"Good, sir. Thanks to Lady Josephine, we're stocked—more sacks than shelves."
The baker's shoulders hitched in a proud shrug, dust rising off his apron like pale smoke. "We even slipped a wagonload to the east ward. Kids there finally taste proper wheat again."
Lyan let his palm rest on the nearest flour bag, feeling the cool give of packed grain beneath coarse burlap. A tiny mole scurried out from behind a crate and vanished into the rain gutter. Details, he thought—every crumb, every creature, every human breath was information.
"Keep two carts readied at the back gate," he said. "If the outer roads shut, we'll run loaves through alleys instead of boulevards."
"Aye, my lord." The baker straightened, fingers snapping a flour‑salute that sent white specks spiraling in the lantern glow. Lyan tipped an imaginary hat and moved on.
