Three days passed without an invite.

News came that the southbound road had been shut down after a horse had been chased down and dragged away by a licerte, a monstrous lizard from the ancient times.

Three more days passed. No invite.

Adeline tried to occupy her son’s mind with cooking lessons, but he could never go long without wondering when he’d receive his invite. Archie received a letter stating that they were trying to find a way to send a representative to verify his claim.

Three more days. No invite. No representative. The Ambrosial Summit had started, all of the kingdoms sending representatives and royalty and prospective first-years to Ambrosia City. Archie considered stealing a horse but knew that he’d be caught on the road.

The villagers of Sain came to Petrichor day after day to drink Archie’s water and distract him, staying even after the food ran out—which it often did around sunset.

But then one day, after the last straggler left late in the night, the Kents received an unusual visitor.

A man of unusual proportion walked into Petrichor, having to open both doors in order to squeeze through. His green velvet shirt and golden furs gave away his nobility. Buttons of bone lined the center of his shirt, threatening to shoot out due to the tremendous task of containing his gut. A head of wispy hair rested like a small ball that rested underneath—not above—an enormous shelf of raised shoulders.

A Glutton.

With Ambrosian culture being so centered around food, being overweight wasn’t uncommon. But that wasn’t Gluttony. Gluttony was a wickedness. An evil. It transformed their bodies, ironing out their roundness. Their torsos widened into big square blocks. Their shoulders extended a foot above their head, serving as a backdrop for their faces. Their legs tapered down from tree trunks to blocky ankles. Their arms grew longer to match their new size.

They were all consuming. Only consuming. Addicted. Magically stunted, incapable of performing any of Ambrosia’s miracles but entirely dependent on consuming them. Where Ambrosia gave, Gluttons took.

They were the stuff of nightmares. Scary stories that adults told their kids to get them to eat their vegetables. The only solace for frightened children was that they knew that even the smallest Glutton was too big to hide under the bed.

Arty had never resorted to such stories. He told no stories of Gluttons and entertained none. With every fiber of his being, Arty hated Gluttons.

Archie had seen a Glutton before. About once a year, one would find their way to Sain and waddle up to Petrichor, their mind having been appetized by wondrous tales of the past. Arty would shoo them away, saying that the restaurant was closed. Since the place was usually empty, the lie worked. Sometimes, in months of scarcity, Adeline would rush after them, inviting them to spend their money in Petrichor and correcting her husband. A prerequisite to being a Glutton was being able to afford indulgence, so there were no poor Gluttons. Adeline would cook and cook and they’d eat and eat and pay and pay, and Arty would go upstairs and wouldn’t speak to his wife for days after.

Gluttons were one of the most polarizing things in the land of Ambrosia. Some people treated them with ambivalence. Some were uncaring. Some viewed them with respect, believing that their heightened need for magical food was due to a closer connection to Ambrosia. Others despised them, accusing them of some sort of blasphemy for only consuming, never creating.

Chefs typically fell into the latter category, horrified by the thought of the love and spirit of their food being consumed so voraciously and without intention.

But some Chefs loved Gluttons—saw them as walking piggy banks. Some restaurants catered exclusively to Gluttons, taking only one reservation per night, whole kitchens of Chefs churning out food as fast as it could be eaten (which in the case of a Glutton was very, very fast).

Archie had heard a rumor of a cabal of Gluttons, meeting in secret with plans of taking over the production of food in Ambrosia. Archie didn’t believe the rumor, but it didn’t seem totally unfounded. By nature of needing to sate their great need, Gluttons tended to be high-ranking and well-off members of society. Even the king’s son was a Glutton.

And now this Glutton stood in Petrichor and waved his hand—if it could even be called a wave. His pudgy arm tucked into his side, his raised sausage fingers wiggling a greeting.

The lingering heat of the oven reached Archie from one side of the room. From the other, he swore he felt cold emanating from his father.

“Hallo!” the Glutton cheered. Despite his enormity, he seemed to bounce as he stepped in, his oversized torso bobbing up and down. He looked around the empty dining hall. “Oh my, tell me I haven’t missed the feast!”

Archie looked at his unmoving father. Adeline came to the rescue.

“Oh, just barely!” she said with a laugh. “We were just cleaning up.” She grabbed Archie’s everflowing pitcher and a couple of plates, shoving them into Archie’s belly. “In the kitchen,” she whispered.

“Ah! Well, you wouldn’t mind if I polished off any leftovers, would you?” The Glutton did not wait for a response that did not come. He moved to the bench—none of their chairs would hold him—and moved it away from the table to accommodate his size. He plopped down, his weight lifting the other end of the bench a few inches off the ground. “You wouldn’t happen to have any moondrop wine?”

“Fresh out,” Arty growled. Adeline gave Archie a push toward the kitchen.

“Ah, a shame. Good that I should bring my own.” The Glutton shifted to one side, threatening to tip the bench over, his monstrous hand digging into a pocket. Three crystal vials came out between his fingers. With no grace, he shook his hand to free two of them from the wedges of his fingers. He opened the remaining one and put it to his lips, a pale green liquid following the same path as so much food and drink before it. Archie took one last look before entering the kitchen. The bench stabilized, the far end returning back onto the ground. The Glutton sat up taller as if he had relieved himself from the burden of his own weight.

“Ah, much better,” he said. “Now, tell me. I heard Petrichor has been the place to be this week. I heard people waited hours to get in. What marvelous meals did you create to attract such a crowd?” He noticed a crumb on the table in front of him. He planted his finger on it and brought the crumb back up to his mouth, sucking half his finger in the process. “Mmm, garlic. Rosemary. Potatoes. Oh, the potatoes. Grown from Thistled Pastures, no?”

“That’s correct,” Adeline said with a smile as she moved between the Glutton and Arty. “Quite the taste buds to pick that out. I’m surprised you’ve had them. They only started growing potatoes last year.”

In the kitchen, Archie put the pitcher down and peeked through the crack of the swinging door.

“Ah, yes.” Ah, ah, ah. It preceded nearly every statement. As if his lungs needed to rev up to get a voice through that quadruple chin. “Since you’ve had their potatoes, I assume you’ve had the milk for which they are famous. Such a fascinating flavor, and shall I add, a delight to discuss.” At no point did he leave enough space in the discussion for it to be two-way. “Milk from cows that eat milk thistles.” His fingers poked the air with each word. “Hm! Such a nicely bookended beverage. I buy half a cow’s worth of their stock each year.”

He finally paused, lips pursed together in a proud smile.

“What’s that, a gallon a day?” Adeline asked, passing off her disgust as awe in a marvelous feat of willpower.

“Ah, that’d be a poor cow indeed! No, nearly two gallons. Some days I lay off a bit, but others I have as many as five gallons. Ah, I love it! Plus, between you and me, I’ve developed a bit of a taste for…deathcap.”

Adeline’s eyebrows raised in a surprise that she didn’t have to fake. The Glutton tilted his head down, proud of his own daring adventures in consumption.

“Yes, yes, a dangerous desire, I know. At your size, half a cap would put you six feet under in a week. I have a cap nearly every night. But even at my size, I need thistled milk to counteract the poison. A gallon or two usually cuts most of the negative side effects. Three gallons eliminates them entirely, but then I lose the taste of the deathcap and have to eat another! Ah!”

Adeline laughed. To Archie, it sounded genuine, but perhaps more as a product of disbelief than humor.

“Now,” the Glutton said as his fingertips danced on the table. “Now, now, now.” The music left his voice. His cheeks fell from his eyes, drooping off his face. He stared at Arty. “There was an undoubtedly delicious dish. But my question remains unanswered. What marvel brought everyone here? Surely there was…something else.”

Even from the kitchen, Archie felt the atmosphere shift. Everything before had been garnish. Now they were in the meat. The Glutton leaned back to look at Arty, demanding an answer.

“Pork,” Arty said. He still hadn’t taken a step since the Glutton arrived.

“Hmm,” the Glutton mused, waiting for elaboration.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“Covered in a blackberry glaze. Whole blueberries sprinkled on. We’d have served it with bread, but we didn’t have any.”

“Hm, what a shame. I’m sure that would have really brought it together. Where was the pork from?”

“I don’t know.”

“What kind of cook doesn’t know where his ingredients come from?” the Glutton asked with a laugh. He looked around the empty restaurant as if there were an audience that could laugh with him.

Archie’s hand blindly searched the counter and found a spatula, gripping it until his knuckles turned white.

What am I doing? Am I going to run out and slap him with a spatula? Why would I even do that? No one is in danger here, right? Right?

“Frempe brought it over. He runs The Rolling Trumpeter on the other side of town.”

“Ah, yes, yes, I know Frempe well. I don’t come north of the capital often—my adventures usually take me southwest to Labrusca or east to Uroko—but when I do, I usually stop by Frempe’s for a quick meal or two. Just to take the edge off a day of travel.” He leaned back and spoke with smugness. “From what I understand, everyone in Sain goes to The Rolling Trumpeter. Exclusively. Maybe because the only other restaurant in town doesn’t know where a piece of pork came from, even after cooking it.”

“It came from Simeon’s. He has a sty. This one was a dead harvest. Died of old age.”

“Ah, the best harvest, from old age. Shame there isn’t a way to speed up that clock sometimes.” The Glutton squinted his eyes. “Ah, that’s right. I’m remembering you now. You left the Academy of Ambrosia in your second year. After your father died.” The Glutton’s words rang out with malice, each sentence heavily punctuated, each statement sharp and piercing.

“That’s right.”

“So tell me, Chef. What marvel occurred here to draw such a crowd?”

“Like I told you. We served pork.”

“Yes, like you told me. But not like I heard.” A pause. A final chance. “What marvel occurred here?”

Archie’s heart climbed into his throat.

“My son manifested during the Festival of Ambrosia.”

“Ahahah! Is that so?” The Glutton slammed a palm down on the table, shaking the entire thing, laughing and grinning as if he had been told he was going to be a father. “That’s wonderful! Just wonderful! You might look at me and think nothing brings me more joy than food, but the truth is, nothing brings me more joy than knowing there will be another Chef in the world. Because that means more food!” He roared with laughter. “Boy! Boy! Get out here! It’s you, isn’t it? The Chef-to-be!”

Archie turned to stone.

Can he see me through the crack? Should I come out? What do I do?

Arty turned, finally breaking his stillness, and motioned for Archie to come out. Archie emerged, spatula in hand.

“Oh! Were you making something for me?” the Glutton asked. “Nevermind, nevermind, there’ll be time for that later! Much time for you! Much cooking! Come, sit!” That hammer of a palm slapped the spot on the bench next to him.

Archie considered rejecting the invitation, or even skirting it by sitting across from the Glutton. But something about the man’s command made Archie comply. He sat next to the Glutton, the two of them taking up nearly half the bench. The Glutton rested a paw on Archie’s shoulder. Archie couldn’t see his father but could still sense his discomfort.

“Young Kent, I take it,” the Glutton said. “What’s your name?”

“Ah-Archie.”

“Ah, Archie!” Archie couldn’t tell if the Glutton was mocking the stutter. He laughed and turned to Adeline. “Dear, Mrs. Kent? Could you see if there was anything in that kitchen for me?” Adeline retreated to the kitchen. The Glutton returned his attention to Archie. “Manifested the day before your eighteenth birthday, eh?”

“How did you know—”

“Tell me, Archie. How did your magic manifest? Was it a cake? A pasta? Oh, please tell me it was seafood. Every other year I go to Uroko’s biggest festival. All those young Chefs-to-be manifesting their magic in crab legs and sea urchins and sushi. There’s something about someone’s first magical meal. A taste that can’t be replicated.” He leaned in, his breath heavy. “I can’t get enough,” he whispered.

“It was lemon water,” Archie said.

“Ha!” The Glutton released Archie, turning to look at Arty, expecting him to join him in laughter. “Lemon water!”

Archie managed to turn enough to see Arty’s face, pale and bloodless.

With a single oversized finger, the Glutton pushed Archie’s shoulder, turning him back around. “Water?” the Glutton asked in a way that begged for confirmation.

“With lemon.”

“Water…with lemon,” the Glutton nodded. The laughter had gone, replaced by impatience. An outburst seemed to bubble deep beneath that blubberous skin. He wrapped his arm around Archie, the weight of it crushing the boy’s spine. Archie felt the Glutton’s hunger. “And what was so special about this water…with lemon?”

“It…it never emptied.”

“Oh.”

The Glutton’s face went blank. His eyes unfocused, wondrous possibilities bouncing around behind them. Infinite essence waiting to be consumed.

“Oh,” he said again. “Well, that’s something I’d like to see.”

“It ran out,” Arty blurted before Archie could respond. “Just earlier today.”

“Ah, such a shame.” The Glutton bumped his fist on the table in disappointment, a casual gesture, but with his weight, still enough to produce a sizable boom. “I would have very much liked to see that.” He let out a tsk-tsk-tsk, pondering what to do next.

Adeline emerged from the kitchen carrying the last plate of pork and placing it before the Glutton. “Here you go, sir. It’s the last one. I was saving it for my dinner later tonight, but I had so much potato, I don’t think I’ll manage. Help yourself.”

The Glutton’s face lit up at the sight of the food. His tongue pushed through his lips, covering them in drool. “Ah,” he said to Archie, leaning over and whispering, “A mother’s sacrifice. Nothing like it.” He straightened up in his seat, addressing Adeline. “Thank you so much. I’ll be sure to enjoy it.”

“Let me get you a fork—”

“No need.”

One arm still draped around Archie, the Glutton stretched his other arm out and took the entire piece of meat off the plate with one swipe of his hand. His neck craned back, hand hovering over his mouth, dropping all of it in one smooth motion down his throat. Gone in a moment. He chewed on air, savoring the taste of magic as it filled his belly. “Delicious,” he moaned.

His chin dropped back down and turned to face Arty. “It’s a shame you had to leave the Academy. You could have really flourished. I can taste the potential. I might have even taken you as one of my personal Chefs.”

It took all of Arty’s willpower to force a whisper of a smile.

“Ah, delicious, delicious. If only I had some water to wash it down with,” the Glutton said, his voice hardening. He tilted his head down to Archie and his arm squeezed around the boy. “If only…say, this…never-emptying pitcher of water. It wouldn’t happen to be the one that you took into that kitchen when I first got here, would it?”

Archie’s heartbeat went into his ears. Every second felt like a lifetime. Now he understood why his mother had made him take the pitcher away. Dividing and duplicating food, as Arty had done with the duck, came at the expense of diluting the magical essence in each bite. For the first time that Archie had heard of, this was not the case with his pitcher of water. Each gulp contained the full, pure essence of untampered magic. It was a miracle. An everlasting shrine to the realization of Archie’s dream. And this man sought to devour it. After all, what more could a Glutton want than infinite essence?

What would a Glutton do to have it?

“It was just regular water, that’s all,” Archie said. “I can pour you a glass if you’d like.”

The Glutton’s face, carrying a bastardized, ruinous version of Arty’s signature stare, peered into Archie’s, searching for the truth. Archie forgot to breathe. His heart seemed to climb his chest. If he spoke, it would leap from his mouth and into the Glutton’s, going down without a single chew. But just before that happened, the Glutton smiled, leaned back, and released Archie, who instinctively slid away.

“Well, normal water just doesn’t do it for me anymore.” His hand went into his pocket again, past the moondrop wine, retrieving a vial filled with white liquid. “A cup, please.”

Adeline scrambled to grab the nearest cup, walking behind the Glutton and out of sight. She swung the cup at the ground to get rid of any residual drop of the sacred water that had filled it, not wanting the Glutton to taste its essence. She placed the cup in front of the Glutton, who nodded in thanks.

He poured from the vial, filling the cup with milk. “Thistled milk,” he said as he raised the cup. His chin went up again and the milk went down.

The Glutton poured another cup from the same vial. Archie leaned in to look. The vial shouldn’t have been able to fill the cup up once, let alone twice. Yet only a quarter of it had been emptied out. The Glutton caught his gaze.

“Not quite neverending, I’m afraid. The vial was made special-order by a genius friend of mine from Khala. Condenses whatever you pour in, multiplies whatever you pour out. Only loses a small percentage of its essence each way. Not perfect, but still cutting edge.”

He drank again. As he poured a third cup, his free hand reached into another pocket, producing a mushroom cap. He winked at Archie, whispering, “you don’t want this one.” He popped the cap into his mouth and chased it with the milk. “Ah, delicious,” he moaned. He sat for a few seconds, fighting the urge to vomit the poison up, before saying to himself, “one more cup.” He poured and drank again.

“The Induction Ceremony for the Academies is in a few days. Have you packed your things?” the Glutton asked Archie.

“Um…not yet. I haven’t received an invitation, actually. The road’s closed. They can’t send anyone up to confirm my claim.”

“Ah. So I heard.” The Glutton dug into his pocket one last time, producing an envelope that he tapped on the table.

Archie’s eyes widened. He sat up and leaned forward, examining the “A” on the envelope’s wax seal. “Is that?”

“Prince Waldorf heard about your miracle and the road closure that was keeping you from getting your invitation. So he broke the blockade to send me. He looks forward to meeting you when you arrive in Ambrosia City.”

The thought of meeting the prince made Archie more nervous than excited. While everyone adored the grand king, nasty rumors swirled around his son. Archie reached for the envelope, but the Glutton pulled it away.

“I would have liked to confirm your claim firsthand,” he said. “But I’ve already spoken to your Lord Mayor and gotten his confirmation.”

He put the envelope back within Archie’s reach and let him take it.

“The Induction Ceremony begins in three days,” the Glutton said.

“I understand. But the road closures…”

The Glutton laughed. “I’ve already arranged for transport. That friend of mine, the one up in Khala? He has a nephew your age. Every festival for five festivals now, that nephew has manifested. I’ve sent for him to be brought down by carriage—a gift to his uncle for all his hard work. Sain is hardly out of the way, I’ll have him make a detour. He’ll arrive in two days' time at dawn. Meet him at the stables.”

“Th-thank you,” Archie said.

“And if you ever manage to do that trick with the water, you’ll let me know, won’t you? I simply must have it.” The Glutton turned to the door, took one step, and then wheeled around on the spot. “Ah! I’ve nearly left without paying for that delicious pork.”

He put a gold coin on the table, five times what he owed. Then he put a second gold coin down. Then he put a third disk down, this one white and bulbous.

“A deathcap,” he said just before leaving, looking at Adeline. “Should you acquire a taste.”