The stew in the great iron pot bubbled and simmered, its rich aroma mingling with the fragrance of herbs until it filled every corner of the cave.
That scent was bold yet gentle, worming its way into every nose.
Even those werewolves who'd lost their appetite from pain found their throats working unconsciously, a long-forgotten hunger stirring in their bellies.
Forty minutes later, Douglas lifted the lid.
He tossed in the blanched dandelion greens and torn chunks of hard bread.
"Bread will soak up the last traces of negative energy from the broth," he explained, tearing the bread with deft hands. "Breaking it symbolizes shattering the shackles of curses. And the dandelion's mellow sweetness softens the sharpness of the other herbs, rounding out the flavor."
He let it stew for another fifteen minutes.
When he finally turned off the fire and scattered a handful of Parmesan over the top, the snow-white cheese slowly melted in the residual heat, stretching into golden threads. The cave had fallen utterly silent—not a single groan remained.
Every eye was fixed on that pot.
What simmered inside was no longer mere food.
It was a cauldron of flowing, golden hope.
Douglas gave the stew a gentle stir with a large wooden ladle, then scooped up a spoonful.
The thick broth glowed a tempting amber. The chicken was fall-apart tender, the mushrooms plump, the red of tomatoes and green of dandelion mingling with flecks of white cheese—a scene to make any starving soul's mouth water.
"All right," he said, handing the ladle to Marco, a smile tugging at his lips. "Healing sometimes begins in the kitchen, not the hospital wing."
Marco took the giant ladle. The warmth of the handle seeped into his palm, heavy as a silent promise.
He walked to the youngest, most gravely wounded werewolf—a boy named Leo. His leg had been pierced by a holy light arrow; the wound was charred and wouldn't heal, his body feverish and brittle as scorched iron.
Leo's lips were cracked, his gaze unfocused, barely even able to moan.
Marco scooped up a spoonful of the thick stew, blew gently to cool it, and brought it to Leo's lips.
A warm, commanding aroma—impossible to describe—brushed across Leo's nose like a gentle hand.
The scent pried open his fuzzy consciousness, and instinctively, he parted his lips.
The broth slipped down his throat.
It wasn't a potion.
Leo's eyes widened, just a little.
It was a flavor he'd never known—rich mushroom umami like the damp earth of deep forests, chicken melting with the warmth of flame, tomato's tang and herbal freshness dancing on his tongue, all wrapped in the salty richness of cheese, soft as melted moonlight.
A wave of warmth rose from his stomach, spreading swiftly through every limb.
Wherever it flowed, the burning pain in his wounded leg—the sensation of countless tiny insects gnawing at his bones—miraculously began to fade.
No longer a searing agony, but a dull, bearable ache.
Like a wildfire suddenly quenched by gentle spring rain.
Leo's trembling ceased, his taut muscles relaxing. He let out a long, contented breath.
With it, the fever's heat and the shadow of despair seemed to melt away.
He looked at Marco, his cracked lips moving to form a single, blurry word.
"...Delicious."
The moment was like a stone dropped into a still pond, sending ripples through the entire cavern.
All the wounded struggled to lift their heads, the same light igniting in their clouded eyes.
A primal hunger for food—and a raw, instinctive yearning for life.
Douglas tapped the rim of the pot with his ladle, the crisp sound drawing everyone's attention.
"Don't just stare," he said, his voice calm yet commanding. "This is for all of you. Healing begins with a full belly. Come, while it's hot."
With those words, the cave came alive.
Douglas directed several uninjured young werewolves to help distribute the golden stew.
The chorus of pain faded, replaced by the sounds of eager swallowing and the clink of bowls and spoons.
The cave's symphony of suffering was swept away by the music of a grand feast.
The aroma was unstoppable, drifting out beyond the mouth of the cave.
Those on watch, or tending to family, caught a whiff. Their stomachs growled in protest.
A little werewolf boy—no more than seven or eight, his face pale with hunger—peeked out from behind his mother. He wasn't injured, but he sniffed hungrily at the air, dark eyes fixed on the big iron pot, mouth watering.
He tugged at Marco's trouser leg, his voice small and hesitant: "Chief... can we eat too?"
The young werewolves who were serving food paused.
This was meant for the wounded.
They didn't dare decide on their own.
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Marco's face as he looked to Douglas for guidance.
After all, was this medicine or a meal? Even he couldn't say for sure anymore, and there was such a large pot...
"Of course you can," Douglas replied, breaking the brief silence.
He winked at the little werewolf, smiling like a street magician who'd just conjured a sweet from thin air.
"This isn't some precious potion. It's just Sicilian-style chicken stew."
He rapped the great cast-iron pot—clang, clang.
"Heal the sick, strengthen the healthy."
"For the wounded, it's a cure for curses."
"It'll also help clear away the old magical scars left by your transformations at the full moon."
"But at its heart, it's a hot meal to fill your stomach."
Douglas looked around at everyone, a gentle smile on his lips.
"So come on, bring your bowls. Tonight, not a single member of the Ashclaw tribe will go to bed hungry."
That promise shattered the last barrier in the hearts of the Ashclaw tribe.
Potions are precious, costly, reserved for the wounded.
But food—food belongs to everyone.
A wave of restrained, almost disbelieving joy swept through the cave.
Children cheered, rushing forward with their little wooden bowls.
Soon, every member of the Ashclaw tribe—old and young, male and female, wounded and whole—was clutching a steaming bowl of stew, eating with blissful abandon.
The cave filled with a strange aroma—a blend of food's warmth and the scent of hope.
Marco watched Douglas's every move.
This powerful wizard offered no condescending charity. Instead, he welcomed everyone to the table like a neighborly cook inviting friends to share a hearty meal.
That kind of equality soothed the soul more than any healing spell.
Sometimes, trust doesn't require grand oaths—just a pot of steaming stew.
All the legends Marco had told his people about Douglas's miracles became, in this moment, something real—something they could taste.
Most of the tribe had been ordinary people, bitten by accident in peaceful times, forced into lycanthropy.
There was no bloodthirsty madness in their bones—only a longing for a normal life.
And what Douglas brought them was, above all else, the taste of that life.
🔥 Want to read the next 50+ chapters RIGHT NOW?
💎 Patreon members get instant access!
⚡ Limited-time offer currently running...
👉 [Join on - patreon.com/GoldenLong]