Chapter Sixty: Cookies and Resolve

Lucas opened the gnome’s granary, lifted his torch, and lit the candles fixed to the iron brackets. Once all the candles were aglow, he placed the torch in a funnel-shaped holder at the doorway. Melted wax dripped from the white columns, congealing into slender threads.

This room was larger than York’s study. To the right stood a pinewood cupboard; to the left, a stone oven, and behind that, a hand-operated millstone. At the deepest end of the room, sacks of grain were piled, and Lucas could already smell the fresh scent of wheat husks. There was also the aroma of charcoal and a faint sweetness—presumably the honey and white sugar the gnome had mentioned.

Lucas and Bardal began to take stock of the food supplies: five sacks of flour and five sacks of unhulled wheat were stacked in a corner. Inside the cupboard, they found a large wheel of cheese. Beyond that, there were a jar and a half of honey, two small pouches of white sugar, and three slabs of butter, each the size of a palm. The flour was finely milled, and the wheat grains were large—clearly top-quality goods the gnome had purchased from merchants.

Old York had not duped him; he truly intended to share his provisions. Had he kept the food for himself, he might have lasted a long time, yet he chose to share it. By the stone oven was the bread the gnome had spoken of: unremarkable loaves of rye, large and hard, requiring a special knife to slice. Not exactly delicious, but far superior to the inferior loaves laced with wood chips. With a smear of honey or butter, a sprinkle of sugar, and a slice of cheese, it became a delicacy.

“With this flour and wheat, we won’t need to worry about food for now,” Bardal said, half-kneeling and scooping up a handful of wheat. The full grains slipped like sand through his calloused fingers.

“But only for now,” Lucas replied.

“It’s better than nothing,” Bardal said. “I’ll go tell the others the good news. The children will love the honey and sugar.”

Sweetness always brings joy. Honey and sugar were luxuries—people living in the countryside seldom had the chance to taste such pure sweetness. In their lives, the only things that brought the taste of “sweet” were the high-blueberries and red cranberries from the snowy plains, and those were more sour and bitter than sweet.

Bardal went out to share the news. As an elder, he concealed the gnome’s secret, keeping silent about the conversation in the study. To lift the oppressive mood, they used half a jar of honey and part of a bag of sugar; everyone received a slice of bread spread with sweetness.

At last, someone spoke. Lucas heard someone say, “Perhaps things aren’t so bad after all.”

The woman holding her infant’s expression softened. Before the Viking raid, Lucas had not known her, but now he knew her name. Avery and his wife both called her Lisa—Lisa, whose husband had been slain by the raiders, Lisa, who now held her nursing child alone.

The haggard woman managed a small smile. With a borrowed spoon, she scraped honey from the bread and brought it to the baby’s lips. The infant licked the honey, gripped his mother’s finger, and gurgled with laughter.

Yet Lucas felt his spirits sink further. The gnome’s words echoed in his ears. In silence, he glanced at the Tania military rifle beside him, then drew from his pocket the healing potion the gnome had given him the day before. The potion’s effects were remarkable—after drinking half, the burning pain in his body had greatly subsided.

“Maybe I should get a good night’s sleep,” Lucas whispered to himself. He wetted his lips, unscrewed the cap, and drained the rest of the potion. Then, gathering his clothes and blanket, he found a dark corner, lay down, and closed his eyes.

Faint snores rose from his corner. The others, hearing him, quietly made space, granting him a peaceful place to rest.

When Lucas awoke again, the other villagers had sunk into slumber once more.

“How long have I slept?” Lucas rubbed his eyes. He felt much improved; the gnome’s potion had worked through his body during his rest. Though less miraculous than advanced divine magic, the fifty-silver potion had eased his pain and sped his healing.

For an adventurer, a healing potion was indispensable, especially in desperate moments—a good potion could restore one’s fighting strength. Lucas stood and stretched; from the first sip to now, nearly a full day must have passed. He flexed his fists and legs—the strength had returned to his limbs, and his chest itched with the telltale sign of healing wounds.

His broken bones and torn muscles were rapidly mending. Upon waking, hunger and thirst gripped him, so he pulled bread and jerky from his pocket and ate ravenously.

“I should go and speak with old York again,” Lucas decided. He looked around for the gnome but saw no sign of him in the common area; perhaps he was still in the study. Lucas rose and made his way there.

As he passed the granary, a glow shone from the door’s crack.

“Is that old York inside?”

Lucas pushed open the door, but it was not old York he saw—it was the wandering knight at the oven.

The firelight came from the coals beneath the oven. The knight opened the oven, and a fragrant aroma wafted to Lucas’s nose. The scent of toasted wheat mingled with the sweetness of honey and butter.

The wandering knight, using iron tongs, drew out a tray from the oven.

Lucas beheld a tray piled with cookies—perfectly baked, their color beautiful, their crusts tinged with a golden brown. Each cookie was uniform in shape and size, arranged in neat spirals across the tray. It reminded Lucas of the pastries he’d seen at Briarcastle—commoners bought black bread to stave off hunger, while young noblewomen had their servants bring cakes and cookies to their tea parties in the castle.

There was no one else at the oven. Could it be that the wandering knight himself had made all these confections? It strained belief—a warrior of such prowess possessed this hidden skill.

Before he could wonder if he was still dreaming, the knight noticed his presence. He gestured to the tray, as if inviting Lucas to taste.

“Forgive me, Sir Vaid,” Lucas said quietly, stepping in.

He swallowed hard, picked up a still-warm cookie, and took a bite. The crisp snap, the delicate texture—not greasy, not bland—a trace of sweetness that moved him deeply. It was, he thought, the finest treat he’d ever tasted.

Amidst disaster, a glimmer of goodness remained.

“Delicious,” Lucas praised with all the eloquence he could muster. “Did you make these to share with everyone, Sir Vaid?”

The wandering knight nodded.

“Thank you for your generosity,” Lucas said. “I’m sure my companions will be deeply moved by this kindness.”

Sir Vaid raised a thumb, as if to say: Even in the direst circumstances, one must not give up hope.

Lucas smiled—incredibly, his fear and anxiety seemed to melt away.

“I wonder if you’ve seen old York, Sir Vaid? There’s something I need to discuss with him.”

“York is right behind you, Potter,” came the gnome’s voice from outside the door.

Lucas turned. The gnome held an armful of bottles and jars—some looked like healing potions, others Lucas did not recognize.

“What are those, York?” Lucas asked.

The gnome replied, “This esteemed knight has decided to journey to Alvador and attempt to retrieve the Miststone for us.”

“So old York has been making tools and supplies to assist him.”