The Chessboard Undead Prince

Chapter the Fourth

Adonis' stomach growled. On cue, the driver rapped the door. "We've arrived at Panem!" he bellowed. His man climbed down from his box. "Departing in thirty minutes to Doscarta!"

As the sun painted the sky with hues of pink and gold, Adonis stepped out of the carriage, and paid the driver. He followed his nose to the bakery where Fineas and his apprentices were carrying out trays of assorted bread and steaming, irresistible custard pastries to the windows. The windows were frosted by bated breath, but that didn't dim the excitement of the hungry children outside, eagerly awaiting the magic hour of six o'clock.

In this quaint town, the sound of the Baker's Bell was like a symphony, announcing the arrival of each new batch of treats. Crafted from copper and lovingly rung by Fineas himself, it was a cherished tradition that marked the beginning of another day filled with the delicious bounty of the bakery.

The Town's heartbeat was the Baker's Bell, its resonant chime echoing from the bakery window every hour, signalling the arrival of a new batch of treats. His arms bore the strength of a seasoned sailor, moulded by years of kneading and carrying the lifeblood of the Empire of Glass to its people.

With a flurry of excitement, the children rushed in, their eyes wide with anticipation. Each one knew exactly which loaf or pastry they desired, and they wasted no time in making their selections before darting back home.

Amidst the whirlwind of youths, mothers, and workmen for their favourite fix, Adonis navigated through the crowd, selecting a braided sourdough rye loaf. He exchanged a glance with Fineas, who bore the weariness of one who had seen too many skirmishes with the brashness of assassins.

Assassins, with their impulsive nature and quick draw, were a precarious clientele. Altercations often erupted between a cocky young pup and a customer, leaving shattered furniture, drawn blades, and spilled blood in their wake. And the Assassins come out as the better fighter and victor, leaving the owners to bring complaints to the King.

Yet Adonis sought only sustenance and solitude. With a simple exchange of coins, he departed the bakery, leaving the chaos behind. His next stop before breakfast was the next two towns for the butcher and the cheese maker.

In the heart of the Town of Voges, nestled amidst the aged scent of the old meat markets, stood Bruno's shop. Close enough to catch the lingering essence of blood and bone from the nearby slaughterhouses, yet within its clean marble and glass walls, an oasis of cleanliness prevailed.

Bruno, a stout figure with a greasy apron cinched around his ample waist, worked with practiced hands. Amidst the steam rising from tubs of near-boiling water, he swirled whole chickens, feathers and all, preparing them for the day's customers. His moustache, a walrus-like spectacle tinged with gray, added to his formidable presence.

Adonis was his frequent customer when he came south for an assignment, which was often. He knew Adonis' order: Pepper-cured beef slices with a dap of mild mustard on each. With his cleaver and roll of peppercorn-crusted rump, he deftly sliced paper-thin rounds of meat, dabbling each with mustard sauce from a jar, and enveloped the stack in waxed paper.

"You could offer your services to the Assassins with that cleaver."

Bruno chuckled, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. "I've threatened to runt thieves that I'd carve them if I caught them again."

"That's why I never buy whole cuts." Adonis nodded knowingly. "That's why I prefer pre-cut."

Tucking the wax package into his coat pocket, Adonis headed north to the sixteenth town of cheesemakers. Villagers around him were scrubbing clothes on boards with soapy water. Their children were pressing the garments out. Men were trudging to and fro from the slaughterhouses, oxen and chickens lolling over their backs, their blood soaking into their shirts.