Page 1 of Glutton for Punishment

Prologue - 299 Years Ago

Gluttony Councilor Forest West

The carriage stops in front of a moss-covered cottage.

I stare out the window at the aging wooden structure surrounded by overgrown brush and untamed wilderness, convinced for a moment that my driver has made a mistake.

“Why are we here?” I demand.

The valet remains still beside the carriage door, clearly trained not to react to the irritation of those above his station.

“This is where Councilor Evander instructed me to take you, my lord.”

I look back toward the cottage.

What is Ellias playing at?

I have dealt with Sloth Councilor's peculiarities for years. I have learned that patience is required when dealing with the man. He does not concern himself with appearances, reputation, or the endless political games the rest of us have mastered.

While the rest of us built alliances, expanded our influence, and secured our factions’ futures, Ellias buried himself among dusty books and forgotten relics.

I have called him stuck in the past more than once. The rest of the Council calls him unsettling.

Neither assessment is entirely incorrect.

Still, when it comes down to it, I’m confident I am the closest thing he has to an ally because I am the only one who has mastered the patience.

It’s worth it to have another vote thrown my way.

But this unusual request bothers me. Ellias does not summon people or ask for favors.

He has spent decades content to sit in his corner of the Council chamber, observing while the rest of us argue and negotiate. A man who has spent his entire life avoiding attention does not suddenly request a private meeting without reason.

I step out of the carriage and immediately regret my decision to wear my finer clothing.

The path leading toward the cottage is barely a path at all. The grass has grown wild, branches hang low over the walkway, and it looks as though someone abandoned the entire property decades ago.

My boots sink into the uneven ground as thorns catch the fabric of my trousers, pulling against the expensive material.

“This had better be worth my time,” I mutter.

I continue toward the cottage, brushing dirt from my sleeve as I approach.

The entire situation is absurd.

The wooden door opens before I knock.

“Forest, you’re here. Good. Good. Come in.”

I am more surprised that Councilor Evander answers the door himself than I am by the state of the man standing before me. He looks as if he has aged decades since our last Council meeting. His skin is pale and wrinkled; his fingers stained black from years of handling relics and materials that most sensible people would never touch without protective gloves. Heavy brows shadow his sunken eyes. His unkempt, shoulder-length hair, a messy mix of gray and white strands, suggests he has not seen a mirror in weeks.

His expression is bright and almost eager, as if I were a welcome guest at a pleasant social event, not a Councilor summoned to a run-down cottage with a list of rare potion ingredients.

He steps aside, motioning me indoors.

Books and ancient artifacts cover every surface in the room. Stacks of parchment lean precariously against the walls. Strange metallic objects, pieces of armor, and relic fragments sit scattered across tables.

Ellias moves toward a small wooden stool buried beneath what appears to be an entire library’s worth of books. Without hesitation, he removes the stack and places it on the floor beside him before gesturing for me to sit.