Dorian's sword is out before the messenger even finishes speaking. The steel rings against the obsidian counter, a sharp, cold sound that echoes through the marble kitchen.
"They're moving faster than I thought," Dorian says, his voice a low, lethal growl. "Ravenna isn't waiting for the morning liturgy. She's coming to purge the infection before it spreads."
The messenger—a scrawny man in Vale's livery—is shaking so hard his teeth are chattering. "They've sealed the gates of the Silk District, Sir. The 'Purification Guards' are going door-to-door. They've already set the tannery on fire."
My heart drops into my stomach. My gear. Most of my Earth-side pantry was hidden in that tannery. I've lost half my supplies in a single stroke.
Marcus Vale stands by the large arched window. He doesn't look afraid. He looks annoyed. He adjusts the ruby ring on his finger, watching the smoke rise in the distance like he's judging the quality of a low-end cigar.
"Ravenna is a fool," Marcus says. "She thinks fire will stop the demand for the salt. It only makes people hungrier."
"People can't be hungry if they're petrified by 'Stilled Grace'," I say, wiping the lamb fat from my hands onto my apron. I need to move. I need a plan. My corporate chef brain is already shifting into high gear—analyzing resources, assessing risks, looking for an exit. "They're at the gates. What's the play, Vale? Or do I just wait for the red robes to put me on a spit?"
"The play," Marcus says, turning from the window, "is a distraction. The Inquisition wants the 'Heretic Chef.' If they find you here, I lose my most valuable asset and my head. Silius!"
The thin man in the grey coat appears instantly. "Sir."
"Move the grain to the sub-cellar. And prepare the carriage. Not the black one. The produce wagon."
Marcus looks at me. "Dorian can escort you through the canal district. It's dirty, it smells like a dying whale, but the Inquisitors won't go near the water-dwellers. Too much 'corruption' for their sensitive noses."
"I'm not leaving without my bag," I say, snatching my backpack from the floor.
"Finn, get the supplies from the pantry," I bark. "Anything high-calorie. Hard cheeses, dried fruit, jars of that local honey."
"Got it, Boss!" Finn is a blur, emptying jars of expensive *Mist-Amber Honey* into a leather satchel.
I turn back to the counter. There's a rack of the silver-grained bread the estate bake-masters made this morning. It's luxury bread, intended for the rich who can afford the addiction.
*Food Item 1: Royal Bone-Grain Brioche. Scent: Intense buttery yeast mixed with a metallic almond musk. Texture: Pillowy and light, but cold to the touch. Appearance: A pale, silvery crust that reflects the candle-light.*
"Take those," I tell Finn.
I grab a small paring knife from the rack—razor-sharp and perfectly balanced—and shove it into my boot. If this turns into a street fight, I need more than one cleaver.
The kitchen doors fly open. Two of Vale's guards stumble in, their faces blackened with soot.
"They've broken through the district gates!" one yells. "The Purifiers are three blocks away. They're using the Scent-Hounds!"
"Hounds?" my voice rises.
"Blood-Seekers," Dorian explains, grabbing my shoulder and pushing me toward the back servant's exit. "They don't track sweat. They track mana. The moment you use your 'magic' cooking, you're lighting a beacon for them."
We rush down a narrow stone staircase, the temperature dropping as we descend into the damp bowels of the estate. The walls are slick with moss and the smell of ancient sewage. It's a far cry from the marble splendor above.
"Wait," I say, stopping in a dark alcove near the wine cellar.
"Millie, move!" Dorian hisses.
"I need to mask our scent. If they track mana, I give them mana."
I pull out a small packet of Earth-side dried yeast and a bottle of Marcus's Sun-Aged Mead. I pour the mead over a stack of dry rags and sprinkle the yeast and a dusting of the silver grain on top.
*Food Item 2: The Scent Decoy. Chemical Reaction: The live Earth-yeast hits the magical silver grain and the alcohol. It starts a violent, rapid fermentation. A thick, pungent odor of sour dough and metallic ozone begins to billow from the rags. The 'mana' scent is a chaotic, screaming mess.*
"Finn, drop these rags into the cellar vent," I command.
"Smart," the kid whispers, tossing the steaming cloth into the air shafts. "That'll smell like five kitchens to those dogs."
We hit the lower tunnels. It's a cramped, circular pipe filled with an inch of murky water. Dorian takes the lead, his sword drawn. Finn stays behind me, and Silius brings up the rear, his face pale with distaste as he steps into the muck.
Suddenly, a loud, bell-like baying echoes through the pipes above us.
"They're in the estate," Silius whispers.
The sound is followed by the heavy, rhythmic thud of metal boots. The Purifiers are above us. One wrong move, one loud splash, and we're trapped in a stone coffin.
"Left here," Dorian guides us into a smaller drainage pipe.
We emerge twenty minutes later into a damp, fog-choked alley near the Silver Canal. The water is a dark, oily green, clogged with floating debris and the glowing carcasses of 'Blight-Eel' that wash up from the lower sea.
A heavy, flat-bottomed boat is waiting for us. It's piled high with crates of rotting produce—squash, bloated melons, and sacks of black, worm-eaten grain.
"This is the 'produce wagon'?" I look at Marcus's transport with disgust.
"The best way to hide a delicacy," Marcus says, appearing from the shadows of a nearby archway. He's dressed in a common laborer's tunic, though he still looks too regal for the dirt. "Is to bury it in trash. Get in."
We scramble onto the boat, burying ourselves under a layer of damp, burlap-covered squash. The smell is a physical punch to the face.
"If I die smelling like rotted pumpkin, I'm haunting you, Vale," I mutter into the dark.
The boat begins to move. The sound of the pole hitting the mud is rhythmic, steady. Above us, the sounds of the city are distant—the clanging of temple bells, the shouts of the City Guard.
For an hour, we drift in the darkness. I lie flat under the cold, heavy gourds, my heart rate finally starting to slow. Finn is shivering next to me. I reach out and grab his hand. It's small, cold, and wet.
"We're okay," I whisper. "We've got the grain. We've got the knives."
"I'm hungry, Boss," he whispers back.
I realize I am, too. The adrenaline is fading, leaving a cavernous hole in my stomach. I reach into Finn's satchel and pull out one of the silver brioche buns.
I shouldn't. It's the 'void' food.
But I can't let him starve. I pull a small container from my own bag—the last of the Star-Deer fat I rendered and seasoned with Earth salt. I smear it onto the silver bread.
*Food Item 3: Smeared Survival Brioche. Scent: Briny, gamey fat cutting through the sweet, metallic bread. Appearance: A glistening, yellow-white layer of grease over the silver-speckled dough. Effect: The 'Ash-Salt' in the fat neutralizes the bone-flower's vacuum as soon as they touch.*
We eat in the dark, silent and desperate.
The reaction is instant. My brain clears. The chill in my bones recedes. It's the most high-calorie, magical survival ration in existence. I can feel the "primal mana" from the salt sparking in my blood, fighting back the grey damp of the canal.
Suddenly, the boat jolts to a halt.
"Hold your breath," Dorian's voice is a sharp warning from the prow.
Heavy footfalls echo on the wooden walkway beside the canal. Light flickers through the gaps in the burlap sacks. A torch.
"Who goes there?" a voice booms. It's an Inquisitor. I can hear the metallic rattle of a mace being drawn.
"Just bringing the cull to the Pig District, Excellence," a gravelly voice says—the boatman. "Rotted produce for the royal swine."
"The hogs eat better than the Dregs," the Inquisitor scoffs.
The torchlight lingers over our pile of squash. My hand finds my paring knife. Beside me, Finn holds his breath until his face is probably blue.
A gloved hand reaches out, poking one of the gourds right next to my head. The wood of the boat creaks.
"Stinks like the abyss," the Inquisitor grunts. "Proceed. But don't linger at the gate. We've had reports of a mana-shadow in the water."
The boat lurches forward.
We wait ten minutes until the sound of the soldiers' boots has faded.
I push aside a giant, moldy squash and sit up, gasping for air. We aren't in the city anymore. We've passed through the secondary gates and entered the Outer Docks—a sprawling, lawless mess of wooden piers and floating shanties built out of shipwrecked hulls.
"We're clear," Dorian says, though he doesn't sheathe his sword.
Marcus Vale stands up from his hiding spot, brushing a speck of rotted fruit from his shoulder with practiced disdain.
"There," he points to a two-story building that seems to be leaning dangerously over the water. It's built entirely out of driftwood and the masts of fallen galleys. A rusted sign hangs over the door: *The Anchor's End*.
"Your new kitchen, Millie Chen," Marcus says, a predatory smile returning to his face. "In the heart of the Shadow Market. The Inquisition doesn't come here, because the Guild pays the Admiral to stay blind. Here, you are king. Or queen."
I look at the sagging, waterlogged building. It looks like it would collapse if I sneezed too hard.
"It's a dump," I say.
"It's a fortress," Marcus corrects. "The walls are reinforced with Iron-Oak. The cellar has access to the Black Market tunnels. And the customers…"
He gestures to the dock workers, sailors, and shady figures watching us from the shadows of the piers. They don't look like the starving Dregs. They look like pirates and mercenaries. They have money. They have steel.
And judging by the way they're staring at us, they're very, very hungry.
"Dorian," I say, stepping onto the pier. My legs are shaky, but I find my footing. "Set the perimeter. Finn, find the larder."
I walk up to the door of the tavern and push it open.
The air inside is thick with the scent of old beer and damp wood. A group of scarred sailors are hunched over a table, chewing on what looks like dried leather. They look up, eyes narrowing as they see my Earth-clothes.
"The kitchen is open," I say, my voice echoing in the rafters.
One of the men—a massive bear of a sailor with a hook for a hand—scoffs. "We've had nothing but moldy fish for three days, little girl. Unless you're serving gold, get out."
I pull the cleaver from my bag and slam it into the nearest wooden table.
"I'm serving Star-Deer steak and Silver-Grain risotto with a chili-salt kick," I say, meeting his gaze. "But if you prefer the leather, I'm happy to feed your boots to you instead."
The room goes silent. The sailor looks at the cleaver, then at the backpack glowing with silver mana.
"The Salt-Witch," he whispers.
I don't know where that title came from, but I'll take it.
"Table for one?" I ask, gesturing to the chair.
I walk into the back kitchen. It's a mess of soot and rusted pots, but the stove is solid iron. I find a clean cloth, tie it around my waist as an apron, and look at my two loyal employees.
"We have three hours before the lunch rush," I say. "I want this place smelling like the West. If a single person in this tavern stays sober and hungry, you're fired."
Dorian smiles—a rare, genuine expression that makes my chest tighten. "I'm security, Millie. Not a waiter."
"Today," I say, lighting the burner. "You're whatever I tell you to be."
As the first pot begins to sizzle, a figure in a black cloak sits at the back corner of the tavern. He doesn't order. He just watches Millie through a mask made of silver bone. Beside him on the table lies a royal summons with a seal that has been broken.