A Spoonful of Penance

The sweet scent of candy wafted through the walls of her peanut brittle house. She was making a fresh batch of confections, spun sugar drifting like gossamer on an ethereal breeze across the kitchen.

Her blue hair was tied in a messy bun atop her head, soft tendrils curling around her heart-shaped face. Violet eyes, bright and knowing, watched the sugar in the pot bubble as it reached the perfect temperature. With practiced hands, she added a single drop of essence of life and a few mintleaf droplets, murmuring an old rhyme under her breath.

Most knew her only as Gramma Nut . Her crimes in Selenia had been heinous—unspeakable, really. But that was a lifetimes ago. Now she lived in The Plates , a sentence for the rest of her days. It was there, in that strange exile, that the magic overtook her, transforming her into what she is now: a sugar-obsessed lich, wrapped in sweetness and shadows.

She prefers Anastasia—or Ana, for short.

Her kitchen companion was a small gingerbread boy named Chips. A pudgy little thing with pastel frosting and a crooked smile, he moved with surprising grace, carefully spooning sugar into candy molds. His wide, glossy eyes—made of royal icing—blinked up at her with devotion.

“My lady,” came his sweet, reedy voice as he stirred a pot with his tiny, sugared arms. “Today is the day. The Portals open—for your break.”

“Is it time already?” she asked, brushing sugar dust from her apron.

Her break only came once every hundred years. That was the rule.

Only then was she allowed to leave The Plates—a strange, sealed pocket dimension crafted by the deity Magnon, the Mayo God. One did not simply travel to The Plates. It couldn’t be reached by ordinary means. It was a place outside time, a realm of endless kitchens and salted skies. She had been sent there to serve her penance, sealed away for the terrible things she had done

But the break…
Ah, the break was her escape—brief, unpredictable, and precious.

When the time came, two portals would open somewhere in her candy-coated house, each leading to an unknown place. Sometimes they brought her to far corners of Astrovos, and sometimes to entirely different worlds.

She turned as Chips took over the candy-making, his chubby hands steady with the molds.

Ana grabbed her coat, a small bag of gold coins—it wasn’t much—and a satchel of her pastel skull-shaped candies. Sweet little things, filled with echoes of memory and life.

Where would the doors take her this time? She wondered

The air crackled with a thrum of magic—a distinct hum that filled the room—as the portals opened.

The one on the left revealed a forest veiled in deep emerald greens. The air that drifted through smelled fresh and clean, like moss after rain. Just beyond the trees, she caught sight of a curious little house shaped like a mushroom.

The portal on the right was different—strange and cold. It opened onto a landscape blanketed in snow, the sky pale and silent. A single house stood there, distant and still, its windows dark.

Ana’s eyes flicked between them, uncertain.

Then she heard it—the sweet sound of birdsong drifting from the emerald portal. Soft and bright, it wrapped around her like sunlight.

With a deep breath, she stepped through the portal. The feeling, as always, was jarring and strange—like her very veins were pulsing with ancient magic. As she emerged, she glamoured herself to appear as young as she once was—as Ana. Her features softened, her lines faded. In these brief hours of freedom, she wished to be nothing more than a passerby.

The air greeted her in layers: the sharp tang of a forge, the briny scent of fish, and beneath it all, the deep, earthy perfume of the forest.

Her boots made a muted sound against the woodland grass. Hopefully, she wouldn’t stand out too much.

She paused, taking in the village around her. It sprawled both above and below, tucked into the embrace of the trees. The canopy overhead shimmered in faceted shades of green, casting dappled shadows on the mossy ground. The trees here were old—like her—and wise in their silence.

Distant voices drifted through the air, and Ana walked carefully, watching her steps among the tiny blossoms carpeting the forest floor. Real flowers. She crouched to pick a small pink one and tucked it into her empty satchel. The color reminded her of pink icing.

She listened to the stream babble and flow nearby, letting its rhythm settle her nerves. With a quiet breath, she called on her magic—just enough to understand the local speech and to mask her voice, giving it the lilt of someone from the area. She didn’t want to draw too much attention.

But there was one thing she had forgotten.

Her hair—vibrant teal-blue—and her eyes, that unmistakable violet. These she could never hide, never undo. They were marks left behind by what she had once become, touched and forever altered by the dreadful Dae.

As she stepped into the village proper, she noticed the glances—curious, cautious. Wood elves and half-elves watched her from under hooded brows. She met their stares with a soft, polite smile and continued forward with the slow, steady cadence of someone who was merely passing through.

There was a forge nearby, glowing gently beneath the trees. She could smell the heat of iron and the sharp tang of coal. But it was the tavern that caught her attention first.

It had the earthy, welcoming scent of hearty meals and baked root vegetables, and was nestled within the hollowed body of a massive, long-dead tree. The structure was striking—twisting branches fused into balconies and archways, its bark polished smooth by generations of hands. A hand-painted sign swung gently from an iron hook above the door, reading:

The Emerald Barrel.

She stepped inside, and the soft creak of her boots against the floor drew a few glances. Eyes turned toward her. Once again, she offered a polite smile, calm and unreadable, before making her way to the bar.

Her skirts shifted as she sat, ankles crossed neatly on the bottom rung of the stool. Her violet eyes met those of the wood elf behind the counter, who was polishing a tankard with a practiced hand. He was tall, with a lithe build and the quiet grace of old trees. Ana wasn’t even sure she was still on Astrovos—probably not. She might have heard of this place in passing, but it felt faintly like Mothalsia. Not quite touched by fey magic, but something close. Quiet. Rooted. Watching.

“Welcome to the Emerald Barrel,” he said, his voice deep and calm, like wind moving through pine. “What are you drinking, miss?”

She tilted her head slightly, looking up to meet his gaze. “What do you suggest?”

“The Wanderer’s Rest?” he offered. “It’s a brown ale. Most folks like it. Or perhaps the Barkskin Bitter.”

“Barkskin Bitter,” she echoed with a soft smile. “I’m afraid I’m always surrounded by sweets. Something grounded might be good.”

He gave a nod and turned to the wall of kegs behind him. She watched as he approached the one marked Barkskin Bitter. With a flick of his wrist, he held out a thick-handled tankard, turned the spigot, and let the ale pour in a steady stream. A frothy head bubbled over slightly; he wiped the side clean with a well-worn cloth and a small flourish before placing it gently in front of her.

“Hope it cuts the sugar,” he said with the faintest smirk.

She raised the tankard to her lips. The first taste was sharp—bitter and pungent on the tongue, like tree bark steeped in shadow. Then it bloomed into something woodsy, rich with malt and grain. Smooth in texture, it lingered on her tongue with a faint, effervescent tickle. Cool, earthy, and alive.

She set the tankard down with a soft clunk, eyes bright.
“That’s delightful,” she exclaimed, her voice edged with surprised pleasure. She hadn’t tasted anything so refreshing in ages. Perhaps it was truly special… or perhaps it was simply her, finally tasting something un-sweet, un-familiar.

Either way, the barkeep offered her a real smile.

“We don’t get many beer-drinking ladies in here,” he said with a short laugh. “Not many who like bitter beers, either. I’m Dain.” He extended a hand across the bar.

“Ana,” she replied, curling her fingers around his in a light, polite shake.

The contact, small though it was, sent a quiet jolt through her. Touch had become rare in exile. Her hand lingered slightly longer than she meant, her fingers trailing across his palm as she withdrew. Dain’s expression didn’t shift much, but she caught the flicker of curiosity in his eyes.

“So, if you only had a few hours here…” she asked, taking another deep drink of the bitter ale, then licking her lips thoughtfully, “what would you do?”

Her question hung in the air, light but intentional.

By now, a small group of travelers and villagers had begun to pay quiet attention to her conversation with Dain. She noticed the way some chairs had shifted just slightly, how the low murmur of the tavern seemed to hush around them.

Dain took a moment before answering. This wasn’t a place for sightseeing—people didn’t come here for leisure. They passed through. Still, something in her voice, or maybe those unusual violet eyes, told him she was asking for something deeper.

“Maybe…” he said slowly, “visit the herbalist. Take in the view from the canopy level.. Enjoy the quiet. The nature. Let it get under your skin.”

Ana gave a small, genuine smile. “Maybe I’ll do that.”
She placed a gold piece on the counter. Dain took it without comment, tucking it away like it was nothing more than a leaf blown across the bar.

Then, with a tilt of his head, he asked, “Hungry?”

His voice had softened, but he wasn’t the only one interested now. She glanced around. More eyes were on her—wood elves, half-elves—leaning in, curious, attentive. Her cheeks flushed just slightly at the attention.

“I could eat,” she admitted, brushing her fingers along the rim of her glass.

She paused, then asked with a sly tilt of her head, “Do you like candy?”

Dain nodded, tossing a cloth over his shoulder as he disappeared into the kitchen.

He returned a few minutes later with a steaming plate of stew. Thick chunks of meat, vegetables, and mushrooms swam in a deep, rich gravy that filled the air with warmth and spice. He set it down gently in front of her with a slice of thick, buttered bread on the side.

Ana’s eyes lit with quiet hunger. Real food. Hearty food. Nothing cursed, nothing trying to eat her back. Thank the gods for today’s brief, precious respite.

She reached into her bag and, with a subtle flick of her fingers, glamoured the candies inside. The tiny skulls shimmered and shifted until they resembled soft, delicate sweet pillows. From them, she chose a pale green one that sparkled faintly in the afternoon light.

As Dain slid the stew in front of her, she held the candy out in her open palm.

He looked at it, then at her, curious. Without hesitation, he plucked the small sweet from her hand, his fingers brushing her skin. She watched with quiet satisfaction as he placed it into his mouth.

At the same time, she dipped her spoon into the stew and took a bite.

A soft sound escaped her lips—a gentle, pleased hum. The meat was tender, the kind of wild game that coated the tongue in richness. The gravy was deep, layered with ale and herbs. It danced across her palate like memory and warmth.

She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring it.

Dain looked like he might weep.

The flavor couldn’t be captured in words. He stared at her, stunned, silent. For a heartbeat, the Emerald Barrel felt impossibly still.

Ana paused mid-motion, her fingers hovering above the thick, crusty bread. She waited.

“It tastes like…” he began, his voice low and rough around the edges, “my mother’s berry tarts. The ones she made when I was a child.”

He looked at her again—truly looked—and there was something new flickering in his gaze. Not just curiosity. Recognition. Wonder. Maybe even a touch of reverence.

“Perhaps,” he said quietly, “I’ll take you to see the Canopy myself. After you finish that.”

He signaled to another barkeep, his tone gentler now, less the host and more the man behind it.

Ana smiled faintly. “It’s wonderful,” she murmured, dipping a torn piece of bread into the stew.

The warm crust, the butter rich as gold, the stew clinging to it like memory—she let the flavors settle over her like a balm.

They wandered the Emerald Canopy in quiet companionship. Ana was grateful for the guide. Dain didn’t speak much, and she appreciated the silence—felt it like a kindness. She tried not to let the sorrow of this fleeting day creep too deeply into her chest.

Eventually, he brought her to the herbalist’s shop, tucked under the roots of a massive tree. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of crushed leaves, blossoms, and something bright and citrusy. The walls were strung with bundles of drying herbs. It smelled alive.

A tall elf stood at the counter, dressed in a soft blue tunic and leggings, sleeves rolled as she worked a mortar and pestle with smooth, rhythmic movements.

“Dain,” the elf said, raising a finely arched brow, “you never leave the Emerald Barrel.”

“Good a day as any,” Dain replied with a small shrug. “Ana only has a few hours. Thought she might like your shop. She makes candy.”

Ana turned at the mention of her name, quiet as she listened. The herbalist’s features were gentle—not the kind you saw among the Crumpetkin of the Honey Meadows, all sugar-crusted and frenetic, nor the flaming hellepeños with their fiery scythes and habanero roars. No, this place had a quiet soul. A soft rhythm. To her, even the mundane was a miracle.

“You make candy?” Alias asked, her voice laced with genuine curiosity. “We don’t get that around here often.”

Ana offered her a smile and reached into her bag. The sweets inside, glamoured into soft, pastel pillows, sparkled faintly. She selected a lavender one and placed it gently into Alias’s palm.

Alias popped the candy into her mouth. Her eyes widened slightly as she savored it, a soft hum rising in her throat.

“It tastes like my grandmother’s honeythorn clusters,” she said, licking her lips. “But there’s something else—something I can’t quite name.”

“Just enjoy the memory,” Ana whispered, eyes tracing the rows of tiny glass bottles that lined the herbalist’s shelves.

Dain leaned against the wall, arms crossed—not tense, but watchful. There was something in his posture that made Ana feel like a guest with boundaries. A gentle reminder: don’t pry too deeply into the Emerald Canopy.

She noticed it in the way her questions were gently deflected—no talk of the village’s deeper workings, only stories about mushroom houses, or the stream, or the flowers that grew wild in sun-dappled corners. Peculiar, but not unkind.

Ana picked up a vial of crushed sweet berries, the powder a soft, brushed pink.

“That would go lovely in candy,” Alias offered with a warm smile. “We usually use it to help medicine taste better for children.”

Ana nodded, leaving a few gold coins on the counter. Alias tucked them away quickly, without fuss, and handed over the vial. The exchange passed in quiet understanding. The herbalist, still caught in the spell of the candy’s flavor and memory, watched them go with a distant smile.

Outside, Dain guided her to a rope ladder, then up to a rope bridge suspended high between two great trees. From there, she could truly see the Emerald Canopy the way he did.

She paused at the top and drew a breath of clean, earthy air. The view stole something out of her—something aching and beautiful. The tiny village below looked like a dream made real. The tops of mushroom houses were like plush pillows from this height, and she could just make out the Emerald Barrel tucked among the trees. The backwards house really did look more backwards from here, as if designed to be seen from above.

The breeze played through the loose tendrils of her hair. The stream murmured somewhere below. For a moment—just a fleeting, breathless moment—Ana felt normal. Whole. Herself.

And then, she felt it: the subtle pull of the Plates, the weave of her prison beginning to stitch itself back around her.

“I should probably get going,” she said softly to Dain, still leaning on the edge of the rope bridge beside him.

“You could stay,” he offered.

Gods, how she wished she could.

She looked up at him. His dark hair stirred in the wind. For once, she wasn’t a lich sentenced to eternal penance. He wasn’t a stranger. Just a man. Just a woman. In a village already beginning to fade.

And then—he kissed her. Unprompted. Gentle and sure. And she kissed him back.

It was a moment she would carry with her forever.

She stayed in the warmth of his arms, her forehead brushing against his collarbone. She didn’t let him speak. Instead, she pulled a piece of parchment from her bag, her fingers trembling just slightly as she began to draw. Quick, sure strokes formed a small tavern sign.

It was beautiful.

“Ana’s Breath,” it read, the letters curling like sugared smoke. Tiny skulls shaped like frosted cakes adorned the corners—her quiet signature.

“You’re going to brew something extraordinary,” she teased, her voice unsteady. “Name it after me.”

She pressed the sign into his hand, the paper crinkled with her touch as she pressed into his palm.

In turn, he took her wrist and slipped something around it—a simple leather bracelet, soft and worn, warm from his skin. “So you remember,” was all he said.

Behind her, the portal opened with a soft, spiraling hum.

“I have to go,” she whispered.

She stepped back. Slowly. Carefully. Trying not to cry. Trying not to falter.

She had been given a good day. And she would remember.