The sun hadn’t even fully risen yet, but the warmth of the hearthfire already filled the café. Not magical warmth — no, that’d be too easy. It was real warmth, the kind you could feel in your bones, carried by the smell of woodsmoke, rising bread, and sizzling fat.

I stood at the center of it all, wiping my hands on my apron. Today was the day. My first day running The Hearth — my café, my dream, my little kingdom of fire and flour. The place was small, but it was mine.

I’d spent every copper I had on this. Sold off old projects, scrapped parts of inventions I’d tinkered with since I was a kid, and turned them into cold, hard coin. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough to buy stone, brick, and steel. Enough to build it with my own hands, brick by brick. No conjuration runes. No transmutation circles. Just me, a chisel, and a whole lot of sore fingers.

The hearth was the centerpiece. Not a modern stove or a spell-forged firebox. It was a big, open, arched stone hearth with fire roaring in the center, real fire fed by fresh-cut logs. The oven sat beside it, a domed beauty of brick and mortar, glowing faint orange from the embers banked inside. The shelves were simple wood planks, and the walls were bare stone. No frills. No enchantments. No lies.

I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the door.

No one had come yet.

The sign outside said:THE HEARTH "Flame Forged, Hand Made, Taste That Won’t Fade."

Some people laughed at it. "How quaint," I’d heard them say. “How old-fashioned.” I knew the look they gave me. I’d seen it before. "He's just a kid playing at being a craftsman."

But let them laugh. I didn’t care. They’d see.

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I stoked the fire one more time, letting the heat build up in the oven. If I was gonna get anyone in here, I’d need to lure them in like moths to a lantern.

“Time to start the show,” I muttered.

I grabbed the sourdough from the proofing basket, a round, pillowy mass that had been fermenting since yesterday. Lightly dusted with flour, it felt alive in my hands. My fingers pressed into it, and it pushed back. Perfect. Springy but soft. I scored the top with a small blade, giving it that classic cross-hatch pattern, and slid it into the oven. The moment it hit the stone, it hissed, and the first real smell of the morning began to rise.

The smell of fresh bread. Warm, rich, familiar. The kind of smell that pulls memories out of your heart without asking permission. It crawls into your head and tells you, "Come home."

I wasn’t done. Bread alone wasn’t enough to call a crowd. I needed spectacle. Drama.

Next, I grabbed the eggs. Not just any eggs — farm-fresh, yolks as golden as sunrise. I laid out three on the counter. Their smooth shells gleamed in the low light. Then, with a deep breath, I reached for the skillet hanging from the hook by the hearth. Cast iron. Heavy. Reliable. I hung it over the flames and let it heat up until a bead of water sizzled off the surface like it had somewhere better to be.

“Let’s dance,” I muttered, grabbing the eggs.

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I held them up, one in each hand. Tap-tap-tap. Crack. Crack. Crack. Three golden yolks hit the pan, and the fire hissed. The flames licked around the edge of the skillet, glowing bright orange against the black iron.

Fsssshhhhhhh!

The sound echoed through the empty café. I didn’t just hear it — I felt it. That sizzle was the sound of food coming to life.

“Come on,” I muttered, eyes flicking to the door. "You hear that, don't you? Smell it, too. Come on."

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The door creaked open.

I didn’t turn right away, but my heart jumped.

I heard footsteps. Light. Careful. Not the heavy stomp of a farmer or a worker. No, this was something else.

“...What is that smell?” a voice said, sharp but curious. I glanced up and saw her standing at the doorway. She wore deep blue robes embroidered with silver runes, the sign of a scholar from the Arcane Institute. Her eyes darted around, scanning every inch of the café like it was a problem she needed to solve.

Her eyes landed on the fire. Then the bread in the oven. Then on me.

“Is that... smoke?” she asked, squinting like she didn’t trust what she was seeing.

“It’s fire,” I replied, flipping the eggs with one quick flick of my wrist. They danced in the pan, the yolks jiggling but never breaking. “Real fire. No magic.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she stepped forward cautiously, like she was inspecting a wild animal. “No magic? How do you cook without magic?”

“Same way your great-grandfather did,” I said, tapping the skillet so the eggs slid neatly onto a fresh plate. I grabbed two thick slices of sourdough from the cutting board, toasted them over the fire for just a moment, then placed them on the plate. Eggs on toast. Simple. Classic. Perfect.

She tilted her head. “People actually... used to cook like this?”

“Used to?” I snorted. “People still do.” I placed the plate on the counter and nodded toward her. “Taste it. See for yourself.”

Her fingers hovered over the plate like she wasn’t sure if it was a trap. But hunger won. She picked up one of the toast slices, broke off a piece of egg, and popped it into her mouth. Her face froze. Her eyes widened.

Her hands shot up like she’d been struck by lightning. “What is this?!” she gasped, cheeks full.

I shrugged, arms crossed, trying not to smile. “It’s just an egg, Miss Scholar. A real egg. Not conjured. Not enchanted. Just... made with fire.”

Her eyes darted between me, the bread, and the plate like she’d been lied to her whole life. “It tastes... like…” she hesitated, trying to find the words. “It tastes like something.”

“Yeah,” I said, leaning on the counter. “It tastes like work.”

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She sat down, eyes still locked on the fire, like she was trying to solve it like a puzzle. “Why go through all this trouble? You could just use thermal glyphs. Heat runes. Hell, even a pocket flame spell could do this in half the time.”

“Sure,” I said, tossing another log on the fire. Sparks shot up, and I felt the warmth on my face. “But it wouldn’t taste the same.”

“Magic's faster,” she argued. “It’s cleaner, more efficient—”

“Doesn’t mean it’s better.” I pointed at her plate. “Did that taste efficient to you?”

She didn’t answer right away. She just took another bite.

“You know why?” I asked, leaning forward. “Because effort tastes better. Effort has flavor. You can’t bottle it. You can’t enchant it. You feel it when it’s there, and you know when it’s missing.”

Her eyes met mine. “That’s... bizarrely poetic.”

I snorted, throwing a damp cloth over my shoulder. “Call it whatever you want, but it’s the truth. And that’s why I don’t use magic.”

By the end of the day, six more customers had come. Not many, but enough. Word spread. I didn’t need signs or runes or enchantments.

Just fire. Bread. Butter. And patience.

When I locked the door that night, I glanced at the hearth. I didn’t bank the fire just yet. I sat for a moment, arms draped over my knees, watching the coals flicker like little stars.

“Feels like the start of something,” I muttered. My hands were sore. My back ached. But I smiled.

Not because I was done.

But because tomorrow, I’d do it all over again.