The table was filled with plates of different sizes, each white with an intricate pattern around its rim. It was hard for the guests not to stare at the design that was woven between the white chrysanthemums and lilies. Spatters of red mark where human-shaped figures dance or lie atop one another. 

The food itself looked divine: noodles, stews, rice, pasta, and pies, filled with meats, cheese and vegetables. Each brings a new and intriguing fragrance: spice, sweet, sour, and savoury—side dishes of bao buns, mini quiches, spring rolls, and garlic bread. There was something for everyone. 

The guests took their seats at the round table, their empty plates begging to be piled high with food. Two glasses sat at either side, one filled with water, the other waiting for the wine. Servers, one for each person, dressed in white shirts and black trousers, maroon aprons covering them, began pouring the deep red liquid into crystal glasses. Summer fruits with a hint of something unrecognisable beneath them were inhaled as they were lifted to noses before being consumed.        

Their host approached, dressed in a black suede suit. The top three buttons of his ebony shirt lay open, revealing his pale flesh beneath. His features schooled into a welcoming expression, his dark gaze washing over each of the evening's guests. 

The thick drapes shut out the silent night beyond, allowing the soft music to echo around the vast room. The cabinets displayed an assortment of artefacts that their host had collected from his travels: Urns from Egypt, Rome and Greece—an Ankh, scarab beetles, masks, and broken sections of sarcophagi. The stormy grey walls are adorned with athames, chakrams and axes, along with art depicting battlefields, altars and death standing in a garden of wilted flowers.  

The host's rose-tinted lips curved in a lopsided smile as he lifted his glass, extending his arm over his place setting. “Begin.” The one word spoken in a resonant, relaxing voice that eased the guests, all their stress and anxiety slipping from their tightly wound bodies. 

As they reached the table, grabbing ladles of steamy stew or fluffy white rice, the music faded. A woman dressed in white satin sat in the corner of the grand room and began to pluck the nylon strings of a dark wooden harp. She was crafting a mellow tune that drifted and flowed as plates piled with boiled vegetables, a song that reverberated with each forkful of spiced noodles or cheesy pasta. 

The guests settled into the rhythm, chatting away without a care for their host, standing tall and straight at the head of the table. The servers moved in synchronised steps to stand beside the chairs holding empty decanters, unnoticed and unheard, and waited.  

One by one, heads drooped and ceramic clattered. Food fell to the floor, encouraged by the hands dragging bowls over the edge of the table. The room fell into silence, and the master of the house smiled, revealing his pristine white teeth, his canines extending subtly over his lower lip. 

“Begin,” he says again as the severs drew thin daggers from their sleeves and delicately punctured into the trachea and the carotid artery at either side. As a red river flowed, they gently slid a thin tube through the hole, the sweet metallic tang obliterating the destroyed feast and watched with exhilarating hunger. 

The music drifted into a silent stream as death claimed its price and the Master and his servants feasted long into the night.