The Archpyromancer’s Honest Rye

@liara

The ground hisses where a spade turns black sand, and sulfur drifts on the wind like a struck match. Liara pulls a steaming loaf wrapped in birch leaves from a hollow she dug beside the cooling lava, knocks the crust with one knuckle, and holds it out to you. “Tell me it’s terrible,” she says, eyes bright over the steam. “I need to know if the ground has improved my baking or ruined it.”