Page 61 of The Baker’s Shadow

The dough begins to form, and it’s wrong from the start. Wrong in the way that means it’s working.

It glows faintly in the mixer’s bowl, pulsing with energy I can see even in the bright kitchen lights. The air smells like ozone and yeast and something underneath that makes my teeth ache.

“It’s not enough,” Malak says quietly. He’s watching the dough, and I can see the calculation in his eyes. “They’ll sense it, but it won’t be strong enough to pull them all away.”

He’s right. I can feel it. The magic in the dough is mine, and it’s powerful, but the Rot are ancient. They’ve been locked away for a thousand years. They’re starving.

I place both hands on my stomach, feeling the baby move beneath my palms.

“I need your help,” I whisper to the life inside me. “I know you’re angry. I know you’re scared. But I need you to help us. Please.”

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then the baby responds, and it’s not gentle. It’s not subtle. Shadow-magic erupts from my core, pouring down my arms and into the dough below. The mixer groans under the sudden influx of power. The dough swells, rising faster than should be possible, doubling and tripling in size.

The glow intensifies until I have to squint against it. The smell changes, becomes something that makes my mouth water and my stomach turn at the same time. Hunger and satisfaction and need all wrapped together.

The baby’s magic doesn’t just infuse the dough. It transforms it. Makes it into something that pulses with concentrated life force, with pure, irresistible energy. The kind of energy that says eat me, consume me, nothing else matters.

“That’s going to work,” Malak breathes.

The mixer groans again, and I shut it off before it breaks. The dough has filled the entire bowl, spilling over the edges. It’s warm to the touch, almost hot, and it moves on its own. Not rising. Breathing.

“Help me get it to the van.”

We work together, hauling the massive steel bowl between us. It’s heavy, and Malak is still weak, but adrenaline makes us both stronger than we should be. The dough sloshes inside the bowl like something liquid and alive.

Outside, the wall still holds, but barely. The Rot are throwing themselves against it in waves. Each impact sends cracks spider-webbing through the silver-black threads.

The delivery van sits in the parking lot, white paint stained with flour dust from a thousand morning deliveries. We wrestle the bowl into the back, securing it with bungee cords because if it tips, this whole plan falls apart.

“I’m driving.” I grab the keys before Malak can argue.

“Kaia—”

“You’re weak, and we both know it. You need to be on the roof, not behind the wheel.” I climb into the driver’s seat, and the vinyl is cold against my back. “You’re my shield. I’m our driver. Now get up there before I leave without you.”

He hesitates for only a moment before shadow-claws dig into the van’s roof and he hauls himself up. I feel the vehicle dip under his weight, hear the scrape of claws against metal.

The engine turns over on the first try. Small mercies.

I pull out of the parking lot and turn toward the Hollow, laying on the horn. The sound is sharp and piercing, cutting through the night. Behind me, the dough pulses brighter, and I can feel its pull even from here. It’s calling to them. Screaming with life force and magic and everything the Rot hunger for.

The wall shatters.

In my rearview mirror, I watch it collapse like glass. The Rot pour through, but they’re not heading for town anymore. They’ve sensed the dough. They’ve sensed us.

They pivot as one, a wave of writhing mud and grasping appendages, and begin to chase.

I press the accelerator to the floor.

The van lurches forward, tires squealing on the wet pavement. The road toward the Hollow is narrow and winding, meant for slow drives to the nature preserve, not high-speed chases with monsters behind you.

I take the first curve too fast and the van fishtails. The bowl in the back slides to one side, straining against the bungee cords. Above me, Malak’s claws scrape against the roof as he steadies himself.

The Rot are fast. Faster than they should be for things that look like mud. They flow across the ground like water, gaining on us with every second.

Then the flying ones appear.