Chapter 13 – Scrubbing Ash, Building Fire
The first rays of dawn stretched across the city, casting long shadows over the ruins of the Bathhouse. The air was damp and heavy, filled with the earthy scent of mildew and stone dust. The crumbling building, though still a husk of its former grandeur, held the spark of something new. Something dangerous. And Axel, with his sleeves rolled up and his hands stained with ash and sweat, was at the heart of it all.
The process of rebuilding had begun slowly, painstakingly, but Axel thrived in the chaos. His hands were steady and sure as he worked, not just out of necessity but because he could already see the shape of what was to come. The Bathhouse had been left to rot, but Axel knew—he could feel it in his bones—that if he could breathe life back into this place, he could forge something greater than just a hideout. It would be the foundation of his future, the hearth where everything would begin.
But first, there was much to do.
Axel had gathered what little he could salvage from the wreckage of the Bathhouse—old beams, rusted iron, shattered tiles—and set to work, fashioning what he could into something usable. Some of it was crude, jagged in its imperfection, but there was no time for finesse. The walls needed scrubbing, the air needed clearing, and most importantly, the kitchen had to be built.
He had begun by clearing out the worst of the debris from the center of the building. The kitchens of the old Bathhouse, once a place of luxurious cooking and lavish meals, were now little more than blackened pits of ash and half-melted iron. The stoves had long since crumbled to rust, but the basic structure of the old kitchen remained. Axel's first task had been to scrape away the grime, to scrub the blackened surfaces with his hands until they bled, until the stench of the place began to lift.
Elyria had come to his aid. She had been skeptical at first, her green eyes gleaming with doubt, but even she couldn't deny the spark of purpose in Axel's movements. He worked tirelessly, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scraped away the thick soot from the stone floors. It was no easy task, but there was a kind of rhythm to it, a simple focus that helped clear his mind.
"What do you think?" Axel asked, wiping his hands on a rag and gesturing to the space. His voice was rough from the work, but there was something in it that suggested he was more excited than he cared to show.
Elyria stood at the far end of the room, arms crossed as she surveyed the scene. "It's a start," she said, her tone flat, but there was a hint of admiration buried beneath the skepticism. She had come to respect his stubbornness, if not always his methods.
Axel grinned, the corners of his mouth pulling up slightly. "It's more than a start. It's the beginning of something bigger."
Elyria eyed him with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "You do realize you're rebuilding a death trap, right?"
"I'm not rebuilding it," Axel replied with a glint in his eye. "I'm forging it into something new."
The next day, after a long stretch of manual labor and a meal of cold bread and boiled meat, Axel decided to begin his next project: the kitchen. The old stoves might have been beyond repair, but there was no reason he couldn't create a new one. He had learned to make do with what was available—after all, a man who survived on the fringes of society had to adapt quickly.
Axel scrounged through the wreckage, pulling out rusted sheets of iron, broken pipes, and jagged pieces of stone. He fashioned a makeshift stovetop, piecing together a combination of salvaged iron and steel. He used the bones of beasts he had hunted in the wild to create skewers, rods, and even a small set of fire tools. The beastbone was durable, and with enough heat, it could withstand even the most intense flames.
It was a crude setup—far from anything the Bathhouse had known in its glory days—but it would work. Axel could already picture the fire beginning to burn, the heat rising as the stove crackled to life, the scent of something fresh cooking in the air. He wasn't just building a kitchen; he was building his future. The flames would symbolize his fire, his drive, and his determination to make something out of nothing.
Once the kitchen was functional, he set to work clearing out the remaining rooms, trying to make them usable. The stench of rot lingered in the air, but Axel didn't mind. The dust, the crumbling walls, the cracks in the ceiling—it was all part of the process. Slowly but surely, he was shaping this place into his own.
Elyria, though often distant and absorbed in her own work, had come to help him with the larger tasks. She'd managed to secure a few barrels of water from nearby merchants in exchange for some of Axel's rations, and together, they scrubbed and cleaned every corner they could.
But as Axel labored through the days, something unexpected began to happen. The city, with its eyes always watching, began to take notice.
It started with whispers. The children, those small scavengers who darted through the city's alleys, had begun to take an interest in the Bathhouse. They were the first ones to spot Axel and Elyria working, their bright eyes peeking out from behind rusted fences and broken windows. At first, they thought nothing of it—after all, what was one more madman tinkering away in the ruins of the city?
But when they saw the firelight flicker from inside the Bathhouse, the strange warmth cutting through the chill of the night, they began to talk.
"Who's that?" one child whispered to another, perched on the roof of a nearby shack, her eyes wide. She had watched Axel for hours, noting how he moved through the wreckage with strange purpose, building things from the scraps of the old city.
"I don't know," the other child replied, his voice low. "But he's always burning something. It's like… like he's making a fire in there."
"It smells good, too," the first child said, sniffing the air. "Like meat, or bread."
"Maybe he's a cook," the second child mused. "A mad cook. With fire."
The words spread quickly through the small scavenger community that lived in the surrounding area. The children began to gossip, their voices carrying on the wind like leaves in a storm. A mad cook, they said. A cook with a glowing kitchen. A cook who had brought fire to the heart of the Bathhouse.
The rumors took root.
By sunset, the Bathhouse had become a place of intrigue, a curiosity for the scavengers, thieves, and curious souls who lived on the edges of the city. The children, having made their rounds, began to gather in small groups outside the Bathhouse, whispering to each other and eyeing the glowing light from within. The fire burned brightly now, a beacon in the darkness.
Axel had prepared for this. He had set up a simple wooden sign in front of the Bathhouse's entrance: "Open at Sunset. First Bowl Free."
It wasn't much, but it was enough to draw the eyes of the desperate and the hungry. Axel knew the power of food in a place like this—more than just a physical necessity, food was a form of connection, a way of asserting control over the chaos. To feed the hungry was to hold their attention, to offer them something they couldn't resist.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the first curious figure approached the Bathhouse. A gaunt, lanky man with a worn-out tunic and a look of suspicion in his eyes. He stood at the edge of the street, looking from the sign to the glowing windows of the Bathhouse.
Elyria, who had been standing by the door, stepped forward and greeted him. "You here for the first bowl?" she asked, her tone flat but polite.
The man eyed her warily, then nodded. "Heard there was food. First bowl free, you said?"
Axel appeared from the shadows, his figure imposing yet strangely welcoming. He waved a hand toward the fire, the smoke curling up into the night air. "You're just in time," he said, his voice low but warm. "Come on in."
The man hesitated for a moment longer before stepping forward, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting someone to stop him. But no one did. The fire in the kitchen crackled, casting long, dancing shadows across the stone floor.
The man stepped inside, and the door closed behind him with a soft thud.
Axel stood at the stove, stirring a thick, simmering broth in a large, battered pot. He glanced up as the man sat at a nearby table, his eyes wide with cautious curiosity. The air smelled of spices and cooking meat—rich, hearty, and undeniably inviting.
"You're the mad cook," the man muttered, his voice unsure.
Axel smiled faintly, looking back at the pot. "I'm whatever you need me to be."
And for the first time since arriving in this forsaken place, the fire began to burn. It burned in the hearth, in the walls, in the hearts of the hungry souls who had come to see what Axel had built.