The obsidian floor of the bakery vibrated with a low, bone-shaking hum that suggested the Royal Guard's Magister was getting impatient. Outside, the shimmering diamond-hard barrier Alex had accidentally created was beginning to craze, spider-webbing with fractures of gold light.
"Ten minutes," Bakti Sari remarked, languidly picking a stray strand of silver thread from his indigo sarong. He popped a noodle into his mouth and looked at the blue-tinted flour sack. "If you don't find a bowl soon, little baker, the thread of your life is going to be cut remarkably short. I'd hate to see this sweater go to waste; the knit is delightfully chaotic."
"Bowl! Right! Bowl!" I shouted, spinning in a circle. My oversized sleeves flopped like the wings of a flightless bird. "Pantry! I need a mixing bowl! Large! Maybe something that doesn't explode if I get nervous?"
The dark wood of the pantry groaned. A heavy ceramic basin, glazed in a shimmering pearlescent white, slid off the shelf and landed perfectly in my arms. It felt warm, as if it had been sitting in the sun.
"Kael, the pans!" I barked. My voice cracked on the last word, but I didn't care. Adrenaline was a hell of a drug, and I was currently high on a cocktail of Seattle neurosis and interdimensional panic.
Kael, the deadliest Shadowblade in the Dark Kingdom, stared at the muffin tin as if it were a sentient trap. He held his serrated dagger in one hand and a block of 'Cloud-Butter' in the other. "I am going to kill you after this, Alex-Tùng. Slowly. With a duller blade than this one."
"Less talking, more greasing!" I dumped the *Serenity Sift* flour into the bowl. The powder didn't puff up like normal flour; it drifted upward in glowing, lazy spirals, smelling faintly of chamomile, old libraries, and the exact moment you realize you don't have to go to work on a Monday.
I grabbed the jar of starlight honey. "Mr. Fire Spirit! We're on a clock here! I need a steady, medium-low heat. Gentle, like a hug, but... you know, a hug that can bake muffins!"
The oven roared, the orange flickers behind the grate turning a soft, pulsing amber. The heat didn't radiate outward; it stayed localized, a perfect sphere of thermal precision.
"The barrier is at forty percent integrity," Bakti narrated, his eyes unfocused as he watched the air. "I can see the Magister's weave. He's using a standard 'Sunder-String' technique. Very efficient. Very Nordic. Ah, I see a Captain **Sigrun Iron-Sigh** leading the charge. She has a reputation for being... thorough."
I ignored him, my hands moving with the frantic, practiced speed of someone who had spent his weekends perfecting the 'Perfect Pacific Northwest Scone.' I cracked three 'Phoenix Eggs'—which were surprisingly hot to the touch—and whisked them into the blue cornmeal. The batter began to glow with a soft, bioluminescent pulse.
"Kael, the tin!" I yelled.
Kael slammed the greased tin onto the counter. His face was a mask of simmering rage, but his movements were precise. He watched me pour the glowing batter into the cups. "If this doesn't work, rabbit, I'm using you as a human shield."
"It'll work," I muttered, sliding the tin into the enchanted oven. "Magic follows intent, right? That's what every fantasy book says. And my intent is to not be executed in a sweater that's dry-clean only."
The oven hissed. The scent of the *Bunga-Tidur* flowers intensified, filling the shop with a thick, heady aroma that seemed to slow the very air. Even Kael's shoulders dropped half an inch. Bakti blinked, his detached expression softening into something resembling a daze.
Outside, the crashing against the barrier suddenly changed rhythm. The frantic pounding slowed. Through the cracks in the Guntur-crystal wall, I saw the silhouettes of the Royal Guard. They weren't swinging their Iron-Breaker spears anymore; they were... sniffing.
"Three minutes," Bakti whispered, his voice sounding like it was coming from underwater. "Oh... that smells like my grandmother's porch in the monsoon season."
A massive *crack* echoed through the street. The diamond-hard wall didn't shatter; it dissolved into a fine, sparkling mist.
Standing in the threshold was a woman who looked like she could headbutt a mountain into submission. She wore heavy, fur-lined plate armor, and her hair was a braid of stark white that reached her waist. Her eyes, the color of a frozen lake, were narrowed in a glare that could kill a man at fifty paces. This was Captain Sigrun Iron-Sigh.
Behind her stood a squad of guards, their Shadow-steeds pawing the ground, their nostrils flared.
"Kael of the Shadowblades," Sigrun boomed, her voice cracking the silence like a whip. "By the decree of the King of Vinh-Lâm, you are—" She stopped. Her nose twitched. "You are... what is that?"
I didn't wait. I grabbed a pair of thick, quilted mitts and pulled the tin from the oven. The muffins weren't just muffins; they were soft, indigo clouds that pulsed with a rhythmic, calming light. A faint, golden steam drifted from their tops, curling into the air like beckoning fingers.
"It's a peace offering!" I shouted, stepping around the counter. I held the tin out like a shield. My knees were knocking, but the smell was so potent I felt like I was floating on a marshmallow. "Please! I'm Alex. I'm the new guy. This is a grand opening! You guys look... stressed. Have a muffin. They're artisanal!"
Sigrun's gauntleted hand stayed on her sword hilt, but her fingers were trembling. The guards behind her had lowered their spears. One of them, a massive man named **Håkan Gale-Foot**, actually swayed in his saddle.
"The fugitive," Sigrun muttered, her resolve melting like the Cloud-Butter on the muffins. "The ring... we must..."
"The ring can wait five minutes," I said, my voice gaining a weird, frantic confidence. I held the tin toward her. "Look at the crumb. It's light, it's airy, and it contains zero grams of malice. Just taste it. If you still want to arrest us after one bite, I'll... I'll give Kael his sword back."
"Hey!" Kael hissed from the shadows.
Sigrun looked at the muffin. She looked at me, a five-foot-five 'clerical error' in a giant sweater. Then, with a grunt that sounded more like a sigh, she reached out and plucked a muffin from the tin.
She took a bite.
The silence that followed was absolute. Sigrun's eyes went wide, then they closed. Her sword, a massive slab of enchanted steel, clattered to the floorboards. She didn't fall; she simply exhaled, a long, shivering breath that seemed to purge all the tension from her massive frame.
"By the Ancestors," she whispered, her voice no longer a boom, but a soft murmur. "I... I forgot that the color blue tasted like home."
Håkan and the others didn't wait for an order. They dismounted, their heavy armor clanking as they shuffled into the shop like hungry schoolboys.
Bakti Sari stood up, a small, knowing smile on his face. "The 'vibe,' as you called it, has indeed changed. Though I suspect the Weaver's Guild is going to have many questions about a boy who can pacify a Royal Strike Force with breakfast."
Kael stepped out of the shadows, his blade still sheathed. He looked at the guards—the men who had been hunting him across three provinces—now huddled around my counter, sharing muffins and murmuring about their childhoods.
He looked at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. "You're dangerous, Alex-Tùng."
"I'm not dangerous," I said, finally letting out the breath I'd been holding since I fell out of the Seattle Grind. "I'm just a guy who knows the power of a good carbohydrate."
But as I looked out the door, I saw someone else. Standing across the cobblestone street was a man in a long, tattered duster, his face hidden beneath the brim of a wide hat. He wasn't sniffing the air. He was holding a small, clicking device that hummed with a familiar, geometric energy.
A man who looked exactly like my old manager from the data entry office, except his eyes were glowing with a cold, mechanical violet.
He tapped the device, and my magical pantry let out a shrill, piercing scream.