glanced around and caught Sir John consulting his pocket watch.
"You are awake, I see?" he remarked, tucking the watch back into his suit. His cane rested at his side; on his lap lay a gloved hand and the paper I had been reading only moments before.
Not knowing how else to respond, I gave a faint "hmm," barely above a whisper, and turned toward the sea.
"Wow," I breathed before I could compose myself, caught by the sheer marvel of the water.
"We shall have second breakfast when we arrive at port. Is there anything you would like to try?"
I turned back to him, still puzzling over his words.
"It is nearly the Third Bell of Sunclimb," he added.
"Oh—I was asleep." I looked up at the sun and smiled faintly. "I understand. But I've never had anything from Therian." My curiosity, however, was alive with possibility.
"That is understandable," he said, passing me the newspaper.
The ship wasn't crowded with passengers, which left the sea and timbers free to speak in creaks and splashes. Yet part of me thought more people might have lent the voyage an extra layer of life. Absentmindedly, I reached for the paper.
"You may find something in there," Sir John said, adjusting his hat.
"Oh, thank you."
I began flipping through the pages, the soft rustle mingling with the ship's groans, until my eyes landed on an article. I had never read newspapers back at the nunnery, so each line felt like opening a door into a wider world.
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Excerpt from "A Table of Kingdoms" by Scholar-Mariner Calvien Dros, Verdania (formerly of the Lysorian Collegium)
At first glance I thought it might truly be about tables. But relief soon washed over me—it was food. Exactly what I wanted.
"To taste abroad is to learn abroad. Food is the root that binds the people to their land, and in breaking bread with them one breaks also into their very way of life…"
I tugged at my gloves, leaning closer. A Verdania-born author—they should know what they speak of. Garden nation, I recalled someone once calling it.
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Verdania
"My homeland is an orchard turned to empire. Every meal bends toward the harvest. Peasant and prince alike praise the loaf, the cheese, the grape. One eats the seasons themselves: apples in autumn, strawberries at highsun, root soups in the duskslide chill. Our food is honest and tethered, as much soil as it is salt."
My mouth watered as I imagined cheese, bread, grapes—simple yet radiant. Hunger made the words taste richer than ink should.
---
Drakenspot
"In those shadowed mountains, cuisine is fortification. Pork, cabbage, rye bread—none frivolous, all sustaining…"
My stomach gave a low growl.
"Lady Aston, we have arrived and must disembark," Sir John said, breaking the spell.
"Alright." I folded the page, closed the paper, and set it beside me.
Sir John lifted my luggage as we stepped ashore.
The port was alive—shouts of vendors, horses stamping, gulls wheeling above. Every passerby wore something different, bright fabrics rippling like banners.
"What are those strange outfits?" I asked, hurrying to Sir John's side.
"That lady wears a yukata," he said, gesturing with his cane toward a horse beastkin with golden-brown hair speaking to a rat beastkin in dazzling finery. A dog beastkin shaded the man with a parasol, completing the little tableau of wealth.
"And that man there wears a jeibei," Sir John continued, indicating a tall, slender snake beastkin with black hair and vertical pupils as he disappeared into what looked like a restaurant.
"You must be famished. Let us eat there."
I followed, wide-eyed, drinking in every detail.
Inside, the air was thick with scent—grilled meat, sweet sauces, something citrus-sharp. It both satisfied and sharpened my hunger at once. We took a seat, Sir John ordering tea for me while I returned eagerly to the newspaper.
---
Thalvar
"Salt, spice, and sea. Their meals sing of voyages: saffron-stewed shellfish, citrus cut against oily fish, barrels of pickled cod meant to last the voyage of a season…"
I murmured, "Fish might not be a bad choice."
"The admiral feasts as richly as the dockhand, though with different silverware. Their cuisine is rhythm—wave, salt, trade, return."
"What do you think of some fish, Sir John?" I asked.
"A good choice. They serve sushi and sashimi here."
"I see. Perhaps. Let me think," I said, eyes back on the page.
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Altharic
"Coal and meat smoke. Here food is not for art, but for stoking engines and men. Workers dine on boiled potatoes, cabbage soups, dark bread—the kind that fills the belly, if not the spirit…"
I sipped my tea. Even in its bitterness I imagined smoke clinging to flavor.
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Lysoria
"A patchwork table. One cannot dine in Lysoria without eating the world. A noble may sip Verdania's wines, carve Drakenspot's game, and taste Thalvar's saffron in a single course. To eat here is to partake of empire, but I often wonder: when you eat from every garden, do you belong to none?"
"Perhaps I should take this chance to taste Therian's culture," I thought.
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Elves
"Their meals are symphonies of the forest. Leaves brewed into teas, mushrooms and herbs prepared so subtly they melt upon the tongue, fruits gathered under moonlight. At their silver banquets the dishes seemed more perfume than substance, yet left me sated, though I scarcely knew why."
"Hmm. Surely there's more to it than that," I mused. "Would I ever try elven food myself?"
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Beastkin (Therian)
"To dine with the clans is to witness unity through diversity. The Ox clan serves roasted meats and steaming rice in portions vast enough for ten men. The Horse clan delights in breads, root stews, and salted fish, eaten on the road with equal haste and joy. The Monkey clan dazzles with ceramics brimming with fermented pickles, fried noodles, and layered foods folded in artful form…"
I glanced about the room, spotting diners with steaming bowls of noodles. My curiosity stirred.
"And in the Rabbit clan's tea-gardens, where meals arrive as soft dumplings and sugared roots beside steaming pots, time itself seems to slow. In Therian, cuisine is clanhood made edible."
I imagined the yukata-clad woman from earlier sipping tea among blossoms. "How elegant," I thought.
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Dwarves
"If stone could cook, this is what it would taste like. Their bread is dark, dense, and heavy as ore. They roast mountain goats, season with root herbs, and brew ales thick as syrup. I drank one such ale and felt it anchor in my stomach like a cavern itself. Yet in that heaviness is strength: food to endure labor, to forge, to mine, to build."
"It can't be that bad," I chuckled, though the thought lingered heavy in my imagination.
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Conclusion
"A loaf in Verdania, a fish in Thalvar, a dumpling in Therian, a leaf-broth among the elves—each is a world entire. To eat is to learn. And I, Calvien Dros, have eaten much. Yet I leave my table with hunger, not for food, but for understanding."
"Hmm. I wonder if this is serialized," I mused, reaching the end.
---
What followed were marginal notes by Hoshigoro of the Fire Pig Clan—fiery rebuttals scrawled in red ink, passionate as flame. Each note burned with pride: dwarves endure but do not ignite, Verdania grows but Pig transforms, elves whisper where Pig roars.
By the time I finished, I was smiling, appetite alive in both stomach and spirit.
"What would the chef recommend?" I asked at last, setting the paper down.
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