Building a still in a sewer is not a glorious process.
It is a grimy, clanking, desperate act of engineering, performed in near-darkness with the enthusiasm of mad scientists. Lucien, to everyone's surprise, reveals a deep, latent understanding of thermal dynamics, a holdover from a brief, rebellious teenage phase where he tried to build a rocket in his family's wine cellar. Talia knows the secrets of airflow and pressure from a lifetime of tinkering with farm equipment. Nyra's precise mind is perfect for calculating angles and ensuring seals are tight.
Their "still" is a Frankenstein's monster of forgotten things. The copper pipe becomes the pot. A series of smaller, scavenged tubes becomes the condenser coil, which they run through a basin of constantly refreshed cold water, fed by the steady drip from the ceiling. They use a mixture of mud and shredded fabric to seal the joints.
It is a rickety, insane, and beautiful creation.
While they build, Mira works her quiet magic. Huddled in her corner, she becomes a digital ghost, sliding through firewalls, bypassing security protocols. Finally, after an hour of tense silence, she looks up, a triumphant gleam in her eyes.
"I'm in," she whispers. "I have a one-time use, encrypted channel directly to Chef Maillard's personal terminal. Thirty-second window. What's the message?"
All eyes turn to Caelan.
"Tell him this," he says, his words measured, a coded recipe of their own. "The ugly potato is ready for its final press. The angel's share will be poured tomorrow at dawn. The guest of honor must bring the salt."
Mira's fingers fly across her screen. The message is sent. The channel closes. Now, all they can do is wait, and trust in the cryptic poetry of their plan.
By the time their contraption is ready, the potato wine has finished its ferocious, accelerated fermentation. It is no longer bubbling, but sits as a cloudy, potent-smelling liquid. They carefully pour it into the copper pot and begin to apply heat—a small, controlled flame from a maintenance worker's discarded blowtorch, handled with surgical precision by Nyra.
The process of distillation begins. The wait is agonizing. For hours, there is only the faint hiss of the flame, the drip-drip-drip of the cooling water, and the slow, heavy beat of their own hearts.
Then, it happens.
From the end of their scavenged copper coil, a single, clear drop of liquid appears. It hangs for a moment, shimmering in the low light, a perfect, crystalline tear.
Then another. And another. A slow, steady drip-drip-drip into the single, clean glass bottle they have reserved for it.
The smell that fills the small cavern is unlike anything they have ever experienced. It is not the rough, raw scent of moonshine. It is breathtakingly pure. It carries the ghost of the potato's earthy sweetness, the sharp, funky tang of the Golden Spore's fermentation, and a clean, mineral finish that speaks of the very stones of the academy's foundation. It smells of soil, of struggle, and of transcendence.
By the time the first rays of dawn begin to filter through a distant storm grate, they have collected less than a cup of the precious liquid. It is all the heart of the run. The best and purest part of the distillation.
They are exhausted, filthy, and running on nothing but adrenaline and fumes. But as they hold the bottle up to the first light, the clear spirit within seems to glow with an inner fire.
"The Angel's Share," Lucien whispers, quoting the ancient distiller's term for the portion of spirit lost to evaporation during aging. Except this, Caelan thinks, wasn't lost. It was found.
A soft scraping sound echoes from down the tunnel.
They freeze, every muscle tensed for a fight.
A single, large figure emerges from the shadows. It is Chef Barthol Maillard. His pristine white coat is smudged with dirt from his journey through the tunnels. He looks weary, but his eyes are alive with a fierce, unwavering light. In his hand, he is holding a small, crystal salt cellar.
He has understood the message. He has brought the salt.
He walks to their makeshift still, his gaze falling on the single, glowing bottle of clear spirit. A look of profound, almost painful reverence appears on his face.
"In my entire life," the old master says, his voice a low, gravelly whisper, "I have judged thousands of dishes. I have tasted the rarest wines, the most expensive brandies. But this…" he gestures to the bottle, "…this is the most honest thing I have ever seen."
He looks at Caelan. The final, critical piece of the plan now rests on him.
"Is it ready?" Maillard asks.
Caelan nods. He takes the bottle. He uncorks it. He pours a single, miniscule, ceremonial drop onto his own finger and tastes it. The flavor is a thunderclap. Pure. Fiery. And deeply, unbelievably alive. The spirit carries the entire story of their rebellion in a single drop. It tastes like victory.
He looks up at Maillard. His next words are not a suggestion. They are a command.
"Chef," Caelan says, his voice ringing with a newfound, unshakeable authority. "The Aurum Academy is having a board meeting this morning. Gideon Marche will be in attendance to finalize his… acquisition. You are going to interrupt that meeting."
He holds out the bottle of their miraculous, impossible moonshine.
"And you are going to serve them a drink."