"Understood."
He lifted the twin sacs whole, round and ugly as secrets people pretend not to know. They went into a Slime cup that sighed and turned cloudy to say: don't touch. He blotted the open flesh with neutral glaze, center to edge, never dragging bitterness toward sweet. He did not wash; he saved flavor where it belonged.
Salt came next. He dragged a cooled stone through clean ash, let a tiny drip melt under Crymber Frost's breath, and rubbed it into the meat in small circles, like teaching a child to read a single letter very well. Mint-paper dusted on top. Glowcap broke under his thumb—wood and earth without mud. One pin of resin-seed for warmth. Enough. Not fancy. This was discipline, not feast.
Two tracks, because variety keeps morale.
