Chapter 6: Heroes Around the Hotpot

With Silver Hollow secure, the New Union’s future suddenly looked bright. Three months later, in the Union camp, the air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke, fresh bread, and sizzling sausage. Soldiers lounged around campfires, swapping stories and passing bottles of root beer and whiskey. The tension of war faded, if only for a night.

Second Lord Garrett’s face was twice as red as usual, while Third Lord Booker plunged his big hands into the pot to fish for shrimp. Grant was sweating bullets from the spiciness.

The tent was alive with laughter. Someone strummed a banjo in the corner, and the sound of dice rolling mixed with the bubbling hotpot. It felt more like a backyard barbecue than a war council.

Seeing him struggle, I leaned over and whispered, "General, this is a two-flavor hotpot. If the spicy side’s too much, stick to the mild."

I nudged the pot toward him, grinning. Grant wiped his brow and shot me a grateful look.

Grant and Wyatt exchanged glances, then burst out laughing.

Wyatt slapped the table, his laughter booming. Even the usually stoic Garrett let out a hearty chuckle.

"Mr. Cole’s hotpot packs more punch than the enemy," the General joked, raising his bowl in a mock toast as steam curled around his face.

"Back at Oak Valley, the enemy pressed hard, but the advisor never broke a sweat. Now he’s sweating over chili peppers!"

Wyatt winked, his eyes twinkling. "Guess you finally met your match, General."

Faced with their teasing, Grant grinned sheepishly. "This chili’s the real deal."

He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, cheeks flushed. The whole tent erupted in good-natured ribbing.

With the Southern threat gone, Grant wrote to the General and his top commanders about me. Tonight, the Union’s greatest heroes gathered for a hotpot feast.

The table was crowded with bowls, bottles, and laughter. I felt like I’d stepped into a Norman Rockwell painting—if Rockwell had ever painted war heroes with shrimp tails stuck to their chins.

Second Lord Garrett was the first to arrive. He bowed deeply. "If not for your warning, Silver Hollow would’ve fallen. I’d have deserved a thousand deaths."

He straightened, eyes shining with gratitude. The sincerity in his voice made my throat tighten.

His bow nearly knocked the wind out of me. Saint Garrett, the Patron of Fortune, bowing to me? I was flustered beyond belief.

I stammered something, cheeks burning. Garrett just grinned and clapped me on the back, nearly sending me flying.

Booker was blunt as ever, asking about whiskey right away. I handed him a bottle of Kentucky’s best, and he was so happy he slapped me on the shoulder—almost breaking me in half.

He popped the cork with his teeth, took a swig, and let out a whoop that shook the tent. "Now that’s the good stuff!"

When the General arrived, the Union’s strongest sat together around the hotpot, eating and dreaming of the future.

As the night wore on, we shared stories, hopes, and regrets. In that moment, surrounded by legends, I realized history wasn’t just something you read—it was something you lived, one spicy bite at a time.