The bell above the door rang before I was even open. I was back in the kitchen, elbow deep in dough, the morning light slanting through the window. Pizza Cat was still curled on his spot by the crates, one eye cracked open, judging me.
I heard the bell and sighed. Came out wiping my hands on a towel, ready to tell whoever it was that we don't serve breakfast, and found Fendrel standing in the middle of the dining hall like he owned the place. He wasn't wearing his shop apron today. Just a plain grey tunic and trousers.
Looked like he'd been up all night. His hair was messier than usual, sticking up on one side. Dark circles under his eyes. He had the glazed look of a man who'd spent too long looking at things through a lens, the kind of tired that comes from chasing an idea instead of sleeping.
"Paul," Fendrel said.
"A bit early for pizza."
"I'm not here for pizza." He pulled a folded piece of parchment from his coat. Set it on the nearest table. Unfolded it slowly, like he was unveiling a painting. It was covered in notes.
Small, cramped handwriting. Diagrams. Arrows pointing to different sections. A sketch of what looked like a grain kernel, split open, labeled in a script I couldn't read.
"Your flour," he said.
I kept my face neutral.
"What about it?"
"I ran every test I know. Soaked it in distilled water. Burned a sample over low heat. Examined it under a magnifying lens. Mixed it with reagent alcohol. Did everything short of eating it raw."
"And?"
"And nothing." He tapped the parchment. "The cellular structure is unlike anything in the botanical records. The starch granules are smaller than standard wheat. The protein content is higher. There's trace magical residue throughout — not on the surface, but inside the grain itself."
I folded my arms.
"Sounds like good flour."
"Paul." He looked up at me.
"There is no known grain in the five kingdoms that looks like this. I checked. I sent messages to three different apothecaries. None of them recognized it."
"I told you. It's from a small farm in the south."
"Which farm?"
"Small one."
"Name?"
"I don't remember. They just deliver it."
He stared at me. Long enough to be uncomfortable. I stared back.
"I'm not trying to cause trouble," he said finally. "I'm an alchemist. I study things. Your flour is worth studying"
"I appreciate the interest. But it's just flour. I make pizza with it. That's the whole story."
He folded the parchment back up. Slid it into his coat.
"I'd like more samples."
"For what?"
"Further analysis. I want to understand what makes it behave the way it does. The magical residue alone —"
"No." The word came out sharper than I meant it to. Fendrel blinked.
"No?"
"No more samples."
"Paul, I'm not your enemy. I'm trying to —"
"I know what you're trying to do. And I appreciate it. But the flour is proprietary. My supplier wouldn't want it studied."
He considered me for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly.
"I understand." He turned toward the door. Stopped with his hand on the frame.
"You know, I've met a lot of people who came into this city with secrets. Some of them kept them. Most of them didn't."
"Thanks for the advice."
"I wasn't giving advice." He opened the door. Half a step through, then:
"If you change your mind, you know where to find me."
The bell rang. He was gone. I stood in the empty dining hall. Stared at the door.
The noose was tightening. I could feel it. First, the grey-cloaked woman. Then Varn. Now Fendrel, poking at my flour with the patience of a man who had time on his side. It wasn't that he suspected the system. He didn't even know what a system was. But he knew something was wrong. Something didn't add up. And a man like Fendrel couldn't let that go.
I went back to the kitchen. Stood over the sack of Dawn Wheat flour. Ran my hand through it. Felt the fine powder between my fingers. It was soft. Finer than any flour I'd ever worked with back home. Almost silky. It smelled faintly sweet, like fresh hay and something else I couldn't name. The system had given me this. The ingredients, the recipes, the skills. It all came from wherever I came from — the place that spit me out into this world with nothing but a pizzeria and a ghost in my head telling me how to stretch dough.
I thought about Fendrel's notes. The diagrams. The kernel split open and labeled. He was close to something. Not the whole picture, but enough of it to ask the wrong questions. And once those questions got out, once they reached someone with more authority and less patience, I'd have a real problem.
How long before someone put it together? How long before I had to run?
I punched down the dough I'd left rising overnight. It sighed under my fist. Deflated. I shaped it into balls and set them in the tray. The morning light came through the kitchen window. Dust floated in the beam. Pizza Cat appeared in the doorway, yawned, and sat down to watch me work.
"Don't look at me like that," I said.
He blinked. Slowly. Judgementally.
I went back to work.
There was nothing else to do. The flour was in my hands. The dough was under my palms. The oven was heating up. Whatever came next, I'd deal with it when it came. But I started keeping the flour sack in the back room after that. Out of sight. Behind the crates. Just in case.