Page 48 of The Baker’s Shadow

Kaia is in the kitchen. Making bread. Her hands move automatically. Like she needs the routine to stay sane.

She looks up when I come in. Her expression shifts. Fear. Grief. Understanding.

“Someone’s been tampering with the wards.”

My voice comes out rough. I’m breathing hard. Not from exertion. From terror.

“The outer barrier is weakening. I can feel it. Cracks in the foundation. Places where something has been... pulling. Testing.”

“Can you fix it?”

“I don’t know.” I sit at the kitchen table. Put my head in my hands. “It’s old magic, Kaia. Stronger than me. Older than anything I know how to work with. I can shore it up temporarily. Patch the worst of it. But if someone keeps pulling, keeps testing...”

“Then what?”

I look up at her.

Let her see my eyes. Black. Hollow. Ancient.

“Then everything gets out. And I don’t know if I can stop it.”

She sits across from me. The baby pulses between us. Strong. Steady.

We’re in deeper than we thought.

Way deeper.

And I don’t know how to keep her safe.

CHAPTER 13

Kaia

The knock comes at dawn. Sharp, official, three precise raps that make my stomach drop before I’ve even crossed the kitchen.

A woman in gray uniform stands on the step with a clipboard, pen poised, her expression carved from stone.

“Kaia?”

“Yes.”

She thrusts an envelope forward like she’s serving a warrant. Heavy cream paper, the town seal pressed into red wax that’s still warm against my palm even though the envelope itself is cold.

“You’ve been summoned to appear before the Town Council. Emergency session. Tomorrow evening, seven o’clock sharp. The Riverside Pub, back room.” She checks something off without looking up. “Failure to appear will be considered an admission of guilt.”

“Guilt of what?”

But she’s already walking away, car door slamming, engine starting, taillights disappearing down the street before I can ask anything else.

Smoke curls from the kitchen behind me.

The bread. Christ, the bread.

Black crusts, charred edges, the whole batch ruined while I stood on the front step holding this envelope. The ruined loaves accuse me from the counter, and my hands won’t stop shaking no matter how hard I grip the doorframe. The envelope lands on the table like evidence at a crime scene.

I should open it. Read whatever charges they’ve invented. But my fingers might as well be made of wood.

The baby kicks hard, like it already knows what’s coming.