The mud in the Dregs is more than dirt. It's a thick, grey paste that clings to my sneakers, making every step a heavy chore. It smells of damp wool and old rot.
Finn returns within minutes. He's dragging a crate filled with dry timber—stolen from a nearby carpenter, judging by the fresh shavings clinging to his sleeves. He dumps it behind the counter of the broken stall.
"Got the heat, Boss," Finn says, wiping soot from his nose. "What else?"
"Water. Clean water," I say. I gesture to the nearby communal well where a line of gaunt women wait with rusted buckets. "And find me some bowls. Cracked ones are fine, as long as they hold liquid."
Dorian stands at the edge of the stall's shadows. His cloak is pulled low, but the way he stands—feet planted, eyes scanning the crowd—screams *soldier*.
"We're sitting ducks," Dorian mutters. "The Merchant Guild runs these streets. They'll see the smoke and come for their cut."
"Let them," I say.
I pull a small, blackened pot from the back of the stall. I set the timber and strike my lighter. The flicker of Earth-side fire is clean and blue, quickly catching the dry wood. Within minutes, a steady heat radiates from the hearth.
I reach into my backpack and pull out the "Red Mountain Flakes." On Earth, they were just dried crushed Thai bird's-eye chilies. Here, they look like ground rubies.
I toss a handful into a tiny bit of rendered Star-Deer fat I kept in a jar.
*Food Item 1: Sizzling Red Mountain Oil. Scent: Sharp, eye-watering capsaicin burn, tempered with a strange, citrusy floral note from the Star-Deer fat. Appearance: Vibrant crimson, bubbling and release thin, wispy plumes of spice-laden steam.*
The reaction is instant. People in the Dregs stop walking.
Spices are rare in Valdris. Most food is seasoned with salt, or if you're lucky, some bitter herbs. This heat is something new. It's an aggressive, provocative smell. It slices through the damp stench of the slums like a hot wire.
Finn returns with a bucket of water and a stack of mismatched ceramic bowls. I pour the water into the pot, adding the charred root-grass Finn scavenged.
"Boss, it's stinging my nose," Finn says, coughing. He's staring at the red oil with a mix of fear and hunger.
"That's the soul leaving your body," I joke, though my voice is dry. "It's going to save their lives."
I crumble in another bouillon cube and a pinch of black pepper.
*Food Item 2: The Dregs' Fire-Broth. Scent: Savory, woodsy, and intensely spicy. Taste: A violent kick of heat that instantly triggers a sweat, followed by a deep, meaty richness that coats the throat. Texture: Thin but silky from the fat, with crunchy bits of charred root.*
A crowd has gathered. They stand at a distance—a circle of shivering, pale people. Their clothes are rags. Some have the "Blight"—a grey, powdery skin condition that makes them look like they're turning into stone.
"One copper a bowl," I call out.
No one moves. A copper is a half-day's labor in the Dregs.
"First one is free," I add, looking at an old man near the front. His hands are shaking so hard he can barely hold his cane.
He limps forward. Finn fills a bowl and hands it over. The man takes a sip.
He winces. His eyes bug out. He lets out a loud, rasping wheeze.
"Fire!" he gasps. "She's given me liquid fire!"
Dorian steps forward, his hand on his sword. "Is it poisoned?"
"Look at him," I say.
The man's shaking stops. A flush of pink returns to his sallow cheeks. He takes another gulp, then another, shoveling the spicy broth into his mouth. The heat of the chilies, combined with the Earth-mana in the bouillon, is doing its work.
*Food Item 3: The Recovery Reaction. Physical Physical Manifestation: Heat blooming in the center of the chest, radiating outward to the fingertips. Heart rate increases. Lungs feel clear and expanded. Cold sweat turns into warm, healthy moisture.*
"My blood," the old man whispers. "I can feel it. I'm... I'm not cold anymore."
The dam breaks. Suddenly, coppers are flying toward the counter. Finn scrambles to catch them, his eyes wide. He's never seen this much money in one place.
I work the line. Pour, serve, wipe. Repeat.
It's been months since I ran a station, and the rhythm feels like a long-lost language. I dice the remaining roots with the cleaver—*clack-clack-clack*—the sound steady and fast. My burnout is gone. There's only the heat, the steam, and the customers.
"She's a mender!" a woman cries, holding a bowl to her chest like a holy relic.
"I'm a cook," I correct her, not looking up. "Don't get it twisted."
"Out of the way!" A loud, booming voice cuts through the chatter.
The crowd parts. Three men push through the mud. They wear yellow sashes over heavy wool coats—the mark of the Merchant Guild. The man in the lead is barrel-chested with a thick, greasy beard and eyes that are much too small for his head.
"New stall," the lead man says, leaning over my counter. His breath smells of fermented cabbage and rot. "New taxes. I'm Jax. This is my street."
Jax looks at the red broth. He sneers. "Looks like devil's piss."
"Twenty coppers a bowl for you," I say, meeting his gaze. "Or you can walk."
Dorian's sword slides an inch out of its sheath. The sound—that sharp, metallic *snick*—makes the two goons behind Jax tense up.
"Careful, Jax," Dorian says. His voice is a low, predatory growl. "You're talkng to a guest of the Royal House."
It's a lie. Or at least a half-truth. Jax pauses, looking from my Earth clothes to Dorian's hidden armor. He's a street thug, but he knows the difference between a peasant and someone who knows how to kill.
"A Royal guest in the Dregs?" Jax laughs, but it's forced. "The High Inquisitor's been asking about a strange woman. Dark hair. Clothes like no weaver ever saw. Sounds like you."
The cold knot in my stomach returns. Ravenna didn't waste time.
"Give him a bowl, Boss," Finn whispers, sounding nervous.
I fill a bowl to the brim. The steam from the red oil hits Jax's face. He hesitates, then takes it. He drinks a mouthful.
Jax doesn't just wince. He drops the bowl. It shatters in the mud, spilling red broth over his boots. He gasps, his face turning a vivid purple.
"Argh! My throat!" he shrieks, clutching his neck.
The two goons step forward. "You poisoned him!"
"It's spicy," I say, crossing my arms. "In my country, it's how we show respect. Your pal here just has a weak stomach."
The crowd of Dregs-folk starts to laugh. It's a dry, hollow sound, but it's filled with spite. They've been under Jax's thumb for years. Seeing him defeated by a soup is a victory they never expected.
Jax coughs, spitting in the mud. He looks at me, his eyes red and watery.
"You're a witch," he gasps. "The Guild's gonna hear about this. You can't stay here."
"I don't plan to," I say. I gesture to the coins Finn has collected. "Finn, how many?"
"Twenty-eight silver's worth of copper, Boss!"
It's a fortune. Enough for the South Port. Enough to disappear.
"Jax," I say, leaning closer. "You want to make real money? Tell me who the High Inquisitor meets with in the dead of night. And tell me which merchant is bringing 'white grain' into the city."
Jax narrows his eyes. "What's it to you?"
"I'm looking for an ingredient," I lie. "A certain... 'white dust' from the West."
Jax pales. He looks at his men, then back at me. "The white grain is Royal business. You don't want to go near that."
"Too late," I say. I fill another bowl—minus the chilies—and slide it to him. "Talk, and this one won't burn your skin off."
Jax grabs the bowl with trembling hands.
As he begins to whisper about the secret shipments at the North Docks, I feel Dorian's eyes on me. He doesn't look relieved. He looks troubled.
"What are you doing, Millie?" Dorian asks, his voice barely audible under the bustle of the crowd.
"Surviving," I say, picking up my cleaver. "One order at a time."
In the distance, the bells of the High Temple begin to ring. A signal.
A shadow moves at the end of the alley. Not a Dreg. Someone tall. Wearing a bone-white cloak.
Ravenna's spies are here.
I look at Dorian. He knows it too. We've stayed too long.
"Gather the coins, Finn," I command. "We're going to the docks. It's time we saw what this 'white grain' actually is."
I douse the blue fire. The sudden loss of light makes the alley feel twice as dark.
The first taste of my business in this world was a success. But I've just learned a valuable lesson. Food isn't just fuel. It's information.
And in Valdris, information is a recipe for execution.
As they disappear into the twisting alleys of the Dregs, the bone-white figure steps into the stall's light. It's not a spy. It's Tobias, the Garrison Chef Millie replaced. He picks up a piece of the red mountain chili from the mud, and his face contorts in a terrifying, obsessed smile.*