Her serene smile didn't waver, but the edge of her vision tracked Dalya’s retreat, a calculating flicker in her usually warm eyes. The Guildmaster’s decree still echoed, but Tasmira had already shifted past the applause; claiming Head Confectioner began with rare provisions, not cheers. Hours later, the guild halls lay silent, the scullery hands asleep in their barracks. Tasmira, however, was not among them. A thick, insulated cloak, layered with pelts of mountain lynx, swathed her slender frame as she descended into the subterranean ice-cellars. The air grew heavy, damp, and then bitingly cold with each stone-cut step. Her breath plumed before her, a ghostly banner in the dim glow of her lantern. These were far beyond the cookhouse larders. This was the deep storage, a labyrinth of glacial caverns carved by ancient sorcery and maintained by perpetual frost-runes. Walls of solid ice shimmered with trapped light, reflecting her lantern’s beam into a dizzying kaleidoscope. She navigated by memory and the subtle, unique chill emanating from specific alcoves, each holding treasures of the culinary world – 'Cryo-root Syrup' harvested from the peaks of the Gelid Spires, jars of preserved 'Glimmer-frost Berries' from the eastern tundras, and, her current target, the rare 'Lunar Bloom Honeycomb', said to retain its faint moonlight luminescence for weeks if kept below freezing. She needed the Lunar Bloom for her submission to Governor Rhana’s tasting panel. Its faint glow and floral sweetness formed the backbone of the ‘Moonpetal Mousse’ her mentor, Vorlag, had perfected, which she intended to adapt for the contest. Vorlag’s legacy was anchored in discovering the finest components Orazhat could yield. The deeper she ventured, the more the cold seeped into her bones. Her gloved fingers brushed against rime-covered shelves, her boots crunching softly on scattered ice fragments. She found the designated alcove, tucked behind a cascade of frozen, ancient vines. The honeycomb glowed faintly, a ghostly pale amber, its hexagonal cells still dripping with solidified nectar. She carefully chipped away the surrounding ice with a specialized, heated chisel, the only sound the faint *tink* against the crystalline walls. Securing a slab of the honeyed comb, Tasmira began her ascent, the cool parcel tucked securely into her satchel. The climb felt longer, the air growing warmer with agonizing slowness. By the time she reached her private store, a small room adjacent to her sleeping quarters, dawn grayed the eastern windows. She pushed open the heavy wooden door, her mind already on the precise chilling temperatures for the Lunar Bloom. A soft thud from inside brought her up short. The scent of crystallised ginger from the top shelf was unmistakable. The iron bolt had been picked. “Did you enjoy your snack, Zared?” Tasmira asked cheerfully, easing the door back while gripping a curved dissection scalpel. The blade, designed for precision cuts on sugar sculptures, gleamed wickedly in the faint light, its tip unnervingly sharp. Zared, the boy with hair like burnt almond brittle, froze with his fingers hovering over the open jar, a sugary scrap clinging to his lower lip. His face, usually smudged with flour or cocoa, was now pale with terror. “T-Tasmira! I, uh, I was just…” He stammered, his gaze darting from the knife to her unnervingly calm face. His legs seemed to have forgotten how to move. Tasmira tilted her head. “Admiring my stock, or checking quality?” She stepped inside, letting the blade catch the pale light. “A single slip of this edge ruins days of spun sugar work. Or severs a vein in a thumb.” Her voice remained light, conversational. “It all depends on the angle, doesn’t it?” Zared swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He was trapped between the shelves and the door, nowhere to run. “I swear, I didn’t mean any harm! I just… I was sent to look for something.” His voice was a reedy whisper. “Sent?” Tasmira hummed, her eyes glinting. “By whom, I wonder?” She motioned toward the jar. “Finish your bite, Zared. Don’t let me disrupt your errand.” He fumbled, shaking as he pulled out a sugary root segment, his gaze fixed on the blade. He was a plump, nervous boy, easily intimidated, which made him perfect. “Dalya,” he mumbled, his gaze fixed on the floor. “She said you were… keeping secrets in here. Recipes. She said I could find out for her.” Tasmira’s smile softened, losing its sharp edge. She lowered the knife, sliding it into a leather sheath at her hip. “Dalya. Of course.” She retrieved another piece of the spicy confection and offered it. “Here. A peace offering. You look famished.” Zared stared at the ginger, then at her. He gingerly took it, his eyes still wary. “You’re not… mad?” “Mad?” Tasmira chuckled softly. “Everyone keeps rivals here, Zared. It is simply the trade.” She leaned against a cedar shelf. “A clever artisan turns sour curd into sweet cheese. And a clever runner knows where his bread gets buttered.” She paused, letting the implication hang. “What if you were to… continue keeping an eye out for Dalya? Only, instead of telling her what you find, you tell me? Think of it as a game. A very important game.” Zared chewed the treat. He looked at Tasmira’s calm face, then back at the threshold. “You want me to spy on her?” “No, Zared.” Tasmira smiled gently. “I want to help her avoid clumsy mistakes that could damage our guild. For your aid, there will always be sweets, and a few silver pennies. What do you say?” He hesitated, then nodded vigorously. “Okay! I’ll do it, Tasmira! What do I need to look for?” “Anything unusual,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Anything Dalya says or does that seems… out of place. Does she talk to herself, for instance? Mutter about things no one else can see?” Zared gaped. “She does! All the time! She talks to this… unseen slate. Says it awards tallies for ruining people.” Tasmira flicked her fingers in dismissal. “Ah, Dalya’s imaginary slate. Her mind easily frays under the tournament's strain. Keep listening to her ramblings. Now run along, and keep our arrangement quiet.” Zared nodded, clutching the sweet, and slipped out of the room. Dalya unraveling under tension was entirely predictable; an imaginary tally board was merely the desperate hallucination of jealousy. Tasmira set the honeycomb in chilled brine and began prepping her station. She had just finished tempering her first batch of chocolate for the day when a frantic scrambling at her door heralded Zared’s return. He leaned against the frame, trembling with panic. “Tasmira! Tasmira, you have to hear this!” he gasped, clutching his chest. “Dalya… she’s going to target your submission for Governor Rhana’s preliminary tasting! It’s scheduled for dawn!”

The Price of Candied Ginger