"The wolves no longer hunt in the forest; they feast in the vermillion banquets of men."
-An Aged Hunter
As if on cue, masked waiters emerged from the wings bearing trays laden with the grotesque harvest: severed heads arranged like centrepieces, brains of varying sizes glistening under candlelight, lungs and livers sliced and fanned in delicate patterns, other organs plated with artistic precision. The scent hit me—coppery blood, seared flesh, and faint herbs masking the rawness. Guests leaned forward eagerly, forks poised.
I suspected the earlier courses had contained human flesh as well—subtly incorporated, perhaps ground into pâtés or minced into sauces. Had I consumed any? No. The chef's announcement implied the "signature dish" was the first overt serving; prior meals were likely conventional. Still, the realisation settled with cold clarity: this place did not merely traffic in slaves. It trafficked in meat.
Humans eating humans. A baffling practice, even by their standards. My expectations for this race—already tempered—tilted further toward the abysmal.
I watched in short silence as guests relished the feast—forks piercing, lips closing around morsels, and appreciative murmurs rising like a perverse symphony. No revulsion. No hesitation. Only enjoyment.
I drew my phone and texted Richard: Where are you?
A waiter paused beside me. "Sir? You have not yet begun."
"I am waiting for a friend," I replied courteously. "I prefer to dine together."
He studied me a moment—suspicious—then nodded and moved on. The exchange drew eyes. Multiple gazes lingered. Unacceptable.
I cast a subtle recognition-hindering spell—arcane threads weaving around my form, blurring features in others' perceptions. Gazes slid away; interest faded. Then I summoned darkness, stepping fully into shadow. The world muted: sound muffled, light dimmed, and bodies reduced to silhouettes. Safe. Unseen.
Apparently, my disappearance had not gone unnoticed. Some of the staff had begun searching for me. Not that it mattered. Several guests possessed arcane abilities, but would they truly dare search the bottomless abyss of shadow?
My scattered phantoms relayed information swiftly.
The hidden passages led to VIP sections—private alcoves where masked elites forced victims to pleasure them before the cooking began. Some victims were roasted alive, screams stifled by gags or spells. Slave brands glowed faintly on necks and wrists—arcane sigils binding obedience, preventing resistance. Victims spanned ethnicities and ages; the youngest were literal infants.
Other phantoms mapped storage rooms: piles of human bodies stacked like cordwood, beasts of burden dissected alongside them, butchers working with clinical efficiency. Kitchens bustled—chefs seasoning flesh with rare herbs, forcing surviving victims to taste-test their kin under threat of the brand.
I had seen worse in my existence. Far worse. Yet the distaste lingered—deep, cold, unshakeable. The urge to slaughter every soul in this venue rose sharply. I suppressed it. Calm. Precision. Not chaos.
My phone vibrated. I stepped from the shadow into an empty bathroom stall—marble, dim lighting, and a faint scent of lemon cleaner. Richard's text: Impersonating a waiter. Heading to the brewery. Meet there.
Brewery? I had not detected one.
I commanded all phantoms to search anew. While waiting, I stretched my shoulders and neck tight from prolonged shadow-cloaking. The abyss constrained the body strangely; even the fae felt it after long immersion.
Five minutes passed. A phantom located the brewery—hidden behind a false wall in the lower kitchens.
I emerged from the shadow inside the space: cool air, steel vats, and the yeasty scent of fermentation. Three waiters worked nearby. I snapped their necks with precise darkness—quick, clean cracks. Bodies dropped. Shadows expanded beneath them; I forced mirages to rise—flawed, residue-heavy illusions mimicking their forms. I linked the corpses' minds to the mirages, compelling the illusions to continue mundane tasks.
This would have been far easier if I used 'that magic', but doing so would draw far too much attention.
I texted Richard: Waiting in the brewery.
A ping echoed nearby. I turned. A waiter stood a few paces away, phone in hand, staring at me.
I smiled politely and bowed.
The waiter's form blurred—Richard was beneath the illusion.
"What did you do?" he asked, his voice low.
I smiled wider, said nothing, and bowed again.
He sighed softly and approached. "I've called for backup. It'll take time. We've ordered evacuation."
"Leave?" I echoed mildly. "Are these people not guilty under your laws?"
"They are. But unlike you, I can't fight hundreds alone."
"I see. Then depart. I shall clean up this mess." I patted his shoulder reassuringly.
He swatted my hand away, annoyance flashing. "Even if you stay, we're outnumbered. I don't know your limits, but this situation has turned sensitive."
I sighed, agreeing outwardly. In my prior existence, I could have ended every soul here single-handedly. In this human vessel? Limits unknown. And the "sensitive" aspect—elites cannibalising others—would ignite scandal, politics, and chaos. He was right.
Yet something nagged.
"This has been too easy," I said quietly. "Exclusive venue, yes—but no guards at entry, no searches, no signal jamming. Our phones work. We communicate freely with the outside. Almost as though…"
"…it's a trap," Richard finished. "I noticed too. But we have evidence—invitations, witnesses, and the bodies."
A trap, yes, one designed to lure people into these depraved acts.
"Indeed. Yet consider this: in a hall of 150+ guests and 50+ staff, residue should spike—every living being releases it passively. Anger, despair, hunger, lust—all amplify output. Yet from entry to now, the ambient residual has remained… constant. Unchanged. As though something were harvesting the excess."
"And how exactly do we prove that? "said Richard.
I looked upward.
"Simple." I said, "The residue rises, and so shall we."
I grinned. "I believe what we're looking for is in the ceiling."