"The fermentation on the ‘Amber Ghost’ is peaking, Silas," Elara said, setting a frost-covered vial on the scarred workbench. "If we don't stabilize the mana-infusion now, the whole cask will turn into a localized thunderstorm."
The next morning, as the sun began to bleed over the horizon, the first of the night watchmen trudged into the tavern. They were gray-faced and hollow-eyed. Elara poured the first draft. brewers
Silas wiped his hands on his apron, already reaching for a new bag of grain. "It’s a start. But I think the next batch needs a hint of cinnamon. For the hope, you know?" "The fermentation on the ‘Amber Ghost’ is peaking,
"That'll do, Silas," Elara whispered, watching from the kitchen door. Elara poured the first draft
Silas paused, the steam curling around his face. He closed his eyes and adjusted the heat, slowing the swirl of the mash. He let the frantic energy of the deadline melt away, replaced by a steady, grounding warmth. The liquid in the vat shifted from a muddy brown to a deep, translucent mahogany, glowing with a soft, internal light.
The brass bell above the heavy oak door chimed, and Silas didn’t even look up. He knew the rhythm of the footfalls.