A warm breath touched the bartender's ear, and he looked up. Cyril stood in front of him, one hand on the counter. Dyck cast a bleary glance at his partner's hand and noticed how hard Cyril pressed his tense fingers into the wood. It seemed like a little more awaiting would lead to the wooden counter cracks under his hungry pressure.

"Food?" Dyck asked, trying to get out of his own memories.

"Yes, boss." Cyril whispered calmly, though his fingers pressed even harder into the bar.

It was all he could do so not to grab the bartender by his beard and drag him to the refreshing well of icy water.

I'd like to dip you, big guy. Cyril thought, gritting his teeth. You'd be sober in a jiffy.

However, realizing the danger of losing control of his own body, Cyril loomed like a thundercloud. When his fingers were about to split the bar, the innkeeper smiled knowingly.

"Food." Dyck nodded and belched loudly. "It's in the cellar. Look for a hatch in the kitchen floor."

Cyril let go of the unfortunate piece of wood, straightened his back, and turned back. As he parted the rustling ribbons, Dyck's voice caught up with him from behind.

"Bring a cup, Cyril. We'll be drinking!"

Cyril didn't turn around, but went back to the kitchen and looked at the floor. He pushed aside a sturdy stool, revealing an iron ring beneath it. Cyril pulled the ring, opening a square hatch into the basement.

When he opened the lid, he saw a steep flight of stairs that went down to a depth of several meters. Coolness and a whole palette of food scents wafted out of the depths. Cyril was still angry, so he silently picked up the oil lamp from the table and started down the stairs.

I might fall. He thought, as the narrow step creaked under his feet. What he was talking about? They wanted to build a farm. Now it's clear why there is a wasteland behind the house.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Cyril descended and held the lamp up in front of him to get a better view of the room. The wide, high basement was lined with shelves of baskets, paper bundles of something greasy, and many pitchers.

"It's a whole dungeon." He muttered, shivering in the cold. "I need to find some fucking clothes again. What do we have here?"

He went to one of the shelves along the red clay wall and opened the nearest basket. Under the wicker lid, Cyril found a vegetable that looked like a potato and, without thinking, grabbed the entire basket.

There were other vegetables in nearby baskets, but Cyril wanted meat. He reached the shelf of paper parcels. The heady smell of smoked meat seeped through his nostrils and into his brain, making his stomach curl into a rumbling ball.

Oh, come on! Grab and run! He swallowed, grabbing the nearest bundle.

Cyril dropped the bundle into the basket, picked up the lamp from the shelf, and hurried out. It was difficult to climb the steep stairs without being able to hold on to anything, but Cyril managed it and in a moment was out in the kitchen.

He put the basket on the stool and the lamp on the table, and hastily closed the trapdoor. Loud snores came from behind the wall.

"I don't want to crash." He growled, and looked around for matches. "Dyck, how do I heat the oven?!"

Cyril tried to put all his love for the bartender into this cry, so that the loud voice roused Dyck from a shallow sleep. However, the innkeeper was in no hurry to help his partner. As if Cyril was not going anywhere, Dyck continued to dig into the sadness of memories.

"They wanted to build a farm, Cyril." The bartender belched from behind the wall. "But the war began."

"Aha, I found it." Cyril smiled with satisfaction, seeing the large matches.

He opened a metal lid and saw a pile of small firewood inside the stove.

"We understood nothin' at all, bro!" A sad exclamation came. "Why were we called traitors, man? We're just kids."

"Yeah, it's working." Cyril said, lighting the fire. "There must be some kind of flap."

Cyril looked up, searching for a smoke vent. As he had expected, the edge of an iron plate protruded from the top. Cyril stood up, pulled out the plate, and a stream of air flowed up the tube and into the night sky. A light crackled pleasantly in the lower part of the stove.

"This tavern was given to me as a legacy, Cyril." The drunk bartender continued to mumble behind the wall. "I wish they'd left my parents."

This time the owner of the tavern did not burp, but Cyril heard the distinctive rattle.

Is he crying? Cyril wondered, looking for a frying pan.

"What happened to your parents?" He asked, to keep up the conversation and distract himself from his hunger spasms.

Cyril took a pan from under the table and put it on the stove. The fire in the stove gathered strength and warmed the stone slab, and Cyril hurried to put the pan on it. Then he went back to the basket and took out a paper parcel.

"I grew up not knowing what happened to them." Dyck stopped sobbing. "I only found out later, when the clan came to take the tavern away from us."

Cyril unfolded the greasy paper.

"They were executed, Cyril!" The bartender behind the wall began to cry again. "They were killed for standing up to the king. King Phalos wanted to eradicate the other races, and I was told that my father stood up for them."

The smell of smoked meat, bacon, and spices filled Cyril's nostrils.

"That's a lie!" Dyck slammed his fist on the counter. "My father always told me people were at the top of the food chain, they're superior beings. He could not betray the Kingdom."