Ameth's face remained a mask, but her posture shifted—a subtle tightening of her shoulders, a faint lean forward, as if the words had hooked her despite herself.
"First," Lor intoned, his glowing gaze sweeping the cart, "do not place fresh vegetables beside those tainted by rot. Decay is a contagion, swift and merciless. One spoiled potato will ruin ten before the day's end. Separate them. Always."
He moved to the side of the cart, his fingers hovering just above the vegetables, tracing unseen lines.
"Second—your magic. The frost you wield is not only a weapon but a shield. Use it to preserve your stock. Freeze them before rot takes hold, but thaw only what you will sell that day—not the night before, not at dawn. That is when decay claims its due."
Ameth listened, her silence a canvas for his words, her eyes fixed on the cart as if seeing it anew.
