“There is one thing I cannot solve myself. An old tree that draws a whisper-colony.”

“A whisper-colony?” He asked, but his mind was already in motion. “Those voices I hear when I cast?”

“Worse. The voices you hear when you do spellwork are all that remains of mages, wizards and witches alike, who were swept away by the end of the world. They are neither here nor there, alive nor dead.” The witch lifted a finger to the air. “They have become one with the aether…”

“But a whisper-colony.”

“A whisper-colony is on this side of the veil. They don’t just gather like moths to a flame when some poor fool casts; they hunt.” She rose from her chair, crossing to a hammock-net slung across a rafter. From within she took a box of white china patterned with blue roses.

Setting the box on the table, she said. “This is a whisper-trap. There will be a voice that is louder and more defined than the rest. Seal it within and we’ll have a bargain.”

In that moment, Greenleaf and Larktongue came in through the door. Their claws were caked with garden dirt and they carried baskets heavy with vegetables; Grae had never seen so many greens. His diet had been mostly rats and bugs, and even the mushrooms were unfamiliar, small and button-cute rather than large and carnivorous like the dungeon breeds.

“Ah.” The witch smiled. Her face was hidden by the mask, but he could hear the smile in the brightness of her voice. “Lunch. You two, go clean up.”

They nodded and hurried for a washroom, but not before Greenleaf paused and laid a mud-streaked hand on Grae’s arm. “We are glad you are better.” She mumbled in her broken common-tongue.

Grae patted her on the head. “I’m glad you chose to follow me.”

Then she hurried off to wash, and Grae rose, sniffing curiously at the air. The basket of vegetables smelled rich and ripe. He pushed his nose in, snuffling, until the witch grabbed him by the ears and pulled him back out.

“Wait.” She said sternly. “It’ll be much better when it’s cooked.”

She plucked out the fingerling potatoes first, warped little purple-dark things that reminded Grae of toes. She chopped them lengthwise and broadways against a cutting board, and fed the shreds of starchy flesh that remained into a pan sizzling with a drop of oil. They began to fry through, letting up the most wonderful aroma as she spread them out with the back of a spoon, forming a pan-wide hash of string-thick potato.

Into that she added dices of green herbs and needles of fragrant rosemary. Cubes of lard were dropped on top and allowed to boil into grease that bubbled and popped in the gaps between potatoes.

“Here…” She offered Grae the knife, and pointed to the cutting board. “Your job will be slicing tomatoes.”

She plucked a bright red fruit from the basket and planted it in front of Grae. It was lumpy, shaped like a circle someone had squashed down from above, with flesh textured like candlewax and half-transparent skin. “Nice thick slices.”

Grae fumbled to comply. The knife was awkward in his fingers, but he imitated her grip and began to saw through the tomatoes, cutting them in half, then flipping them onto the flat side to slice off piece after piece, pulp and seeds running across the board.

“You should learn to cook.” She said bluntly. She never seemed to spare any time on niceties; whatever was on her mind came out of her mouth. It was almost childish, but it made her easy to read, despite the everpresent mask. “You’ll be lonely more often than not, being a beast. Being able to make yourself a good meal will be a gift.”

“I need to learn many things. And you’ve offered to teach me, so…” He combed through the memories of his last few days. So many questions sprung to mind, but the first one he asked was one that sprung from an old, old wound. “How do I remove a Title?”

“Remove a Title?” She sounded surprised. “Funny, most people grasp at all the Titles they can…”

“This one is… shameful…” Grae admitted. Grae ‘the Coward’...

It was a mark he’d earned by allowing his dungeon to be destroyed, and not dying alongside the core, as was right and proper.

“Hmm.”

Working her flat wooden spatula beneath the frying mass of pancakes, she lifted one side up. It came off the pan smoothly, specks of oil still bubbling away on the browned underside, and she folded it over onto itself to free up space.

“A title represents a truth about you. It’s part of your true name, as much as the words you were given at birth. In order to free yourself from an unwanted part of your own name, you must not only change, but believe you’ve changed. You have to let go of seeing yourself that way.”

She cracked three eggs on the side of the pan, shucking the shells into a basket as the contents oozed onto the skillet with a sudden hiss, the whites sizzling away as the bouncy eyes of yolk floated about. She took her spatula and broke them up, stirring the two colors together into an even, mild yellow, sprinkling green rings of spring onion and flecks of heavy salt onto the delicious mess. In went more cubes of pigfat and a heavy slice of butter. She paused, suddenly.

“You, ah, don’t object to eating pigs, do you?”

Grae shook his head side from side, still struggling to dice the tomatoes up. “I’m not a pig.”

“That’s for the best.” She noted, absent-minded. “It’s a hard world for pigs.”

Working her spatula along the edges of the pan, she pushed the eggs into the folded over wrap of hash browns, and layered on the tomato, shredding a bit of celery leaf on top. It all made a kind of sandwich, fried potatoes containing buttery, melty eggs and rich tomatoes dripping their seedy juices across the top. She divvied it up into four portions, two very small and one very large.

“Here.” She handed Grae the largest plate.

He paused for a moment. “Where’s Oriole?”

The kobolds paused. It was Larktongue who spoke, reluctantly.

“He helped bring you here. Saved you, likely. But after…” The kobold averted his eyes in shame. “He ran away. Couldn’t stop him.”

Grae just grunted. The tracker spell would be useful about now…

But by his measure, Oriole had enough of a head start that catching him would require leaving the kobolds behind. That he was unwilling to do.

He bent his head and ate his breakfast in two huge, chomping bites. Even after his belly wasn’t full. He’d need to hunt soon.

“Beast?” She asked.

“Witch.” He growled.

“You may call me Maria.” She answered “There is a girl. Lena. You killed her father, and she doesn’t have a mother anymore.” The plate rattled as he set it down. “But she’s clever enough to have the makings of witch-craft. I want to take her in.”