Ibeos: What If?

Chapter 16. Land of A Thousand Flavors

The wind was harsher here.

It carried the scent of distant ash, baked clay, and something faintly metallic. We'd been walking eastward for a week now, following old stars and half-remembered geography from a world I thought I'd known. The tall grass plains had begun to thin, giving way to red earth and the occasional spire of jagged stone. Vegetation twisted in strange, resilient shapes—low to the ground, bent by wind, all clutching to life like it could be stolen at any moment.

We didn't talk as much now. The silence wasn't bitter—it was endurance. Thilo walked ahead more often than beside me, tail swaying with his steps, his eyes constantly scanning the horizon or buried in whatever cracked text he could manage by lanternlight at night. We had fallen into a rhythm—eat, walk, rest, repeat. The pace of pilgrims.

And I didn't tell him about the coin.

Every night when he finally slept—softly, curled up with a journal on his chest and a half-burned candle by his side—I'd take it from where I kept it wrapped in cloth inside my jacket. I'd hold it in my palm, feeling that subtle pressure again, like the faint pull of a heartbeat that wasn't mine. The weight of it had changed—slightly. Not heavier, not lighter—just... tuned.

I hadn't dared try to use it again. Not yet.

What unsettled me more than anything was that, slowly, my body had begun to feel... better. Not completely. My joints still flared, and I still slept like someone being hunted, but my urine wasn't black anymore. The constant threat of my muscles locking from McArdle's had dulled into soreness. I hadn't had a true episode since the coin arrived. It was like something was staving it off.

He was watching.

"Another few miles and we should see the foothills," Thilo called back without turning. His voice was hoarse from dust. "If we're lucky, we'll strike the outer paths of Swo Plos before the sun falls."

I didn't answer. Not right away.

"I just hope it's still the land of a thousand flavors," I said, wiping the sweat from my brow as we crested the next incline. "There'll be plenty of foods far better than our rations. You guys call it something different here, but I could really go for some pizza."

Thilo looked over his shoulder—a question tugged at the edge of his eyes. "Pizza?"

"Yeah—flatbread, sauce, cheese, meat if you're lucky. Burnt on the edges. Greasy. Comfort food."

Thilo nodded slowly, something clicking into place. "Ah. Bumblepie. Crust blistered by stone ovens, toppings layered like a festival. I've read about it in trade logs—some even claimed Swo Plos perfected over a hundred variations during the peak of the Blast Monarch's reign."

"I'll take any version at this point," I muttered, stomach gurgling. "Even..." I shivered, "pineapple..."

A ghost of a smile played across Thilo's lips. "No one's heard from Swo Plos in decades, not since the barriers went up around Greca. Their last envoys spoke of restored democracy, the collapse of the old monarchy, and... a flourishing of culture in the mountains. Art, music, cuisine. But that's old news by now."

He glanced east, toward the jagged blue-grey silhouette of the approaching range. "If it still stands, it may be our best hope of shelter, supplies... maybe answers."

The wind shifted again—cooler now, descending from the highlands. With it came a trace of wood smoke, and something savory. My mouth watered.

"Think they still have markets?" I asked.

"If they do," Thilo said, his voice hopeful, "they'll be in the cliffside cities. Stone corridors carved into the mountains, balconies curled like petals, spice stalls tucked beneath arches... and if we're lucky, bumblepie fresh from the kiln."