"A house of nourishment closing its doors to a wandering intellect? Surely the oven of truth never truly cools, my good woman," the itinerant philosopher repeated, sweeping his ridiculous, excessively embroidered sleeve through the air as if conducting an invisible orchestra of pure, unadulterated nonsense.Laylo didn't even blink. Her quill didn't miss a single stroke against the ledger. "The oven is sitting at four hundred degrees, and if you don't take your dramatic little monologue three paces back into the street, you're going to catch a face full of hearth-smoke.""Smoke is merely the physical manifestation of thought ascending toward the heavens," the man declared, planting a booted foot right on the threshold. He offered a dazzling, teeth-baring smile that looked like it had been practiced in front of a mirror for at least a decade. "I am Al-Tariq, seeker of fundamental truths, unravelling of fates, unraveler of—""You're blocking the counter," Farid said.His voice didn't ris

"The price has gone up again," Laylo said, not looking up from the wooden ledger where her quill scratched out a precise, furious column of numbers. "Five coppers more per sack. That’s a quarter of our weekly margin wiped out before we even light the pilot flame."Farid didn't stop kneading. His knuckles drove deep into the gray-flecked mountain of winter-wheat dough, the dense mass yielding with a dull, wet thwack against the scarred pine table. "The miller sent another messenger?""Not a messenger. Master Qasim himself," Laylo replied, finally dropping the quill with a sharp clack. She looked up, her dark eyes flashing with irritation. "He claims the eastern provinces are choking on bad omens. Drought, frost, some nonsense about falling stars poisoning the root crops. He had the nerve to cross himself twice before quoting me the new rate.""Bad omens don't grind wheat," Farid muttered, lifting a heavy corner of the dough and folding it over with a practiced, rhythmic snap. "Grain do

"A courier dropped this off at the service hatch," Laylo said, holding a heavy piece of parchment between two fingers as if it might bite. Her dark eyes narrowed at the thick, scarlet wax seal stamped onto the back. "He didn't wait for a tip. Just threw it over the counter and sprinted toward the market gate like the city guard was chasing him."Farid didn't stop working. His hands remained buried wrist-deep in the sprawling mound of gray-flecked winter-wheat dough, folding and pressing with a rhythmic, unhurried slap against the scarred pine table. "Burn it.""You haven't even looked at it," Laylo countered, stepping closer to the workbench, her sharp heels clicking sharply against the stone flags. She tilted the parchment so the dim morning light caught the ornate, embossed lettering curling across the front. "It’s addressed to The Chosen Scribe. Complete with gold leaf on the capital letters. Someone spent actual coin on this stationery.""Stationery doesn't bake bread," Farid mutt

Laylo tossed a fistful of dried, greenish-gray leaves onto the central prep counter with a sharp, crackling rustle that scattered a light dusting of white flour across the scarred wood.Farid paused mid-knead, his knuckles sinking halfway into the pale mound of winter-wheat dough. He cast a sideways glance down at the heap of jagged foliage, his dark brows knitting together in a slow, skeptical arc. "What is that?""Wormwood," Laylo replied, her voice crisp and entirely unyielding as she reached for a heavy iron mortar. She scooped a second, more generous handful of the dried stalks into the pitted stone bowl with deliberate force. "And a pinch of wild rue. I bought it off an old caravan trader coming up from the southern passes before he even unhitched his mules.""It smells like a wet horse blanket left out in a marsh," Farid muttered, returning his weight to his palms and driving the dough down against the table with a heavy, rhythmic thud. "We bake bread here, Laylo. Not veterinar

"He’s gone," Laylo announced, letting the wooden shutter slam shut with a dry crack that echoed sharply against the low ceiling of the bakery. She turned away from the window, dusting her hands off on her linen apron with an expression of profound, unadulterated relief. "Just got up, stretched his legs, and walked down toward the shoemaker's lane. Didn't even look back."Farid didn't pause his hands, his knuckles rhythmically sinking into the heavy, pale mass of morning dough with a wet, satisfying slide. "I told you. People get tired of waiting for things that aren't coming. The world has too many actual chores for daydreams.""It only took seventy-two hours of staring at a blank wall," Laylo muttered, walking over to the prep table and dropping a heavy iron weight onto the stack of ledger papers to keep them from fluttering in the draft. "For a minute there, I thought he was going to set up a tent and start preaching about the end of days.""Let him preach to the pigeons," Farid sai