"Y-Your Grace! Welcome to the Sun-Oven Pavilion! How may we serve the North today?"
Kaelus did not look at the baker. He looked at the massive glass display cases filled with towering, architecturally complex cakes, delicate tarts, and glistening, cream-filled eclairs.
He subjected the baked goods to the same intense, lethal glare he usually reserved for enemy troop formations.
"The Lady requires sustenance," Kaelus declared, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that made the surrounding bakers sweat. "I require your finest, softest creations. If I detect a single trace of industrial grit, burnt flour, or excessive, tooth-rotting sweetener in these confections, I will freeze your ovens solid and banish you to the Glacial Abyss."
The baker turned the color of parchment. "A-Absolutely, Your Grace! Only the purest, hand-milled Southern wheat and naturally sourced fruit nectars! Right away!"
