The scent of the sea in Valdris isn't clean. It's a heavy, cloying mixture of brine, rotting kelp, and something metallic—like blood dried on hot stones.
We slip through the transition from the Dregs to the South Port under the cover of a rising fog. The air turns thick and grey, swallowing the dim light of the blue moon. Finn leads us through a series of "squeeze-ways," alleys so narrow my shoulders brush both sides of the damp brick walls.
"Docks are just ahead, Boss," Finn whispers. He's stashed the heavy bag of coppers inside his oversized tunic, making him look strangely lopsided. "Jax said the White Grain comes in at Pier Nine. That's the high-noble berth."
"Nobles don't deal in grain," Dorian says. He's transitioned back into soldier-mode, his steps silent despite the armor beneath his cloak. "They deal in taxes and blood. If they're hushing up a food shipment, something is rotting in the Ministry of Trade."
We emerge behind a stack of weathered crates smelling of cedar and tar. The South Port is a forest of masts and rigging. Massive ships made of black-wood sit low in the water, their hulls glowing with faint green runes to ward off sea-monsters.
A few feet away, a street vendor's cart sits under a sputtering oil lamp. He's selling small, skewered items to the dockworkers coming off the night shift.
*Food Item 1: Salted Sky-Shrimp. Scent: Briny, smoky, and vaguely floral. Appearance: Iridescent shells that shimmer between pink and electric blue. Taste (as observed): Tough, snapping crunch followed by a burst of cold, salty jelly.*
I watch a sailor peel a shrimp. The meat inside is neon-clear. He tosses the shell into the water, and for a second, the ripples glow where it hits.
"Magic even in the snacks," I mutter. My stomach tightens. My own Earth-mana supplies are finite. Every bouillon cube is a ticking clock. I need to find local equivalents—and fast.
"Pier Nine," Finn points.
Unlike the rest of the docks, Pier Nine is silent. There are no shouting stevedores or clanking cranes. Instead, men in unmarked black liveries move with a terrifying, rhythmic precision. They are unloading small, silken sacks—too small for bulk grain—from a sleek, single-masted galley.
"Those aren't sacks of flour," I say, squinting through the fog. "They're too light. Look at the way they handle them. Like they're glass."
Dorian narrows his eyes. "Those are alchemical bags. Used for transporting unstable reagents. If that's grain in there, it's been modified."
Suddenly, a crate near us is shifted by a pair of guards. We press our backs against the cold wood of our hiding spot. The guards are talking in hushed, urgent tones.
"High Inquisitor wants the final batch at the Temple by dawn," one says. "The Bishop says the Blight won't wait. We need the Bone-Flower essence to keep the Upper District stable."
"What about the Dregs?" the other asks.
A dry laugh. "Let 'em eat the black mash. They'll turn to stone soon enough, and then we've got ourselves a new batch of cobblestones for the Royal Road."
My blood runs cold. The "Blight" isn't just a sickness. It's a tool. They're hoarding the cure—this "White Grain"—for the rich while the poor petrify in the mud.
"I need a sample of that grain," I say.
"Millie, no," Dorian grabs my wrist. "That ship is crawling with Inquisition mages. One spark of your 'Ash-Land' salt and they'll track your mana before you can draw your knife."
"They're busy," I argue. "Look."
A commotion breaks out on the far side of the pier. A group of desperate dockworkers, probably Dregs-folk who haven't slept, have spotted the silken sacks. They've rushed the galley, shouting for bread, for a cure, for anything.
"Now," I hiss.
I don't wait for Dorian's approval. I've spent a decade in kitchens where if you don't grab the ingredients when they arrive, you lose them to the night shift. I drop to a crouch and scramble through the fog.
I reach a pallet of discarded sacks near the edge of the crane line. One has a small tear. I thrust my hand inside.
The texture is wrong for grain. It's too fine, too smooth. It feels like silk-dust. I pull a handful out. In the grey light, the "grain" isn't white; it's a shimmering, translucent silver.
*Food Item 2: Bone-Flower Grain. Scent: Heavily of vanilla, almond, and old parchment. Raw State: Tiny, hexagonal crystals rather than organic seeds. Property: It vibrates faintly against the skin, sucking the heat from my palm.*
This isn't food. It's a concentrated magical catalyst disguised as flour.
"Get back here!" Dorian's whisper is a whip-crack.
I shove the handful into a clean cloth in my pocket and scramble back. Just as I reach the crates, a wave of cold energy washes over the dock. The shouting dockworkers fall silent.
I peek around the corner. A woman in bone-white robes—one of Ravenna's acolytes—stands on the galley's prow. Her arms are raised.
"Blessings of the Purity," she calls out.
From her fingertips, a white mist spreads. It touches the rioting dockworkers. They don't scream. They simply... slow down. Their skin turns a matte, powdery grey. Their eyes go dull. In seconds, they aren't men anymore; they're statues, frozen in poses of desperation.
"They turned them to stone," Finn whimpers. His hand is clutching my hoodie, his knuckles white. "Just like that."
"She didn't kill them," Dorian says, his jaw tight. "She suspended them. A permanent petrification. The Inquisitors call it 'Stilled Grace.' It's a death sentence without the mess."
"We need to get out of here," I say. The adrenaline is gone, replaced by a deep, gnawing nausea. "Dorian, if they use this 'Bone-Flower' to bake bread, what does it do to the people who eat it?"
"It keeps the mana in their blood from curdling into Blight," Dorian says, leading us away from the pier. "But it makes them dependent. Once you eat the White Grain, your body stops producing its own mana. You become a slave to the Inquisitor's bakery."
The corruption of the food chain. My old head chef used to do the same thing with MSG and cheap fats—making customers crave the food while their bodies rotted from the inside. This is just the magical version of a fast-food addiction.
We reach a quiet warehouse at the edge of the South Port. It's an abandoned tannery, smelling of old lye and dried leather.
"We stay here for the night," Dorian commands. "The safe house is across the canal, but the bridges will be guarded by Dawn-Mages now."
I sit on a pile of cured hides, my legs finally giving out. Finn is already curled into a ball, his hand still protective over the coins.
I pull the silver grain from my pocket. It glows softly in the dark of the warehouse.
"You're going to cook it, aren't you?" Dorian asks. He's standing by the boarded-up window, watching the street.
"I have to know its properties," I say. "If this is what the elite are eating, it's the key to their power. If I can neutralize its addictive properties or reverse the Blight with it..."
"You'd be the most wanted woman in three kingdoms," Dorian finishes.
I look at him. "I already am, apparently."
I pull a small tin of water from my pack and a handful of local 'Cloud-Peas' I traded for at the docks.
*Food Item 3: Bone-Flower Infusion. Process: Simmering the silver crystals with crushed Cloud-Peas over a low flame. Result: A thick, iridescent porridge that smells of spring rain and scorched honey. Property: The liquid defies gravity slightly, climbing the sides of the tin.*
I taste a tiny drop on the end of my finger.
The flavor is haunting. It's the most delicious thing I've ever put in my mouth—creamy, floral, and so sweet it makes my teeth ache. But underneath the sweetness, there's a hollow, metallic aftertaste. A vacuum.
My body screams for more. A sudden, violent craving hit me, making my hands shake. I want to gulp down the whole tin. I want to drown in it.
"Don't," Dorian warns, his voice sharp.
I shove the tin away. "It's a trap. It's perfect and it's a trap."
I pull out my secret weapon: a small sachet of Earth-side dried ginger. It's sharp, grounding, and real. I bite into a piece, the spice burning my tongue and clearing the silver fog from my mind.
"Dorian," I say, my breath hitching. "This grain... it's not natural. Someone is 'growing' it using the life force of the Dregs."
The silver glow in the tin fades as the fire dies.
Dorian looks at me, and I see the reflection of the same terrifying thought I'm having. The Blight isn't a plague. It's the harvest.
"Sleep, Millie," he says softly. "Tomorrow, we find a way to break the Inquisitor's monopoly. Or we die trying."
In the distance, the heavy iron bells of the city strike four. The sound echoes through the empty warehouse like a funeral knell.
I clutch my backpack. I'm out of bouillon. I'm low on salt. And I'm about to go to war against an empire built on magical carbs.
My old chef would say I'm under-prepped and over-matched.
I look at my cleaver, reflecting the faint silver light of the grain.
*He was always a prick,* I think.
I close my eyes, but all I can taste is silver.
As Millie drifts into a restless sleep, a scratching sound begins at the heavy tannery door. Not a Scrambler. A rhythmic, deliberate knocking. A voice whispers through the cracks: "I know you have the Ash-Salt, girl. The Merchant's Guild always gets its taste."*