The wood of the tannery door groans under a second, heavier knock.
Dorian's blade is out, a sliver of cold light in the windowless room. He moves with a silent, lethal efficiency, pressing himself against the wall beside the entrance. Finn scrambles backward into the tanning vats, his eyes wide, clutching the bag of coins to his chest.
I stand in the center of the room. My hand is deep in my pocket, fingers curled around the handle of my cleaver. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs, but I force my breathing to stay slow.
"Open the door, Chef," the voice repeats. It's smoother than Jax's rough growl, polished like a silver coin that's changed hands a thousand times. "I have no desire to alert the Inquisitors. I simply want to talk business."
"Give me a reason not to put a cross-bolt through that wood," Dorian calls out, his voice a low threat.
"Because the High Inquisitor's 'Stilled Grace' is currently turning Pier Nine into a graveyard," the voice replies. "And you, Commander Ashford, are currently the most expensive fugitive in Valdris. My employer finds high-value assets… interesting."
Dorian looks at me. He jerks his chin toward the back exit—a small, rotted hatch near the vats. I shake my head. If the Merchant's Guild has found us here, the back is already watched.
"Open it," I whisper.
Dorian hesitates, then kicks the locking bar up. He pulls the door open and retreats into a combat stance.
A man stands in the drizzling fog. He's thin, dressed in a sharp, slate-grey coat with fur trim. A silk scarf is tucked neatly into his collar, and he holds a gold-topped cane. He isn't armed—not visibly—but the two men behind him carry heavy, rune-etched maces.
"Mr. Silius," Dorian says, his eyes narrowing. "Marcus Vale's personal lapdog."
"Collector, please," Silius says, stepping into the room without waiting for an invitation. He wrinkles his nose at the scent of old lye. "And it's a pleasure to see you alive, Commander. The rumor was you'd been eaten by a Star-Deer."
Silius turns his gaze to me. It's an icy, predatory look. He doesn't look at my face; he looks at the salt-stains on my sleeves.
"The Ash-Salt girl," Silius says, a thin smile touching his lips. "The woman who made a Dregs-thug weep over a bowl of soup. My master is very curious about your recipe."
"Curiosity is expensive," I say, crossing my arms.
"So is survival," Silius counters. He taps his cane against the floor. "The Merchant's Guild controls the 'legal' flow of spice in this city. You are currently an unlicensed competitor. Normally, that results in a trip to the harbor with stones in your pockets. However, Marcus Vale has a refined palate. He wants a demonstration."
He gestures to a small, portable stove his men bring in—a high-end magical burner that hums with clean energy.
"Cook," Silius commands. "Prove that your seasoning is worth more than the bounty on your head. If it pleases the Master, we provide passage to the South. If not…"
He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't have to.
I look at the Bone-Flower grain still in my pocket. Then at my bag. My bouillon is gone. My ginger is low. I have to use this world's ingredients to anchor the Earth-salt's power.
"Finn," I say. "Find me a clean bowl. Dorian, watch the door."
I walk to the stove. It's a beautiful piece of equipment, radiating a steady, scentless heat. I pull out the handful of silver Bone-Flower grain.
*Food Item 1: Corrected Bone-Porridge. Scent: Intense almond-floral notes sharpened by the heat of ginger and a stinging lick of black pepper. Appearance: Translucent, shimmering violet broth with suspended silver grains.*
I begin by toasting the silver grain dry on the burner. As the heat hits the Bone-Flower, the scent of almond and vanilla becomes cloying, almost sickening. I add water and a sliver of my remaining Earth-side ginger. The ginger's sharp, grounding heat cuts through the magical sweetness like a blade.
Finally, the Ash-Salt.
I sprinkle a pinch. The silver grains begin to spin in the water, a tiny, glittering vortex. The "primal mana" from the Earth-salt acts as a binder, stripping away the addictive "vacuum" of the silver grain and replacing it with a solid, meaty depth.
*Food Item 2: Seared Cured Lardons. Process: Dicing local cured pork belly into small cubes, rendering the fat until it screams in the pan. Seasoning: Heavy sea salt and a touch of the Red Mountain chilies for a slow-creeping burn.*
The smoke fills the tannery. It's a punch of savory salt and spice that makes Silius's eyes water. He leans in, the gold top of his cane trembling.
I plate the porridge, topping it with the spicy pork and a drizzle of the rendered fat.
"Eat," I say, sliding the bowl across the work table.
Silius doesn't use a spoon. He takes a piece of the pork with his fingers, then laps a bit of the silver broth.
His reaction is different from the Inquisitor's. Ravenna looked terrified; Silius looks greedy. A dark, intense flush spreads across his cheeks. He takes another bite, his movements losing their polished grace. He eats like a man who's been starving for a decade.
"The resonance," Silius whispers, his voice thick. "It… it doesn't leave the hole. The grain usually leaves a hunger. This… this fills it."
He looks at me, and I see the dollar signs—or gold coins—in his eyes.
"This is impossible. The Bone-Flower cannot be satiated. How did you stabilize it?"
"Salt and skill," I say. My voice is steady, but my mind is racing. If the Merchant's Guild knows I can stabilize the White Grain, I've just become the most valuable commodity in the world. I'm no longer a chef; I'm a refiner.
"Marcus Vale will want the girl," Silius says to his men, ignoring me as if I'm already a crate in a warehouse. "And the spice."
"I'm right here," I say, picking up my cleaver and slamming it into the table. The wood cracks. "And I don't work for free."
Dorian steps into the light, his sword leveled at Silius's throat. "She's not a commodity, Silius. Tell Marcus she's a partner, or she's a ghost. Your choice."
Silius eyes the blade, then the cleaver. He laughs—a dry, admiring sound.
"Spoken like a true mercenary, Commander. Very well. My master will meet with you at the 'Rusty Anchor' at midnight. Bring your salt. If the deal is struck, the Inquisitors will never find you."
He turns and walks back into the fog, his men following close behind.
"We're not going to the Anchor," Dorian says the second they are gone. "It's a trap. Marcus Vale would sell his mother for a crate of that Ash-Salt."
"We don't have a choice," I say, staring at the empty bowl. "If we don't go, we're stuck in this tannery until the Inquisitors find the silver dust I spilled."
"Wait, Boss!" Finn says, pointing to the stove Silius left behind. "He left the heat."
I look at the burner. There's a small, hidden compartment at the base. I slide it open. Inside is a small, crystal vial filled with a glowing green liquid.
"Mage-Light fuel," Finn breathes. "That stuff is worth ten gold bars."
But I'm not looking at the fuel. I'm looking at the faint, silver residue on the pan.
"Dorian," I say, a cold realization hitting me. "The grain. When it's 'filled' with the salt, it leaves a residue. A mineral."
I scrape the silver dust into my palm. It's heavy. Solid.
*Food Item 3: Residual Silver Spice. Scent: None. Texture: Sharp, crystalline sand. Property: It vibrates with a cold, rhythmic energy.*
"This isn't an ingredient anymore," I mutter. "It's a map. The grain absorbs mana, but when it's overloaded with the Ash-Salt, it crystallizes into a compass."
The dust in my hand is drifting—not with the wind, but toward the East. Toward the Royal District. Toward the source of the Bone-Flowers.
"If the Guild wants the spice, let them have a sample," I say, a new plan forming. "But we're not selling recipes. We're going to find out where they're growing this death-grain."
"Millie, that's suicide," Dorian says, but his grip on his sword relaxes.
"No," I say, looking at the eastern sky. "It's a takeover."
I pack the stove into my bag. It's heavy, but it's a tool I desperately need.
We step out into the rain. The South Port is quiet now, the "Stilled Grace" of the morning a dark shadow over the piers.
I have a cleaver. I have a magical compass made of silver waste. And I have the hunger of a woman who just realized her boss is a god.
"Finn," I say. "Stay close. Dorian, try not to kill anyone we need to talk to."
We move into the fog, headed East.
As they turn the corner into the merchant's square, a black carriage with gold-filigree wheels pulls up beside them. The window slides down, revealing a man with a scarred lip and a heavy, ruby ring. "I hear you're the one who fixed the silver-rot," Marcus Vale says, his voice like grinding stones. "Get in. We've got work to do."