Yes!
But totally unreadable.
Boooo!
The script shifts when I squint at it, almost like it’s aware I don’t belong.
My enthusiasm deflates like a sad balloon.
Eventually, my stomach growls loud enough to startle me. Right on cue, the entryway to the pavilion shimmers and a young man is standing there.
Tall. Slim. Eyes downcast.
He doesn’t say a word—just nods, places something on the floor, and slips away like smoke in a breeze.
What he leaves behind?
A floating table.
No, seriously. It floats.
About six inches off the ground, humming softly with golden runes along the base.
I nudge it experimentally, and it glides like butter across the polished stone floor.
I guide it over to the largest cushion in the room—yes, my cushion—and collapse into it like I belong here.
And the food?
Oh. My. God.
I dig in like a woman possessed.
There’s a dish that looks like black noodles, which I regret trying the moment the jellyfish texture hits my tongue.
Nope. Absolutely not.
I push it aside with a shudder and pretend it never happened.
But everything else?
Heaven. Or hell.
Or whatever delicious, spicy, fire-touched afterlife Nightfall believes in.
The savory dishes are an explosion of flavor—like if Indian, Thai, and Mexican food had a supernatural baby and raised it on molten spices.
Each bite sends a flush of heat through my chest, makes my lips tingle and my eyes water in the best possible way.
Smoke. Tang. Fire. Depth. Heat.
I moan around a bite of something that tastes like charred lamb marinated in dragon tears and hot pepper oil. It’s glorious.
Then there’s dessert.
And I mean DESSERT—all caps.
A slice of that caramel meringue pie I had the night before—light as air, sinfully sweet.
