Varen stumbled to a stop, hunched over and gasping for breath.
"I… did… bread…" he wheezed, one hand on his knee, the other gesturing vaguely back toward the direction of the bakery.
He wasn't making much sense, but he looked like a man who'd just cracked open a locked vault with a rolling pin.
Rashan squinted. "You're going to have to be more specific."
The baker just pointed again, gulping air like it was running low.
Whatever it was, it had worked.
Rashan sighed.
Research was expensive. Materials, ingredients, testing—especially the kind of long-term preservation work they were aiming for. And he'd refused to release a subpar product. No shortcuts. No compromises.
He'd been nearly out of funds when Sadiaa had stepped in. Not just once, either. Over the last few months, she'd backed him with most of her stipend—and more than a little from her personal savings.
She hadn't asked for updates. Just said, "My littlest brother is going to change the world," and handed over another coin pouch.
At first, he thought she was mocking him again.
But she kept doing it.
And now Varen Dreth, red-faced and wheezing, was standing in the yard grinning like a madman.
Rashan folded his arms.
"Alright," he said. "Let's see the damn bread."
He had Jalil grab his sister, and soon he, Cassia, Jalil, and Sadiaa followed the breadmaker back to the bakery.
Varen didn't say a word. He led them straight to the back, pulled a loaf from the cooling rack, and set it on the counter with both hands—carefully, like it was something precious.
"Eat it," he said, still catching his breath.
They each tore off a piece and bit in.
It was dense. Dry. The kind of bread meant to survive a decade on a shelf—not win any awards.
But it wasn't flavorless.
Rashan tasted the slight salt of dried chickpea flour, the faint grit of bone meal baked clean, the distant sweetness of honey soaked into the base. There was a tang of fermented fruit—barely there, just enough to trick the tongue into thinking it was richer than it was.
It held its shape in his hands. No cracking. No crumbling.
And if this was how it tasted dry?
He could already imagine it warmed and soaked—crumbled into stew or dipped in water and pressed flat. With a little effort, it'd probably be better than half the tavern bread he'd had in town.
Varen looked around, chest still rising and falling.
"It requires half the amount of water as normal tackbread," he said. "And I just triple-verified the storage life…"
"Ten years?" Sadiaa asked.
Amira, who had stepped in silently behind them, shared a quiet look with the baker.
"Twelve," Varen said, and grinned.
That was better than Rashan had even aimed for.
He crossed his arms. "What was our success?"
The baker scratched his neck. "You sent me that letter a while back—with those food storage techniques…"
He gave a shrug. "It was an accident, really."
Rashan remembered it faintly. He'd written it off the cuff—preservation ideas he remembered from Earth. Techniques that made sense. Nothing too obvious.
In this world, he was known for reading constantly.
So if anyone asked?
It was just something he picked up from a book.
Varen rested his elbows on the counter, still catching his breath, eyes flicking between the loaf and Rashan.
"It was that letter you sent," he said. "You gave me a half-dozen ideas in there. Most of them were strange—things I'd never read in any Yokudan recipe book or alchemy chart."
He held up a hand, ticking them off with his fingers. "You suggested sealing loaves in clay-lined jars with beeswax, cycling drying times at controlled heat, burying them in ash layers, even something about crust charring to trap internal moisture."
Varen let out a short, winded laugh. "I tried all of them. Burned three batches. Ruined two ovens. But that one—slow dehydration under constant low heat? That one worked."
He pointed behind him at a rigged-up side hearth—its stones rearranged to sit unusually low, with thick clay bricks boxed around the base.
"I built a false hearth like you described. No open flame. Just gentle, consistent heat. I rotated the loaves every few hours and let them dry in stages—not bake. Dry. Took three days per batch, but the internal structure held."
He tapped the loaf.
"No mold. No crumbling. Just dense, sealed grain. I had an alchemist test a sealed sample and check for corruption. At this rate, it'll hold for twelve years."
He looked up at Rashan, face still red from the run, but eyes bright.
Varen looked up at Rashan, face still red from the run, but eyes bright.
"That letter cracked something open. Nobody's doing this. Nobody would even think to try."
Rashan gave a quiet nod.
"And can this be produced for the masses?" he asked.
Varen straightened. "Yes. With—what did you call it? The production line?"
Rashan nodded again.
"I really think we can get this done," Varen said. "Efficiently. Scaled."
"Who knows the full process?" Rashan asked.
Varen's tone shifted—lower now, measured. "Only me and Amira. I followed your instructions. The workers handle fragments—kneading, shaping, packaging—but none of them know the full drying cycle, ratios, or layering system."
Rashan exhaled through his nose, slow and steady, gaze dropping to the loaf on the table.
It was dense. Dry. Durable.
And nutritious. Packed with long-burning starch, mineral-rich flour, and a perfect balance of salts and proteins. It didn't just last—it sustained.
Half the water.
Twelve years of shelf life.
Protected process.
This wasn't just a victory.
It was a food revolution.
And it was his.
Rashan glanced at the loaf once more, then looked to Varen.
"Good. Start producing immediately. I want the first batch finished and distributed in ten days."
Varen blinked. "Distributed to who?"
"Free offers," Rashan said. "The most reputable merchants you know. And a few mercenary companies. Fighters Guild branches. Anyone who travels hard and eats worse."
He turned away, already thinking through the next steps.
"Give it away?" Sadiaa said, confused.
Even Amira looked surprised.
"How are we going to afford that?" Sadiaa asked. She knew—they were already short on funds, and her savings had been carrying the project longer than they should have.
Rashan didn't slow. "Simple. Investors."
He glanced back at her over his shoulder.
"No one buys an idea. They invest in proof. Real results. You hand this to a mercenary captain, a caravan master, a Fighters Guild quartermaster—someone whose people are tired of moldy tack that makes you feel sick after a month use and give them something that just doesn't keep you on your feet but actually tastes good and meets the bodies nutritional needs— they'll remember it. They'll ask for more and the word will spread.
Sadiaa watched him go.
Sadiaa watched him go, still processing what he'd said.
He was already moving.
It was time to strike the iron while it was hot.
And there was only one man in the city who would actually listen to him.
One man who understood strategy.
Who valued results.
Who could open the right doors—
And had a lot of septims.
His father.