Aslan’s skyline rises like stacked miracles—needle-towers linked by glass bridges, terraces hanging over terraces, lanterns drifting in lazy orbits along invisible spell-lines. From the lakeward side, the air tastes clean and wet, and the distant roar of docks and sky-carriages is softened by a thousand little warded silence-charms.
The restaurant is built into a cantilevered balcony halfway up a vertical district-spire: The Ascendant Spoon, an upscale place that pretends it isn’t upscale by using words like “taste atelier” and “casual wizard fare.” A ribbon of illusion starlight drifts under the awning, rearranging itself into constellations that don’t exist anywhere in the real sky.
At the entrance, the city’s threshold-barrier makes itself known as a faint pressure on the skin—like a hand hovering near the collar, polite but ready. A pair of carved guardian statues flank the doorway: tall, leonine figures in ceremonial armor, eyes dim as banked coals.
Then the door swings open.
A greeter steps forward with immaculate posture, a crisp vest, and a smile that is technically welcoming.
The only problem is that the smile is too wide, the eyes are too delighted, and the tail—no, surely that’s a fashion accessory—flicks once behind the vest.
“Good evening, valued patrons! Welcome to The Ascendant Spo—” The greeter clears their throat with grave dignity. “—Spoon. Your reservation is under…?”
They produce a ledger and ink-quill with the practiced flourish of someone who has done this a thousand times.
The quill squeaks.
The greeter stares at it, offended on principle, then tries again with even more flourish.
The quill squeaks louder.
From somewhere deeper inside, a muffled voice calls out, “Burenyuu—!” followed by the unmistakable sound of something being flambéed that was never meant to be flambéed.
One of the guardian statues’ eyes brightens by a hair’s breadth, then dims again—as if reconsidering the value of movement.
The greeter leans in conspiratorially, lowering their voice to what they clearly believe is a professional whisper.
“Please ignore the ambience. It is… curated.”
A beat.
“And if you see another member of staff who looks exactly like me, no you didn’t.”
They straighten instantly, all poise again, and gesture inward toward a dining room of floating table-lamps, slow-rotating illusion murals, and diners pretending they aren’t fascinated.
“Right this way!”
The restaurant is built into a cantilevered balcony halfway up a vertical district-spire: The Ascendant Spoon, an upscale place that pretends it isn’t upscale by using words like “taste atelier” and “casual wizard fare.” A ribbon of illusion starlight drifts under the awning, rearranging itself into constellations that don’t exist anywhere in the real sky.
At the entrance, the city’s threshold-barrier makes itself known as a faint pressure on the skin—like a hand hovering near the collar, polite but ready. A pair of carved guardian statues flank the doorway: tall, leonine figures in ceremonial armor, eyes dim as banked coals.
Then the door swings open.
A greeter steps forward with immaculate posture, a crisp vest, and a smile that is technically welcoming.
The only problem is that the smile is too wide, the eyes are too delighted, and the tail—no, surely that’s a fashion accessory—flicks once behind the vest.
Greeter
“Good evening, valued patrons! Welcome to The Ascendant Spo—” The greeter clears their throat with grave dignity. “—Spoon. Your reservation is under…?”
They produce a ledger and ink-quill with the practiced flourish of someone who has done this a thousand times.
The quill squeaks.
The greeter stares at it, offended on principle, then tries again with even more flourish.
The quill squeaks louder.
From somewhere deeper inside, a muffled voice calls out, “Burenyuu—!” followed by the unmistakable sound of something being flambéed that was never meant to be flambéed.
One of the guardian statues’ eyes brightens by a hair’s breadth, then dims again—as if reconsidering the value of movement.
The greeter leans in conspiratorially, lowering their voice to what they clearly believe is a professional whisper.
“Please ignore the ambience. It is… curated.”
A beat.
“And if you see another member of staff who looks exactly like me, no you didn’t.”
They straighten instantly, all poise again, and gesture inward toward a dining room of floating table-lamps, slow-rotating illusion murals, and diners pretending they aren’t fascinated.
“Right this way!”