Seasoned Wyvern Tail Skewers (2)
Govanius was disappointed.
Skewers were a fairly common dish even in Iceland. The method itself was so simple it almost felt insulting. You threaded meat onto a stick, added whatever vegetables or mushrooms struck your fancy, and held it over a fire. No fancy technique required.
Whenever a festival like Winter-Ascend rolled around, street stalls sold skewers loaded with every imaginable scrap of food, and even outside festival season people made them everywhere—inside and outside Coldon’s walls, in taverns, inns, restaurants, and private kitchens. For ordinary folk it was nothing special.
So when Karem announced he would turn wyvern tail into skewers, disappointment was only natural. A genius chef who served Winterhome itself, personal cook to the powerful, creator of countless delicacies… and he was making plain old skewers? Why?
That mix of disappointment and confusion stayed with Govanius all the way until Karem arrived carrying a large jar and a wooden crate of cooking tools. It still hadn’t faded even after the skinned, bite-sized pieces of wyvern tail were threaded onto sticks, brushed with a thick red sauce, and stacked neatly on a plate.
Low expectations make for easy satisfaction.
Sizzle—
“…Hmm?”
Or, put another way, it doesn’t take much to exceed them.
“What’s that smell…?”
“That’s the sauce caramelizing over the heat.”
As if anyone needed to be told that.
Govanius knew where the sound was coming from. What he wanted to know about was the aroma. The copper-colored hand grill, packed tight with wyvern skewers, sat over the forge fire; the longer it sat, the more the sauce bubbled and the stronger the sweet-and-spicy scent became. Even from a distance the fragrance began to push aside the iron-and-blood reek that always filled the smithy, teasing the appetite with every breath.
Gulp.
For people who lived by hard labor, food mattered. Blacksmiths especially. Scorching forge heat, heavy hammers, endless iron, the same motions repeated until body and mind both frayed. Govanius’s father Gopain had drilled it into him: no matter how busy you were, you never skipped a meal or a snack.
That didn’t mean every meal was a banquet. Supper was enough for that. And plenty of days there simply wasn’t time—work came first. Then the menu shrank to bread, meat, fruit, and salted water. The meat and fruit were the best the inner city could offer, the bread a big soft wheat loaf from the bakery, but with the clock ticking you just ate the fruit raw, salted the meat and threw it on the forge coals, and tore into the loaf whole.
So right now, in the middle of a bright working day, the thick, sweet-and-spicy perfume rising from those bubbling skewers looked almost indecently delicious.
“Karem. Mind if I grab one?”
“They’re not done yet.”
“It’s basically chicken. A little underdone won’t kill me.”
“Just wait quietly.”
Karem flipped the hand grill; oil and sauce dripped into the flames.
Sizzle-hiss!
The only skewer seasoning Govanius knew was salt and pepper—sometimes not even that. If the meat smelled off you might add a splash of vinegar. What was happening on that grill right now was on an entirely different level of temptation.
Sizzle-sizzle-sizzle—
Meat and sauce slowly charring over forge heat, the sweet-spicy scent boiling up with a light sheen of fat. For any laborer who spilled blood and sweat for a living, it was impossible to ignore—an aggressive, salty, spicy fragrance that made a man go half mad. The whole smithy smelled like an invitation to drink.
“…Should I crack open that beer barrel I’ve been saving?”
“Pardon? Day drinking? Aren’t you still open for business?”
“Not much work right now, so it wouldn’t matter much.”
There wasn’t zero work either, though. Even Govanius felt a little awkward about starting this early—especially when the beer in question was strong Eisenwald brew, not ordinary ale.
“Well, if it takes a little longer, that’s fine, right?”
“Can’t we just eat them now?”
Slap. Karem lightly swatted the reaching hand away.
“No.”
“Then how about I stoke the fire higher?”
“Then they’ll burn black before they’re cooked through. I’d have to re-skewer and re-sauce everything—”
“Fine, fine. I surrender.”
“Empty plate, please.”
Govanius showed both palms, backed off a step, and stared at the skewers with hungry eyes as they dried, blackened, and bubbled over the forge. Then he turned away.
I get how he feels.
That street-cart chicken-skewer smell. Thick chicken fat and sweet-spicy sauce reducing over charcoal—no man could just walk past it. It was the most reliable lure, the most shameless seduction, that existed.
“All right. They’re done.”
The moment both men had been waiting for finally arrived. The hand grill opened, revealing red wyvern skewers glistening under the forge light, their surfaces branded with perfect diamond grill marks that seized both pairs of eyes at once.
“Go ahead and eat.”
“Oh—ohh! Hot! Hssss!”
Govanius grabbed two skewers at once, yanked the steaming end piece free with his teeth, and nearly jumped. But Karem had already learned from earlier trials and dialed the heat down Iceland-style, so after the initial drama the blacksmith kept chewing steadily, still making a show of it.
Karem dumped a heap of finished skewers onto the plate Govanius had brought, loaded fresh ones onto the grill, set it back over the fire, and picked up a skewer bare-handed. The aroma of sauce that had reduced and charred over flame. That glossy red sheen and those appetizing grill marks.
“Wow. I made these myself and they still smell incredible.”
Following the pull of past-life memory and present-life instinct, he bit a properly cooled piece free and ate it in one go.
First to hit the tongue: that sweet-and-spicy sauce. It was exactly the seasoned chicken skewers he used to eat standing at a street stall in his previous life.
About ninety-five percent the same.
No—ninety.
Maybe eighty…?
Couldn’t be helped. The only ingredient that matched his old recipe was salt. The ketchup, gochujang, and chili powder had all come from Red Witch’s Finger. He’d substituted raspberry jam for strawberry jam, garum for Worcestershire, and strong wine for cooking sake. Of course the flavor shifted. And because he’d toned down the heat for Govanius, the sweetness came through even stronger. Given all that, ninety percent was fair.
That tiny gap aside, the sticky sauce coating his mouth right now was deeply satisfying.
He worked his teeth again and the wyvern meat tore along the grain. Softer than expected—then a little resistance. Even better. That fibrous, yielding chew, and the deeper you chewed the more savory juices came out. The texture played perfectly against the sweet-spicy glaze, giving life and flavor to meat that might otherwise have turned dry.
Karem was the sort who actually liked dry chicken breast, so this was pure pleasure. He chewed the tender flesh both with and against the grain until his mouth felt like a desert, then imagined the cool rush of a drink punching through the clogged throat—and found himself addicted.
His mouth grew drier by the second. His throat began to close.
“…Hmm.”
While stacking another batch of finished skewers, Karem slid a glance sideways.
“Haa, a famous chef really is something else. Still…”
Govanius already held four empty wooden sticks and was still eating, full of praise yet smacking his lips as if something were missing. At first Karem thought it was the heat. Looking closer, the man was clearly rolling the taste around, wrestling with some quiet dissatisfaction.
Their eyes met in mid-air, both carrying the same quiet longing.
“…You said you weren’t busy?”
“For a while, yeah.”
“One drink wouldn’t hurt, would it?”
“One drink. One drink, huh…”
Govanius set his skewer down and tapped his lips. Then he vanished into the back of the smithy without a word. When he returned, two beer mugs dangled from his fingers and a barrel thicker than a grown man’s torso rode in his arms.
Glug-glug-glug—
Fsssssh—
Karem wordlessly accepted the mug Govanius had filled with expert care, white foam riding right up to the rim. He wanted that first swallow immediately. But first there was something he had to do.
Priority one…
He grabbed a fresh wyvern skewer and ate three pieces in a row. Sticky sauce and dryish meat chewed together. His already parched mouth and blocked throat screamed. He ignored them, relying on the sweet-spicy glaze and the chicken-like savor of the wyvern, chewing with the grim determination of a man grinding ginseng root to powder until every last scrap went down.
Only then did he tip the mug to his lips.
Gulp—
One swallow. A liquid thicker than stout, sharp yet rich and brilliantly refreshing, flooded the sandpaper-dry mouth and cooled it at once.
Gulp—
Two. The next wave of cool, heavy flavor shoved the previous debris ahead of it and punched clean through the dam of clogged throat in a single stroke.
Gulp—
Three. Through the newly opened passage rose the toasty aroma of nuts and fresh bread, so refreshing it almost felt like freedom.
This second Eisenwald beer of his new life was every bit as sweet, heavy, and cooling as the first.
I’d love to down the whole thing in one go, but…
He couldn’t very well go home reeking of alcohol. With superhuman restraint Karem set the mug down.
“Krrraaaah—!”
Gulp— gulp— gulp—
Watching Govanius empty his own mug in one long pull made the temptation surge again… but Karem shook it off by turning the grill and finishing the skewer he’d started.
“Mm. This tastes different again.”
Alcohol wasn’t just for getting drunk. It woke the appetite, sharpened the tongue, and made every flavor in a dish stand taller. With a mouth still full of nutty bread and roasted malt, he bit into another sweet-spicy wyvern skewer and a whole new synergy bloomed. Texture sharper than the first bite. Umami deeper. Aroma richer.
BANG BANG BANG—!
“Damn it, Govanius! Spreading this kind of smell in the middle of the day—have you lost your mind?!”
An impatient roar and the sound of a fist trying to demolish the door shattered the meal. Govanius, who had just been exhaling a long, blissful sigh, scowled hard enough to crumple his whole face and slammed his mug down like a hammer on the anvil.
“That rotten bastard. We’re trying to eat in peace.”
“Someone you know?”
“Yeah. My most annoying regular.”
He told Karem to keep eating, then charged the door, flung it open, and bellowed at a volume that matched the earlier racket. The other side yelled right back, but none of it really mattered.
Sizzle-sizzle-sizzle—
“Maybe I should’ve threaded green onion in between next time.”
Soft flesh that turned almost dry and chewy. Sticky sweet-spicy sauce and deep savor. The fragrance of charcoal ash and a single mug of beer. Nothing had been missing, yet halfway through he found himself craving scallion.
Sometime in his previous life the street chicken skewers of memory had changed. They’d shrunk to izakaya size and started coming with finger-joint lengths of green onion threaded between the meat. The reduced meat had annoyed him at first—until he tasted those onions. Soft yet crisp, gently sweet from chicken fat and hot sauce, they paired with the sticky glaze in a way that felt oddly perfect.
Gulp.
Feeling a little regret for the hasty decision, Karem flipped the hand grill and rinsed his mouth with beer.
“Whoa, this incredible smell is just skewers?”
“Yeah, you damn fool. And those sausages better be proper ones.”
“Ha! Who do you think butchers all the meat you keep devouring?”
Govanius came back leading a thick-set man with a neatly trimmed beard. A heavy bundle of sausages hung from the newcomer’s arm.
“Oh. So you’re the one behind this smell?”
“Karem.”
“Right. I’m Butch.”
Butch started to offer a handshake, then took one look at Karem’s sauce-smeared state and simply set the sausage bundle down by the forge instead.
“Karem, though. Same name as that famous chef.”
“Yes. That’s me.”
“…Huh?”
Butch’s eyes met Govanius’s. The blacksmith gave a casual nod while chewing another skewer. Butch’s eyes went round; he swiveled back.
“For real? The one who grew up because of a curse?”
“Yes. That’s me. What’s with the sausages?”
“Ah, well. This idiot told me if I wanted skewers I had to bring something to share, so I grabbed these in a hurry. They’re called bangers—”
BANG BANG BANG!
“Hey! Govanius! What the hell is that smell?! Don’t eat alone—share some!”
“Knock softer, will you? You’ll break the damn door.”
“Whoa, what are you even grilling to make it smell like this?”
What now? Karem looked at Govanius in mild panic. The blacksmith started to take another skewer, then set it down again, dragged a hand down his face, and stormed back to the still-rattling door.
“Anyone who wants some, go home and bring food and drink to share! And if you show up with junk, you already know what happens, right?!?!”
Attached Materials
— Seasoned Chicken Skewers —
A picture drawn by ChatGPT.