The sun climbed higher, but the line didn't shrink. If anything, it grew.
Sol was no longer just a cook; he was an arbitrageur in a primitive world, running the most profitable exchange rate in history. He was trading water, heat, and "trash" ingredients for... more "trash" ingredients. To the tribe, it was a miracle trade. To Sol, it was an infinite loop of almost zero-cost production.
Veyra was drowning in success.
"Another rib cage!" she shouted over the din, tossing the bloody bones onto the growing mountain behind the stall. "Two stomachs! A sack of liver!"
The pile of raw materials was getting obscene. They had started with a basket; now they had enough offal and bone to fill two, even three. Sol calculated rapidly: he could keep this pot running for days, just adding water and fresh scraps, the flavor deepening into something legendary.
But Sol wasn't just harvesting bones. He was harvesting them.
