Kael didn't move. He stood with his blade half-drawn, the steel reflecting the shimmering, translucent wall that used to be my front door. Outside, the muffled thuds of the Royal Guard's gauntleted fists sounded like someone trying to break into a bank vault with a feather duster.
"I've spent seven years dodging the Weaver's Guild, two years infiltrating the Queen's inner sanctum, and four months living on nothing but dried horse meat and spite," Kael said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "And I have just been imprisoned in a sourdough graveyard by a boy who smells like a dairy farm."
"I prefer 'artisanal fragrance,' actually," I squeaked, clutching my dusting rag. "And look on the bright side! They can't get in! That 'sugar'—which I now realize might not be sugar—is really, really structurally sound."
Kael sheathed his sword with a click that made my teeth ache. He stepped toward the counter, his shadow stretching long and jagged across the floorboards. "That wasn't sugar, you idiot. Those were Guntur-crystals. Rare, unstable nodes of kinetic potential mined from the Silent Peaks. One grain can power a lift-carriage. You just threw a kilogram of them at a hinge."
"Well, the door was squeaking," I whispered.
A sudden, sharp *ping* echoed through the shop, like a fingernail flicking a wine glass. It didn't come from the door. It came from the floor. A section of the obsidian tiles near the magical oven began to unravel—not breaking, but literally unthreading like a cheap sweater.
From the gap emerged a man who looked like he was made entirely of expensive silk and weary patience. He wore a sarong of deep batik indigo, embroidered with silver threads that seemed to move on their own. His skin was the color of polished teak, and he held a steaming bowl of noodles in one hand.
"Do you have any idea," the man said, looking directly at me, "how difficult it is to maintain a temporal fold when someone decides to anchor a Ninth-Circle binding spell next door? My curtains are currently vibrating at a frequency that is giving my cat a migraine."
Kael's hand flew back to his sword. "Bakti Sari. I thought the Weaver's Guild stayed in the High District."
"The High District is loud, Kael. And I like the noodles they sell on this street," the man, Bakti, replied. He took a long, slow slurp of his noodles, his dark eyes scanning the room. He looked at the glowing oven, then the pantry, and finally at me. "So. You're the 'Clerical Error' I've been hearing about in the threads. Alex-Tùng. The boy from the city of rain."
"News travels fast," I said, my heart doing a frantic tap-dance. "Is it the sweater? It's the sweater, isn't it? It screams 'non-magical entity.'"
"It screams 'unrefined chaos,'" Bakti corrected. He set his bowl on a dusty table and gestured toward the door. "The Royal Guard outside are currently summoning a Magister to deconstruct your 'sugar' barrier. When they succeed—and they will, in roughly twenty minutes—they will find a fugitive assassin and a confused baker. They will execute the first and probably put the second in a very small jar for study."
Kael spat a curse. "I can't use the Ring's power here. The anchor of this shop is too strong; it's grounding all external artifacts. We're sitting ducks."
I looked at the pantry. The wood was humming again, a low, rhythmic vibration that felt like a purr. It didn't feel like a prison to me; it felt like a workshop. "Wait. If the pantry gives me what I need... maybe I don't need a weapon. Maybe I just need to change the vibe."
"Change the 'vibe'?" Kael growled. "They have Iron-Breaker spears and Shadow-steeds that can taste your marrow, rabbit."
"I need Flour!" I shouted at the pantry. "But not regular flour. I need... something that makes people forget why they're angry. Like a really good brunch!"
The pantry doors groaned open. A heavy sack thumped onto the floor. It wasn't labeled 'All-Purpose.' It was labeled *'Serenity Sift - Grinded Petals of the Bunga-Tidur.'*
"The Sleep-Flower," Bakti murmured, standing up, his interest piqued. "You're going to bake them into submission?"
"It worked on my roommate when he found out I ate his leftover Pad Thai," I muttered, already hauling the sack toward the oven. "Kael, stop looking like you're going to murder me and start greasing those pans. If we're going to survive this, we're going to need the most potent Batch of Blue-Corn Muffins this dimension has ever seen."
Kael looked at his lethal, serrated dagger, then at the muffin tin I thrust into his hand. "I am a Shadowblade. I have ended dynasties."
"Great! Then you have excellent wrist control. Start greasing, or we're both jar-bait!"
As the Royal Guard began their first rhythmic chant of a deconstruction spell outside, the bakery filled with the scent of magical yeast and desperate ambition. I didn't know how to save a kingdom, but I knew how to work a kitchen. And if the 'fire spirit' in the oven was as hungry for drama as I was, we were about to turn a siege into a snack break.