The Aurum Academy boardroom is a place of cold, calculated power. It is a room of dark wood, polished chrome, and a single, monstrous table that looks less like furniture and more like a sacrificial altar. Seated around it are the academy's board members—aging aristocrats, stern financiers, and legacy academics—their faces a gallery of grim self-importance.
At the head of the table, in the Chairman's seat, sits Gideon Marche. He is not a guest; he is a conqueror, presiding over the formal surrender of his new territory. Provost Holt sits to his right, a pale, sycophantic ghost, his signature already drying on the preliminary acquisition documents.
"…and so," Marche is saying, his voice a smooth, confident purr that fills the room, "with the swift and decisive handling of the recent 'biohazard' incident, Marche Corp is poised to guide Aurum into a new era of standardized, predictable, and profitable excellence. Our first order of business will be the full patenting and synthesis of the…" he pauses, a flicker of distaste crossing his features, "...'Golden Spore' anomaly."
A board member, a timid woman in pearls, clears her throat. "And the student responsible, Mr. Veston? What becomes of him?"
Marche gives a dismissive wave of his hand. "He will be compensated for his... contribution, and then he will be an alumnus. In absentia. We find it best that volatile, creative assets are kept at a comfortable distance from the production line."
The meaning is clear. Caelan will be paid, silenced, and erased.
The great oak doors of the boardroom swing open with a soft, authoritative groan.
Every head turns.
Chef Barthol Maillard stands there. He is not in his formal judging attire. He is in his working chef's whites, smudged with the dirt and grime of the tunnels. He looks not like an administrator, but like a warrior who has just come from the battlefield.
Holt leaps to his feet. "Maillard! This is a closed-door meeting! Security!"
"Relax, Vesper," Maillard rumbles, his voice filling the room with a calm, gravitational force. He walks toward the table, and no one dares to stop him. He is carrying a simple, unadorned silver tray. On the tray are two objects: a small, clean, unlabled glass bottle containing a perfectly clear liquid, and a single, beautiful crystal tasting glass.
Marche watches him with a predatory amusement. "Barthol. Always one for the dramatic flourish. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
"Tradition," Maillard replies, his voice like stones grinding together. "Before any great new venture at this academy, it is tradition for the board to taste the very best of what our students have produced. A toast. To the future of Aurum."
He places the tray on the polished surface of the table, directly in front of Gideon Marche. He uncorks the small bottle. The air in the sterile, air-conditioned room is instantly transformed.
A complex, breathtaking aroma fills the space. The earthy soul of a potato, the wild tang of a living yeast, the clean fire of a perfect distillation. It is a scent that is utterly, primordially real. It is an olfactory rebellion in the heart of the corporate machine.
The board members, connoisseurs of expensive and sterile things, lean forward, their nostrils flaring with unwilling curiosity.
Marche stares at the bottle. He knows, instinctively, that this is a challenge. "A charming sentiment, Barthol," he says, his voice losing a fraction of its smoothness. "But we are in the middle of some very important—"
"It will only take a moment," Maillard insists. He pours a single, perfect measure of the clear spirit into the crystal glass. The liquid is so pure it seems to magnify the light.
He then takes the small salt cellar he had carried with him. He dips a finger in, and retrieves a single, perfect flake of sea salt. He drops it into the spirit.
"A distiller's tradition," he explains to the silent room. "A single grain of salt. To 'awaken' the spirit. To reveal its true character."
He slides the glass in front of Gideon Marche. "To the future," Maillard says again, his eyes locking with the billionaire's.
It is a public, undeniable challenge. In front of his newly acquired board, Marche cannot refuse without looking weak, without looking like a man who is afraid of the very product he claims to be championing.
His lips thin into a bloodless smile. "Very well."
He picks up the glass. He swirls it, observing the legs, his motions a practiced parody of a true connoisseur. He raises it to his lips. The entire room holds its breath.
He takes a small sip.
The effect is not dramatic. He does not choke. He does not cry out.
Something far more terrifying happens.
Gideon Marche… freezes.
His hand, holding the glass, remains suspended in the air. His eyes, a moment ago so full of predatory intelligence, go wide and unfocused. All the cunning, all the calculation, all the corporate armor he has worn for his entire life, simply dissolves.
For the first time, Caelan had not created a dish. He had distilled an essence. The Golden Spore, born of struggle, purified by fire, carried in the spirit, was not just a flavor.
It was a truth serum.
The boon of this drink, the most powerful boon he had ever created, was not joy, or warmth, or even resilience. It was absolute, inescapable honesty.
Marche's carefully constructed façade, his lifetime of lies and leveraged buyouts and hostile takeovers, is stripped away by a single, perfect drop. He is no longer Gideon Marche, CEO. He is just Gideon. A boy who once ate a real potato from his grandfather's garden. A man who chose profit over passion so long ago he forgot there was ever a choice.
A single, lonely, pathetic tear rolls down his cheek. He is tasting everything he has lost.
"It… tastes…" he whispers, his voice no longer a purr, but the small, lost voice of a child, "…real."
He looks around the boardroom, at the stunned faces of his new acquisitions. His eyes are filled with a dawning, cosmic horror. The horror of a man who has just woken up from a 50-year dream to find that he has become the monster.
"What…" he gasps, looking at the acquisition documents on the table as if they are a death warrant he has just signed for himself.
"What have I done?"