“Now get lost, you second-rate dough puncher!”

“AHHH!”

The headmistress kicked Gitlam out of the brewery. The elderly matron stared at Gitlam with disgust as the other women from the large operation looked out to watch the commotion.

The headmistress of the brewery, Shesa, brushed the dust off from her robe, adjusted her green shawl around her waist and up to her shoulder, and put her veil over her mouth again.

She also adjusted her long white hair back into a bun and brushed her nails against her shawl.

“Do not show yourself here ever again.” Shasa cracked her knuckles as she stared down at the dwarf. “You’re as much a disgrace as that drunkard mother of yours. Working in a brewery? That’s only a job for women, not for half-baked men like you.”

The woman clapped with her thin and tanned hands and turned back to the girls of the brewery.

“Now, everyone, get back to work! We have dough to knead and bapir to bake before the wheat loses colour!”

The human, therianthrope and dwarven women in the brewery skittered away in a hurry, and the elderly headmistress shut the entrance off with another clap of her earth magic.

“Pah!” Gitlam heaved himself back up and spat out some dirt from his mouth. His green robe and face were full of mud. If only he could control earth magic to clean himself. “You old witch, I will show you one day!”

Gitlam shouted back at the closed brewery entrance, causing another ruckus. The brewing maids watched until the mistress came and sealed off the brewery from all that noise.

“What an insufferable, old, miserable and undyingly spiteful witch, who could even make the Goddess of War look embarrassed!”

Gitlam adjusted his headpiece on his ash black hair and brushed angrily through the busy morning streets of Idaris until he stumbled back to his home.

Or at least the place he was living in.

Idaris was a northern country, spreading out far into the Idris mountains west and below.

Most families in its city-states carved their homes right into the walls of the mountains.

There you had the best views of the very desert, the neighbourhood's sister country, Navarre, and the vast sea in the east. The latter which reflected the sun’s rays into dazzling shades of red, earning its name as The Romantik Sea.

Though Gitlam could barely enjoy the view. The house he lived in didn't feel like home, not anymore.

Everything was dark; the fireplace where his mother usually baked bread was cold and empty—just like the hole in his heart his mother had left him.

“Ahhhhh!” Gitlam threw the dusting kitchen equipment to the ground, ripped a shelf from the walls, and jabbed his fist into the hard clay oven. He cursed from the pain and stared at the new opening in the oven.

He wouldn’t be able to bake anything until he fixed it; with magic.

Magic, magic, magic.

The world revolved around magic. Dwarves were experts in fixing stuff, but Gitlam was not good at it either. No amount of effort or magic could fix his broken life; or the bust relationship with his mother.

“If only everything was so easy to fix with magic.”

Gitlam sat there in the dark among the remnants of his broken utensils, all of which belonged to his mother, and he had inherited. Not knowing what to do with himself, he simply sat there, staring.

Occasionally tugging on the beard underneath his chin.

He didn’t even notice the gentle footsteps of the new high priestess entering his home. How would he? She was an excellent earth mage and a vessel to a god.

And Gitlam was far too concentrated on his self-pity.

“Well, what should I call you?” Gitlam asked and turned to his old school friend. “It’s Enlil now, like our city-state god, no?”

Her veil and the darkness of the room well hid Enlil’s queasy attempt at a smile. With a move of her hand, she opened the light stone shutters to let some sunlight in.

Gitlam hissed at the obtrusive light that washed over him, making him squint with his dark currant red eyes. It was the middle of the day and the oppressive heat was too much to bear in their country.

Yet Enlil had made her way through the heat to his home to check on him. She fiddled with her golden rings uneasily.

“How’s work lately?”

“Pah,” spit Gitlam. “Still banned because of that old hag.”

“R-right, I forgot.” Reserved, Enlil nodded. “Still, I think you should try to at least prepare some ready-made dough for the market. Can’t think your savings are holding up for much longer.”

“Hmph,” huffed Gitlam. “Are you asking as the new head priestess and because one of the many citizens is throwing their life away?”

Enlil’s arms dropped to her side, a hurt expression on her face. “That’s not it—”

“Then go away!” Gitlam raised his voice, turning away with folded arms.

Enlil folded her hands again and took a deep breath. Her veil danced gently from her exhaling.

“Then take it from a friend who cares,” she said and sat down on her knees next to Gitlam. “Do what you loved doing, as your mother did. Don’t just throw it away because of what happened.”

“Easy for you to say,” huffed Gitlam. “You’re a woman. You could easily become a baker or a brewer. Men are frowned upon in these professions.”

“Yet your mother taught you, regardless. She was talented and so are you.” Enlil stood up, dusting off her robe, and wandered with her hand over the broken oven. “Want me to fix the good old thing?”

“Nah, don’t bother,” replied Gitlam. “I’ll do it myself… after you leave.”

Enlil bowed soberly. “I understand. If you need to talk to someone again, you know where to find me. Until then, I hope you’ll do well.”

Enlil left and Gitlam grumbled to himself in his kitchen.

The heat sizzled against his skin. The fine hairs on his arms stood up and Gitlam exhaled a sharp and hot sigh.

“Time to get to work, I guess?”

—☽—

Fixing the hole with some mortar and hardening it with his fire magic, Gitlam went to work with what ingredients and instruments he had left.

Enlil was right.

Money was getting tight, the savings had dried up too fast with no opportunities to earn more after his mother was not there to help anymore.

He spent most of his time helping her in the kitchen and following up on her recipes, but was never an official baker—Shasa, the headmistress, had an open vendetta going on with Gitlam and his mother.

“This damn witch!” Gitlam accidentally had his emotions get the better of him and blasted the oven with too much fire.

It was one moment of negligence that ruined his batch, and with it, the rest of his ingredients. “By the gods, damn it!”

Throwing the batch back into the oven, it collapsed from within. He was officially out of ingredients, an oven, and utensils now.

“Great, guess I am ruined for good now.”

Sitting down with a sigh, Gitlam rubbed his face with his rough hands covered in flour. Staring at the wooden picture depicting him and his mother, Gitlam felt a tear rolling down his warm skin.

“If Mother was here, she sure would be aghast.” Clapping his hands against his face, Gitlam stood up on the spot and went to the entrance of the house. “Damn it, I wish you were still here. I’m gonna show that old witch… for both of us.”

The market area was still closed down.

The scorching sun beat down on Gitlam as he walked down the elevated paths. Curtains of yellow and green lined the streets, signalling the siesta to avoid the heat.

“What was I thinking?” grumbled Gitlam, with sweat rolling down his forehead. “No one is open, anyway. What a pain!”

Stepping into the shadowy back area with a nearby fountain inside, Gitlam washed his face and took a sip to cool off. His sunken gaze and dark eyes stared back at him.

It would take hours until someone opened up, and even then, no one would sell him, anyway. Not because he was lacking money, but for the reason, that Shasa hated him and asked every shopkeeper to stop supplying him with anything.

“What should I do?” moped Gitlam and then heard a strange commotion from one of the unopened stalls.

Curiosity got the better of him, and Gitlam walked towards the voice.

He turned in the corner and bummed right into someone, dropping everything they held in their hands and right on Gitlam’s feet.

“BY INANNA’S UNDERWEAR!!” a yowl escaped his mouth, and he dropped to his knees. “Ergh, that hurt…”

“Hey, are you alright?”

“Yes, yes, sorry,” grumbled Gitlam, holding his foot. “It was my fault, lemme help you—”

“All good, are you hurt—”

Both reached down to one of the fallen items at the same time. Their hands touched and when Gitlam looked up to the eyes of the man, he felt his heart stop for a moment.

He didn’t know why it happened, but Gitlam was at a loss for words, staring into the green eyes of the man.

“Do you… do you need help?” The stranger repeated with a nervous smile behind his chestnut brown circle beard.

“Thank you…” Gitlam replied immediately, surprised by how tall the man was.

To Gitlam, any person was taller than him, since he was a dwarf. However, Gitlam felt like he was stepping on equal grounds with him—something he never really experienced or knew how to take.

The white and golden vest on him with the yellow cloth around the man’s long torso simply complimented his lithe build. Paired with his tied long hair, the golden wristbands and the necklace hanging over his chest made him look even more graceful.

Usually, Gitlam wasn’t a fan of accessories for the hands or wrists, but on this man, he felt like they were a perfect fit.

Gitlam didn’t mean to, but he could not stop staring at him.

“How’s your foot?”

“My foot? OH, barely noticed the pain,” laughed Gitlam, pulling his hand back quickly and running over his hair. “Oh heavens, please tell me he didn’t notice how sweaty they were.”

Cautiously, Gitlam whipped his hand off of the hem of his robe before realising what he did and looked at the tall man again. He hoped this gesture didn’t make him think of Gitlam any less.

The man kept smiling, though it didn’t help to calm Gitlam’s anxiety.

“Sorry again for bumping into you!” shouted Gitlam. The man blinked wildly and Gitlam stuck out his hand again. “My name’s Gitlam! I’m a baker. What’s your name?”

“Very smooth, you hot-headed buffoon with the sweatiest hands in all of Idaris! He must be thinking I’m a daft and dirty dwarf with—”

“Agarin,” the man replied with an amused chuckle. “My name’s Agarin, I’m a merchant.”

Shaking his hand, Agarin stood up from his position, appearing even taller than what Gitlam had previously expected. The dwarf gulped audibly.

Gitlam’s gaze then turned to the items scattered on the ground and spotted equipment among them, which he wanted to purchase later, anyway.

“Those are baking utensils.”

“Indeed, they are, but—”

“I want to buy them from you!” Gitlam shouted, startling Agarin with how upfront Gitlam was. “I mean,” he coughed and craned his neck, “I-I’m a baker, which you already know.”

“Be cool Gitlam. What’s wrong with you?”

He whipped the sweat from his brow and coughed into his fist. “To be blunt, I’m in dire need of new equipment… but I am strapped for money… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have made that offer.”

“You fool! What are you babbling about?” Gitlam gnashed with his teeth and furrowed his brow. “Maybe that witch was right and I should just—”

“I think we can arrange something.”

Looking up at Agarin, Gitlam saw him smile warmly but with a strange glint in his green eyes. “Come with me. I’ll explain it when we are there.”

“Huh?”

Agarin picked up one of the fallen boxes and started walking before he turned to Gitlam one more time. “Pick up the other and come.”

Without getting told a second time, Gitlam eagerly heaved up the box and almost stumbled over his clumsy feet to follow Agarin.

—☾—

Nippur’s market area was big and easy to get lost in when the crowd arrived in the morning or evening.

Even now, with only the merchants here, it was as busy as a beehive. Gitlam got pressed through all the dwarves, humans, and therianthropes setting up shop and earlier refused to open up early for him.

Gitlam lost sight of Agarin and before he knew it, he got pulled from behind one of the many half-closed carpet entrances.

“Easy to get lost, try to pay attention to the awnings,” laughed Agarin and took the heavy box out of Gitlam’s hands with ease and disappeared to the back of the shop.

“That’s why I dislike going there. Such a pain and the heat makes it so hard to walk around, even with the awnings shielding us,” complained Gitlam, stretching his numb arms. “How can you carry that stuff? They are so heavy.”

“Practice, and pure spite,” Agarin chuckled darkly, clearing the stone counter before prepping up for the day. The speed at which Agarin worked was to be awed.

He set up various tools for baking, metalworking, chiselling and various other artisan jobs Gitlam recognised.

He also saw him put up fresh produce like grapes, emmer and various assortments of legumes.

In one corner, there were also construction materials like lime or for cooking like animal grease.

It confused Gitlam. “What are you trying to sell exactly? This looks too—”

“Unfocused? Unspecialised? Disorganised?” offered Agarin.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“Thanks for the suggestions. I had a different word in mind, which was less than eloquent.”

“Fair enough.” Agarin rested his hands on the counter and leaned towards Gitlam. “To be honest, I am not long here, and had some trouble establishing myself here.”

“Where are you from?”

“Larsa.”

“The merchant city?” Gitlam gawked. “Isn’t that a famous city to make money? What are you doing here?”

“Business troubles, and sibling rivalry,” sighed Agarin in defeat, sagging his shoulders and appearing smaller than he was. “Long story short, I narrowly escaped bankruptcy and wanted to start anew. Preferably somewhere far away from home, like Nippur.”

“Yeah,” Gitlam nodded, “I get that. Would have done the same if I were you…”

Curiosity made Agarin raise an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you then?”

“Money.”

“That tracks it,” Agarin laughed awkwardly. “Money can be quite a pain. Trust a merchant when they say that.”

“And I got an evil hag who makes my life a living hell. She would track me down and ruin my life further when I even attempted to move to a different country.”

“Ah, had one of those too.”

Now Gitlam was curious, albeit rather morbid. “What did you do? Threw salt at her? Drenched her in water?”

Agarin leaned forward, his eyes dark and serious. “Nothing anyone can prove.” Gitlam’s eyes widened before he let out a laugh, making the other join in as well. “Enough chitchat. Come to the back with me.”

Behind the draped doorway to the back, Gitlam arrived in what he assumed was a messy makeshift kitchen—built by a bloody amateur.

“Alright, this is—”

“THIS IS THE WORST KITCHEN I HAVE EVER SEEN!” Gitlam shouted so loudly that one of the rugs in the room fell off and over an open flame. He immediately rushed to put that out. “What did you do here!?”

“I–I built a kitchen?”

“That’s not a kitchen, this is a war zone!” Gitlam almost pulled out his black hair and watched how Agarin gave him a sheepish smile. “Do you even know what one looks like?”

“Yes… no… is it bad?”

Was it bad?

Gitlam grimaced and shook his head, unable to say a word.

What he saw was beyond a nightmare.

Right next to the entrance, he found a clay kiln carved right into the wall where metallic pipelines of water and other magic veins were running in.

The sink was right below it, but no water would run because the pipes and water would overheat from the lack of ventilation.

Also, Agarin kept all the utensils in a dusty and humid back room, coated with dust and rust. Picking up a pan, Gitlam stared at Agarin through the gaping hole of its surface.

His conclusion; it was beyond bad—it was terrible.

“This has to be fixed. You’re an earth mage, aren’t you?”

Agarin nodded, affirming Gitlam’s suspicion of having to deal with one.

“Alright, follow my instructions. Before we engage in any kind of conversation, this place has to be fixed, asap, before I get an aneurysm!”

Gitlam had a bit of a temper, especially when it came to baking or the kitchen—a quirk he inherited from his dear mother and got more than once in trouble for.

Not that he cared, neither did his mother.

He loved to share this trait with her and the fact they got both banned from any bakery or the brewery—also courtesy of the evil witch, Shasa.

Yet somehow, Gitlam felt cautious when he instructed Agarin how to renovate the kitchen to make it more passable.

He constantly worried that Agarin would soon snap and shout things at Gitlam like, “This is my place! How dare you shout at me and make me run around here?”

“Say, what kind of business are you exactly trying to establish here?” Gitlam wondered out loud. “I get it’s a shop, and that you are new here, but the assortment and the backroom make me think that you don’t know.”

“That’s the thing, I don’t, or at least… I hope to find out…” replied Agarin with a heavy sigh and shaped a hole into the stone wall. “Is that big enough?”

Gitlam focused, thinking. “Needs to be bigger…” and pulled lightly on the hair of his chin. “Most merchants specialise. Having so much random produce might turn off most long-term customers, though.”

“I know,” Agarin grunted and widened the hole. He looked exhausted and Gitlam poured him some water. “Thanks… I have been trying to find out what to do, but can’t seem to settle into anything, and I don’t want to drive out anyone and make them angry.”

“And all of this is what?” Gitlam motioned to the—finally—properly finished and new kitchen, worthy of being used by a god. “Do you also want to become a food merchant? Can you even cook?”

“Nope,” replied Agarin, standing tall and almost hitting the ceiling. “Never cooked a day in my life, and that’s where you are coming in.”

Gitlam looked surprised towards Agarin. He suddenly felt both happy and wanted by the way the tall man smiled at him, making him feel needed.

“You said you’re a baker, right?” Gitlam’s expression visibly fell, and he took a cautious step back, which didn’t look like much with his height. “I have all the ingredients ready and I’m in dire need of having them refined and sold because of the expiration date.

“If I don’t get them sold, I won’t get the worth of money back, will make a massive loss and would then need to file bankruptcy.”

“I- I see,” Gitlam mumbled and took another step back. “Look, I appreciate the offer but… I can’t legally—”

“I have tried selling beverages, but I need a licence to even do that. The only one I got was for selling pastries and other baked goods because of that old—”

“The brewery witch?”

“Yeah, that one!” Agarin exclaimed, pointing his finger up before raising his eyebrow at Gitlam. “You know her?”

“We all do!” he yelled. “She’s the meanest, most spitefully vile woman I have ever seen. She ruined all of my attempts in this field and not to mention she also…”

The thought of his mother came to mind and Gitlam gnashed with his teeth. He didn’t want to think about her, but he knew what he needed or wanted to do.

“I would do anything to get back at her!”

“Then how about we help each other out?” Agarin offered a hand. “I believe we both have something that the other needs and a common rival to spite.”

Gitlam stared wide-eyed at Agarin’s hand and then at the gleaming green eyes of his.

He didn’t look like the mean type. If anything, he seemed compassionate.

And even stranger, Gitlam liked it and couldn’t hide himself from smiling.

He shook Agarin’s hand, knowing it was the right thing to do.

—❂—

“Selling now, freshly baked Maarouk and Sheermal bread! Get them now while they are hot!”

Agarin’s voice was louder than any dwarf could shout. Thankfully, it worked not to put off the people, but on the contrary, pull them in.

It was early in the morning, very early because everyone had to rise before dawn to enjoy a semblance of peace and quiet before the busy day ahead—and not have to endure the oppressing heat that could persist in these regions.

It was also the time of day when family members wanted to browse the markets early and get some fresh bread for breakfast.

The perfect opportunity for the duo to strike.

“We’re not even open for an hour and sold everything,” Agarin laughed, wiping away the sweat from his brow from all the advertising and selling he had to do. “Even got some of the other rubbish sold, which I falsely bought on a whim. What did you put in the bread?”

Gitlam returned from the back room with a tray of new pastries that invaded Agarin’s nose of how sweet and enticing they smelt. His brain almost shut off. He focused on the dwarven baker instead.

Big mistake, he realised.

Flour caked his green robe, his exposed arms and his round face. Agarin’s eyes wandered to examine his state, and he didn’t have the words to describe it.

Gitlam held the hot tray with his big and dark hands, unaffected by the heat thanks to being a fire mage.

The dark circles underneath his eyes were more pronounced from baking all night, but it didn’t make him look bad.

It made him look real, genuine.

The energy radiating from his red eyes and the wide simper attracted Agarin to a degree he couldn’t understand. The merchant needed to be distracted quickly before his stare bore a hole into the baker.

“Brushed up some old recipes my mother left me behind. The old witch hates anything wild and untested, meaning we never got much new stuff. So I whipped those up and Voila!

“The best damn bread you could have in the morning, and these,” Gitlam’s hand wandered over the pastries, gently brushing away the steam still rising from them. “will be a good testing batch for the evening run. I call them Khaliat Nahal, or Bee’s Hive—”

“Perfect, lemme try one—”

“NO! These are still—”

“HOTH! MHY TONGHUE!”

“You idiot! Ah, where’s the goat milk I saw?”

Agarin tried to breathe while keeping the pastry in his mouth and not spit it out.

It may be scorching the inside of his mouth, but the sweet taste and texture were too good to pass by. Considering Gitlam made those, Agarin would have regretted spitting it out.

“Drink this before your tongue melts away… you daft and loveable moron,” he mumbled the last part.

“Wat whas thath?”

“Nothing, drink!”

Agarin searched for the cup with his hands but couldn’t find it before Gitlam simply put it in his hands. He gingerly brought it to his lips and emptied the cup, washing away the pain and leaving a lingering taste that was even sweeter than he imagined.

Amplified even further when he looked at the person who gave it to him.

“You know,” Agarin coughed, taking another gulp, “we should advertise those with the milk. The farmer might appreciate it and it would sell well with the pastries.”

“Hmph,” Gitlam huffed grumpily, “never really did it for the money. Sure, it feels incredible having your work sold with so much gusto, but that’s not my goal.”

Agarin raised a brow in curiosity. “Then what is? And don’t say to spite that old woman. I know that’s not the case.”

A meek smile streaked Gitlam’s face—he felt like he was an open book to him.

“I told you those recipes were from my mother, no?”

Agarin nodded.

“Well, she never got to sell these before she was… well, gone.” Gitlam clenched and unclenched his hands, trying to get the stiffness out. He didn’t like to talk about this, but he felt safe to do so now. “Kept down in the brewery, never appreciated for her skills or ambition. Only ever told to make tasteless bapir for the brewing process.

“She was amazing, but…”

Gitlam stopped talking, hesitating to continue. Agarin wanted to help, but he didn’t want to urge him into something Gitlam wasn’t ready for yet.

“You don’t have to talk about it. I understand it must be painful.” Agarin put a hand on Gitlam’s shoulder.

A simple gesture which gave him the strength to relax. He placed his hand on Agarin’s in return.

“Thank you, I appreciate it. Long story short, she died on the job. She had been trying to drink her problems away while on the job, despite her weak liver.” Gitlam let out a long and ragged sigh. “Worst thing, no one knew or noticed. One reason I don’t drink anymore. Too painful of a reminder.”

“Did you ever try opening up your own shop?”

Gitlam laughed at the proposal. Not because he found it funny, but because it made him angry.

“Oh I did, but that hag hates me. I never got my licence because of her and she threatened half of the market to not even buy my dough.” Gitlam’s eyes fell on Agarin and he gave him a meek smile. “You know that selling my stuff, even with a licence, will make you her next target?”

He gave a mere shrug to this. “Frankly, I couldn’t care less. She can come and try to take both of us down.”

“Us?”

“Of course, us,” Agarin gave him a hard pat against the back. “We’re in this together now, and she won’t stop us.”

—✸—

“Close your shop or face the gods’ wrath.”

“Well, that was quick,” mused Gitlam and rested his hands on the counter of their shop. “Didn’t even take a full day to receive the ire of the brewery witch. Gotta say, it feels good.”

The entire entourage of the brewery had come.

Dozens of women who Gitlam knew since his childhood thanks to his mother, though none of them were here because they wanted to.

They came because the mistress hated Gitlam, and they were afraid of her.

Everyone was.

Shasa fired anyone when they called in sick—it was even worse during the summer.

She had all the shops under her thumb as she supplied them with beer.

It sounded ridiculous in Gitlam’s opinion, but that was the truth, and no one dared to do anything about her. Not even the temple.

“I’m sorry, but why?”

Except for Agarin, who stood tall and unenthused before the aged woman—though her ego still overshadowed the dear merchant Gitlam grew fond of.

“You can’t sell your stuff here.”

“Ehm, yes I can. I’m a merchant from Larsa. I have a licence and the permit.”

Shasa frowned at him, pronouncing her wrinkles even further. “You can’t sell bread here without the permission of the brewery.”

“Again, I have the permission, right here, see?” Agarin pulled out a clay tablet that was chiselled into a wall when he first received it.

Personally, Gitlam preferred parchments from Navarre, but that was not important—he didn’t have enough snacks to watch this.

“As you can see here, carved by the official Esha Artor, legalised by the Ekur temple ziggurat and down below the approval of your brewery. In conclusion, I can sell bread here and even alcohol if I wanted to.”

Agarin put the clay tablet right back where it belonged and flinched. Shasa’s face grew red, her eye twitched and the angles of her mouth contort behind the veil.

Gitlam realised that she simply had no valid argument and was grasping for excuses—he was having a blast.

“If you continue this collaboration with the dwarf,” the headmistress poked at Agarin and pulled on his golden necklace, “then you will feel the full consequences of our brewery.”

She spread out her arm to the side and moved her body, to give a better view to all the girls and women under her employment. Agarin could only laugh in response to how serious she tried to be.

A vein popped up on her forehead. “What’s so funny?” she asked.

“You and what army? I think your girls are preoccupied with other, far-important matters.”

Confused, Shasa turned around, only to find her girls moving about elsewhere. Particularly, to the shop, where a sweet smell was hovering in the air.

“The secret to these masterpieces is goat milk! When the dough is almost ready, then you give it a good smack with your fist!” Gitlam explained the process and nuances of his creation.

Although barely half of them even listened. Rather, they focused on tasting the new sweet bread Gitlam made with sesame toppings and fillings of cheese creams or chocolate.

They didn’t care about the squabble in the first place, and Gitlam was happy enough to rub it in Shasa’s face.

He wiggled his eyebrows in her direction to taunt her further and get a laugh out of Agarin.

“Want to try one too?” he offered with a grin. “Still hot, but we all know how women are better at handling hot stuff, don’t you agree?”

“Enough of this nonsense!”

Shasa shouted and brushed her way through everyone to glare down at the dwarf. For a hot moment, nothing happened, and Gitlam was getting irritated. She simply stared at him, breathing angrily through her nostrils.

He offered her a honeycomb bread again. “You should give it a bite and—”

Slapping the bread away from his fingers, she grabbed under Gitlam’s chin beard and pulled him closer to her.

“Stop pretending to be someone you are not, boy.” The venom in her voice brushed over his skin, making him unable to move in her grasp. “You’re as incompetent as your mother was. You have no skill for this craft. With your daft hands, you are better off anywhere else. Better stop now, or you might end up like that drunkard of a moth—”

“Ok, that’s enough.” Agarin gently clapped with his hands, but let the sound travel over the earth so everyone around them could feel it. He held an irritated frown but kept his cool. “If you have any issue with our shop, then take it up with the temple and file a complaint.

“Also,” Agarin stood before her and leaned forward, putting his hand down on the counter, “don’t pester my partner here. Better leave now, you hear me?”

“Are you threatening me?” she replied with a fiery calmness that was further accentuated by the pressure of her magic.

“I think you got our positions reversed.” Agarin didn’t back away but felt a drop of sweat run down the side of his face.

He never liked it when others pressured him with magic.

“You don’t think I will go as far?” she repeated, putting more pressure around them until the walls cracked. “My warnings are absolute. What I say goes.”

“Okay, let's all just try to calm do- try to be respectful of the process here." Agarin moved around the counter and behind Gitlam, putting his hands on his shoulders.

“What are you doing?” whispered Gitlam to him.

“Getting out of the line of fire,” Agarin replied fearfully. “That old woman scares me.”

“How brave. You believe I would fare better?”

Agarin gave Gitlam a sheepish smile, and both backed away another step from the increasing pressure.

“When I say something, it goes. When I say drop it, then drop it. You hear me, dwarf?” She pointed with her old and tanned finger at Gitlam, her white hair falling from the bun it was previously tied in. “Stubborn, just like your mother. You have no place here and should—”

Just then, when the pressure she exuded reached its boiling point, the wall next to them fissured.

One crack split into three, split into nine and spread like a single file upwards, crumbling and revealing a single metal pipe dripping with water.

“Is that…”

“Yap,” said Agarin, “I believe it’s the one I—”

The pipe was located where Agarin had put up his first makeshift oven just behind it, alongside the sink. They could have sworn it wouldn’t be a problem after they repositioned it, but Agarin must have damaged it.

Bursting, the water rained down above them like a gentle rainfall—after it had hit Shasa with all the pressurised water, dousing her until she was drenched from head to toe.

Gitlam clapped his hand over his mouth.

The girls from the brewery starred in silent shock and took cautionary steps back.

No one dared to make a sound.

Except for Agarin, whose stifled giggling was barely suppressed. He tried his best not to burst out in laughter, similar to how the water did out of the pipe.

“Buddy, stop laughing,” Gitlam pulled Agarin closer, speaking to him in a hushed tone.

“I’m sorry.” Agarin was not sorry and had a hard time containing himself. “I am more surprised you’re not laughing.”

“Practise, my dear partner,” hushed Gitlam through gritted teeth. “Now be quiet before—”

“I’ll take my leave for today,” announced Shasa resignedly, her white hair covering her face like clingy moss. “Have a nice day.”

“That’s it?” wondered the two men. After all the fire and brimstone she was throwing at them, she was eager to call it a day?

“Who knew witches couldn’t handle water and made them docile?” They caught each other chuckling at this and quickly banished the thought when she turned around to them.

“I’ll be back. This isn’t over. It will never be, just like it was with your mother.” Her stare bore into the dwarf. Gitlam felt like disappearing back into the kitchen, just to avoid her glare.

Were it not for Agarin putting his hands on his shoulder, he would have already done so.

“Just give it a rest,” Agarin insisted, burying his fingers into Gitlam’s shoulders and making him stand taller.

“Give it a rest?” she mused and snapped with her bony fingers. “I’ll never let that woman’s son rest. Get going girls, we have too much to do.”

Without another word, the headmistress left, and half of her girls followed her.

“Why aren’t you going?” Gitlam asked the remaining group.

“It’s our break,” they replied. “Also, could we please have more of the bread? The headmistress doesn’t allow food on the job, and those are to die for.”

“Literally,” another said with a wide and begging grin.

The duo gave each other a happy glance.

“Of course, we are happy to receive you in our fresh and new shop for ‘Baked Goods and More’!”

“Our shop?” Gitlam looked bewildered towards Agarin. “Do you mean you still want… you know?”

“Of course! I can't have this running without my new partner here.” Agarin bent down and put his arm around Gitlam, pulling him close. “What do they say in the South? We are partners in crime now. Let’s show them, especially that old hag, what we can accomplish against her.”

“Haha,” Gitlam laughed, “you got me on the last part. Let’s show them, partner!” Gitlam returned the gesture and put his arm around Agarin as well. “Pick your bread, ladies. There’s more in the oven!”