Dalya’s whimpers had subsided into choked sobs while she clutched her splinted wrist, now wrapped in coarse linen stripped from a banquet cloth. Zared hovered nearby, his brow furrowed in false pity. The examiner’s gaze swept across the cracked flagstones. “This guild prides itself on order. What, precisely, is the meaning of this spectacle?” Tasmira stepped forward, smoothing her apron over her hips. “Examiner! What an honor. A small flurry of artistic exuberance, I assure you. My colleague was simply overwhelmed by the temper of her sugar work. She has such passion that it occasionally boils over.” She tilted her head toward Dalya, who let out a fresh wail. The official arched an eyebrow. His fingers brushed a gilded testing spoon tucked into the lapel of his damson robes, its bowl polished to a mirror finish. “Artistic exuberance that results in bone splints and a kitchen floor drowned in turmeric? The Imperial Palace does not tolerate volatility.” “Oh, but you misunderstand,” Tasmira replied, brightening. “It is a developing method: controlled chaos in service to palate agitation. I was just finishing three experimental tarts on the counter, hoping to test the progression. Would you do our pavilion the honor of an initial critique?” She dipped into a shallow, deferential curtsy. Before he could refuse, she lifted a scarlet tartlet from the marble counter. “The Crimson Dawn. Sun-pear nectar bound with roasted Zaythian pepper.” She set it upon a white porcelain saucer. The examiner drew the gilded spoon from his lapel, scooped a corner of the curd, and brought it to his mouth. His expression stayed rigid, though red pricked the crests of his cheekbones. He swallowed twice. “Pleasant. If a touch sharp.” Tasmira beamed. “Excellent! Next, the Blaze of Noon.” She offered a second pastry, glossed with candied chili seeds. “Sun-cured desert berries whipped through sheep-milk curd. Suited for an imperial constitution.” Kaelus hesitated under her steady gaze, then took a second measure. The flush darkened along his neck. A dry clearing of his throat rattled in his collar. “Intriguing. The heat is quite pronounced.” “Only on the opening bite,” Tasmira said, producing the third pastry, orange as smoldering pitch and crowned with charred dragon-rind pearls. “The Sunset Fury. A reduction of coastal pepper-flesh and dried citrus oil to seal the palate.” Kaelus stared at the pastry, then at Tasmira’s cheerful stance. A drop of sweat traced his jawline. He returned the spoon to his breast pocket and cleared his throat a third time. “Confectioner Tasmira, I have sampled sufficient theory for this afternoon.” While the examiner patted his temples with a silk square, Dalya moaned from the bench. Tasmira shifted her chin slightly toward the corner lockers, catching Zared’s gaze. The scullery boy slipped past the line of kitchen helpers without a sound. Underneath a stack of stained aprons in Dalya’s tin locker, Zared’s fingers closed around a slim, leather-bound volume. He slid it into the waistband of his trousers and stepped back among the spectators. Tasmira finished escorting the official toward the brass-banded doors with bright promises of mild, honeyed courses for the formal banquet. “Tucked under her tea tins,” Zared murmured, sliding the volume into Tasmira’s apron pocket once the hall doors clicked shut. “A journal?” Tasmira cracked the spine, squinting at the crabbed, hurried script across the vellum. “Sabotage Points… System Penalties… Destiny Usurpation… What nonsense has she copied down?” She chuckled under her breath. “'Failing to ruin Tasmira has drained my Luck-Essence. My fate-lines are tangling!' She has lost her senses, or she is attempting to draft one of those cheap street serials about stolen birthrights.” Tasmira let out a light laugh. “'A Descent of Ruin token is my last hope. I will cash it in to shatter her Sun-Pearl Cake at the Imperial Banquet. Then my destiny will be truly mine.'” She closed the covers with a snap. “A theatrical villainess and an atrocious scribbler. Sun-Pearl Cake, as though she could write herself into my station.”

Spiced Distractions and Fictional Systems