“Avana, would you set the table?” said Wellworn.

She stepped out into the middle of the clearing and unsheathed an elegantly decorated palm-leaf manuscript from a sheath at her side. It was long and thin, like a folded hand fan. Sheets of narrow parchment were strung together, held tight between two pieces of dark, polished wood. Holding it aloft, she allowed it to unfurl like a roll of blinds, and then she twirled. Her movements were arabesque, like a bird cutting through the air; her shawl catching the wind through her twists and turns. There was a quick spin, and she cracked the manuscript like a whip.

As it struck the ground, several pages dug deep into the dust, spiralling around each other to form paper pillars. Three more times she struck the ground. The pillars were laid out in a rectangular arrangement about a metre and a half by three metres long. Snapping the manuscript back, she broke off several pages of the delicate parchment. Her hands criss-crossed over and around each other like a weaver’s beam as she folded the sheets of parchment. With a flick of her wrist, the sheets suddenly exploded in length, growing to the size of a large door.

She spun around once more, flinging the long sheets horizontally. They spread out over the seven pillars, gliding down gently before settling on top of each other. As they came to rest, they solidified, melding with what became table legs below. The completed table was low enough for everyone to sit comfortably on the ground and still reach the top.

Dawit and Kai rushed to take their spots, Avana shaking her head as she watched them go. Shem tried peeking at the delectable delicacies awaiting them, but Wellworn blocked his view. He took a seat at the bottom of the table. Jonas sat at the opposite corner.

Keon stood staring until Zahara beckoned him with a nod. His eyes roamed across the surface of the table as he approached, running his hand over the gritty, fibrous textures. The tips of his fingers dipped into the ink filled swirls and spirals of a foreign script. The text crisscrossed the entire surface of the table, adding layer upon layer of depth to an already striking piece of furniture.

“How d’you guys do that?”

Wellworn paced around the table towards its head, arms clasped behind his back.

“What you just witnessed is called ‘Forging.’ Torchbearers forge using a Codex; formed the moment he or she sets foot in Underland.”

“Formed?”

Keon felt around under his shawl for the satchel fastened to his back. He could feel the spine of a cloth bound, hardback book, held in place by a clip-on strap. Though attached to his back, the satchel was rigged to a harness, allowing it to be swung round to his side at a moment’s notice.

“There are things in your world that the eye does not see. In Underland, that which is unseen takes physical form; such as your Codex. A written record of your memories, your thoughts, your dreams; even your fears. A physical manifestation of your mind and conscience.”

Keon quickly withdrew his hand. She could never read this.

“Using what’s written in their Codex, a Torchbearer can fashion tools or weapons; make armour or even furniture. They are limited only by their imagination.”

“That sounds pretty cool.”

“It is…if you know how to use it wisely.”

Wellworn gestured for Keon to sit opposite Jonas, next to Zahara. He’d read that, in some cultures, such a spot was considered the seat of honour; sitting at the right hand of the host. Was that the case here, and if so, why was he the guest of honour? The Millionth and Fifth had welcomed him of course, but the first thing Wellworn had done was accuse him of something he was pretty sure he hadn’t done. And now, here he was all smiles and gestures, inviting him to sit and dine at his side. What was his game and how had he hoodwinked so many people into following some King they’d never even met? Was this all part of some ploy, the ‘choice’ he apparently had to make, or just—dinner? What kind of King kidnapped his subjects with the threat of enslavement if they didn’t enlist in his army anyway? A king just like every other corrupt tyrant, president and dictator he’d ever read about it seemed.

Then, just like that, those thoughts subsided, and he was left wondering why he’d gotten so heated and whether he’d been standing there gawping for an obscene amount of time. A glance back at the table showed that they were patiently waiting for him and that Wellworn had gone to serve food with Avana.

There were no utensils save for some walnut cups and bowls. The bread was laid out first in the middle of the table. One bowl of fruit, another of nuts, was set on either side. Next, Wellworn brought two corked, wooden bottles and placed them north and south of the bread. Keon walked round the table to the space saved for him.

Wellworn beamed with a smile that seemed to melt away the scars on his face. In his hand he held a platter of—something. Keon couldn’t quite see it from his vantage point. Necks strained and stretched to catch a peek before it was laid down to exultant gasps on the table.

There was a spread of fried chips made from the roots Avana had brought. Shem’s seaweed had been cut and dried; turned into something glistening, crispy and light; mixed with an assortment of honey-roasted nuts, courtesy of Kai. For the main course, Wellworn had fried a selection of thick omelettes cut into burger sized circles; enough for everyone. Keon could hardly believe that three eggs had produced that much omelette. Then again, they weren’t normal eggs, right? In fact, the group’s haul seemed to have produced far more food than Keon thought possible. Not that he was complaining. He wasn’t about to turn down a free meal when his body was screaming for food.

Avana went around the table filling their cups with a dark crimson liquid. Raising it to his nose, Keon quickly held it back. Was that wine?

Wellworn lifted a piece of bread, broke it and distributed the pieces around both sides of the table. As he raised his cup, they all followed suit. Keon questioned whether to raise his own, so as not to stand out, or stand firm in defiance? He decided to go with a healthy medium; raising it just enough so as not to look odd, but not so high as to affirm whatever they were toasting.

Wellworn looked from side to side, content; and with a voice as soft as a summer breeze, said—

“To the King…”

“TO THE KING!”

Walnut cups knocked, threatening to splatter the merry battallion with blood red droplets. Outside the forest of outstretched arms, Keon glanced at Wellworn who neither sipped nor supped. Not even a drop. He simply raised the cup then set it back down on the table.

Keon held his close to the lips, watching from the corner of his eye before finally setting it down. If Wellworn wasn’t drinking, neither was he.

No sooner had their cups hit the table then the Millionth and Fifth were making for the food. Wellworn eased himself up, took his cup and poured the contents over the fire still burning in the oven. He stopped to savour the smell as a reddish column of steam and smoke rose with the rush of the flames; its life reignited by the spark of ethanol. His gaze followed the cloudy pillar as it rose into the air.

He closed his eyes and smiled.

“Oh my days!”

Keon’s cheeks were stuffed like a hamster.

“Naaaaaah! This ain’t normal! What did you put in this?”

Wellworn sat, elbows on the table; hands clasped in a way that reminded Keon of Mr. Kersey.

“There’s nothing in there you wouldn’t find at home,” he said.

“Like mutant blue eggs?”

“You have blue eggs. They’re laid by robins.”

Keon stopped dead.

“I’m not eating robin, am I?”

Wellworn chuckled silently.

“No.”

Keon shook his head, chewing.

“Praise the lord…”

Keon had sat unsure for several minutes, pondering how to eat an omelette without a knife and fork. Zahara must have anticipated his question because she leant in close and told him to just pick it up and bite it.

He came from a family that always used knives and forks, and always the right way around unless it was chicken legs or mango. Grandad almost keeled over that one time he caught him eating mango with a knife and fork. Mum didn’t hear the last of it for three days. From that point on, unless he was meeting with the Queen or Jesus himself, he dared not eat mango with a knife and fork.

The Millionth and Fifth called this the ‘King’s Table’ and he wondered if, at any point, the King would be joining them; given it was his table and all. Every time he probed his whereabouts, the response was the same. Whether a finger, a thumb, or an upraised arm, they all pointed silently to the ocean above. The ‘King’s Country.’ The Far Reaches of the North.

No matter. The crew were a riot all on their own.

Dawit munched with hearty laughter, like every dish was telling him a joke. Kai reclined as though he had imaginary servants feeding him grapes, tossing bits of broken omelette into his mouth. Shem seemed to forget he was among friends; guarding his food as if anyone could steal it at a moment’s notice. Avana actually relaxed—like—a lot. Maybe it was the wine, but she even cracked a smile. She was pretty when she smiled! But the strangest one was Jonas. Keon wasn’t sure how, but his bowl had been completely emptied. He never even saw him pull down the mask! How on earth did he do it? Maybe he didn’t have a jaw, just a hole he could toss food into.

When Zahara saw that Keon had cleared his bowl of crispy seaweed, she offered him her portion. He declined at first, but only out of politeness.

Wellworn really was a master chef, from the nuts to the cranberries to the root fries. And the bread! The bread he’d somehow smelt from the moment Underland crept out from beneath his bed. Even if he was stuck here without a way home; trudging through the forest, running from those creatures and facing Wellworn’s stare felt worth it just to taste this bread. The crisp crackle as the first layer crunched between his teeth, releasing plumes of buttery steam. The cushion of the honey-like inner dough. The fragile wafers that melted on the tongue like snowflakes. Everything tinted with the slight spice of olive oil. It was a symphony of textured flavours sliding down his oesophagus.

Keon kicked back, lip smacking loudly with his face still half stuffed.

“So, this ‘Torchbearing’ thing; you said it’d be easier if you showed me.”

“We have,” Wellworn nodded.

Keon looked around in search of what he’d obviously missed.

“How? When?”

Wellworn surveyed the table, arms outstretched.

“This is the heart of what it means to be a Torchbearer. Every element of the Feast was gathered by a member of this battalion. Without everyone’s contribution, this meal would not be possible.”

“And forging? What’s that about?”

“Forging is a tool, given to help bring light to the world. It is at the King’s Table that you learn one of the principles necessary to do it.”

“Which is?”

“How you share a meal reveals the heart of who you are, and who you are determines whether you will forge only for yourself—or for others. Will you keep the last of what you love, or give it away? Will you seek to be first, even if it means stepping over another? One can forge using anything written within a Codex, but a Torchbearer must only forge according to the edict of the King.”

“Why?”

“Because the Codex is a gift given to do good. It’s not for one to wield trivially as they see fit. Abuse of the Codex is what gave birth to Mynds.”

“Minds? As in consciousness?”

“Minds with a ‘Y’ instead of an ‘I’ bro,” called Kai, tossing a honey-roasted peanut into his mouth.

“The creatures that attacked you in the forest. Malevolent ideas and rogue thoughts; hostile to the King and all who would serve him,” said Wellworn.

“Those things were ideas. Living ideas…” said Keon with an upturned brow.

“Think about it. An idea can spread like a sickness or be as deadly as any weapon. In Underland, those sicknesses are real, and those weapons can harm you. Selfish thoughts and dangerous ideas—they all become Mynds.”

Keon audibly swallowed.

“And that’s why you guys are here? To fight bad ideas?”

“Not just fight them, but free people from them.”

Keon eyes grew still; his mind hanging on those last few words.

“We’re fighting a war, Keon. A war that every human being, whether conscious or not, has been born into.”

Wellworn stared ahead as though the tale was unfolding like a scroll across the table.

“On the dawn of the first day, when he raised the land on pillars and barred gates across the oceans; the King gifted the first Torchbearers with these,” he said, gently placing a palm on Keon’s back just over his Codex. “The ability to give life to the imagination and forge wonders on his behalf.

“Instead, they used their Codices to forge wicked devices born of their own selfish inclinations; all at the behest of the Morningstars. What was meant to bring light plunged the world into darkness.”

Keon stuffed another morsel of bread into his mouth.

“Wait, the Morningstars?”

Wellworn lowered his gaze, as though reliving an old wound.

“They were the first of the King’s subjects. Administrators of the Royal Court appointed to mentor the first Torchbearers. They saw humanity’s frailty, his innocence and grew suspicious. They demanded that mankind’s fidelity to the Throne be tested. In truth, they were conspiring to usurp the rule of Underland for themselves, using the test as a pretence.”

“How? What did they do?”

“They sold man a deception; that they were masters of their own destiny. They could serve the King or they could seize the Throne for themselves.”

“Sounds like they gave them a choice…” said Keon, with a hint of sarcasm.

Wellworn turned to him, stern.

“All choices have consequences. They tried—many times—to overthrow the King, even going so far as to storm the Far Reaches…and so, the King divided Underland in two and banished them to the Lowlands. They were forbidden even from seeing his face. Not to be denied, they used their Codices to establish their own empires, building monuments to their own ‘greatness’ they called Strongholds. They fought wars amongst themselves for dominance, unleashing armies of Mynds against each other in the process. The Lowlands became overrun. The sky grew dark with the ashes of slain Mynds. Where there was warmth, the land fell cold. Where there was light, it was quickly extinguished.

“On its darkest day, the King sent the Morningstars to the Lowlands. They were meant to offer guidance; to restore order and light to the world, but instead they saw opportunity. They crowned themselves kings and took control of the Lowlands. To this day, they keep the hearts and minds of all the Unlit captive within Strongholds, blinded to the truth.”

“What truth?”

“That there is one King who rules the world beyond the walls…that all others are pretenders to the Throne.”

Keon sat, processing.

“So, how do you fight back?”

“We tear the Strongholds down, brick by brick. One day, when all those loyal to the King have been set free, he will march upon the Lowlands and reunite all of Underland. The reign of the Morningstars will come to an end.”

“And that’s why I’m here? To help free your guy?”

“No. He was already free, Keon. He forfeited that freedom trying to free you.”

“What?” Keon scoffed, “I mean, if I was enslaved, wouldn’t I know about it? Wouldn’t I be tryna’ fight back?”

“Not if you were convinced that your prison was a path to freedom.”

“Well, it’s funny ‘cause the only place I feel trapped right now is here…”

“You’re not our captive, Keon. One of our own risked his life to bring you here.”

“I didn’t ask him to! Why’d he even bother? Who’s he to me?”

Wellworn paused, his eyes searching Keon’s.

“He— is your father.”