The first step to making my grinding stone was ensuring I wasn’t followed. I took a long, winding route to the river, stopping occasionally to "check for Fae traps"—a dramatic gesture that involved looking behind bushes and peering into the forest like a paranoid lunatic. Paranoia is just survival instinct with fir, I told myself, ign how ridiculous I probably looked.

  Once I was sure no one was tailing me, I k by the riverbank, pulling out an iron from my pouch. This wasn’t just any iron —it elled, charged with just enough mana to make this tedious process bearable.

  I pced my hands on a smooth stohe river and focused my aura, feeding mana into the to shape the stoo a grinding surface. The process wasn’t elegant. The stone groaned and cracked uhe pressure of the spell, flecks of rock flying off like tiny insults to my craftsmanship.

  I cute some wood for the handle.

  When it was done, I stepped baire my work. It wasn’t the most beautiful hand-prinding stone, but hey, beauty isn’t everything. Funality trumps aesthetics—at least ione Age.

  “Good enough,” I muttered, brushing off the dust and wiping sweat from my brow. The stone was funal, sturdy, and ugly as sin—just how I liked it.

  ----

  Back at the cave, I found my mother chatting with a group of women. Perfect. I approached her with my usual charm. “Mother, I did my part, I’ve finished making a grinding stone. We need someoo hand-power it and make flour. you find someone?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Someoo grind? And what are you pnning to pay them with, my son? Good iions?”

  I grinned. “Pigeons. Everyone loves pigeons.”

  She wasn't impressed “Yes, I know but where are the Pigeons?”.

  Shit payment upfront huh, “I will be back” I pced the stone near her a hunting.

  ----

  By the end of my hunt, my mother found two women willing to work in exge feons. They were stout, practical, and had the kind of suspicious expressions that said they weren’t o bartering.

  I led them to the grinding stone and demonstrated how to use it. “Look, it’s simple. You put the grains here, turn this handle, and voi—flour.”

  “Whats voi?” the younger one asked, she was ignored.

  The older women raised an eyebrow, her skepticism palpable. “Is it cursed?”

  WTF, I blinked. “No. Why would it be cursed?”

  She shrugged. “You’re always doing something in that cursed forest, and now you walked out from it with that thing, I saw you Anir. Just cheg.”

  Fair point. “No curses. Just a grinding stohat's why I went to the forest to make it, I spent all those days hunting or w on this thing.”

  They got to work quickly, their hands steady as they powered the stone. I watched for a moment, satisfied, until one of them asked, “ we keep this when we’re done?”

  I leaned forward, my voice firm but polite. “Absolutely not. The grinding stone is family property. You’re being paid to use it, not to keep it.”

  The other woman snorted. “We’re not stupid, you know.”

  Say that again when you stop shitting in the river you drink from, “Good,” I said with a grin. “Then we’re on the same page.” Ending the property dispute.

  As I walked away, I couldn’t help but chuckle. Those two will tell everyone about the stone and my bullshit story about spending days making it for my mother.

  ---

  Later in the day, I prepared myself for the task of gathering more honey. I remembered his past experience well, and I knew how to hahe bees without bringing harm to himself or disturbing the hive too much. Using the tools I fashioned—a bundle of sm sticks ed with thick leaves to create gentle smoke—he set out to find a few different hives led irees on the edge of the forest.

  I approached the first hive with calm, trolled movements, coaxing the bees with the smoke as they buzzed arouhe bees grew drowsy, their defensive hum softening to a gentle buzz as I collected the rich, golden honeyb. As I moved from hive to hive, gathering as much honey as I could without over-harvesting, I felt the satisfa of a job well dohe afternoon sun warmed my skin as I made my way back to the cave, the sweet, earthy st of honey filling the air around me.

  Now I have on st thing to test and see if my pn work perfectly or sub-optimally.

  ---

  I crouched he riverbank, the wooden bowl resting on the ground before me. Around me, pnts swayed gently in the breeze, their silent green faohe wiser to the robbery about to occur. With a fliy wrist, I began weaving an alchemy spell, my aura buzzing faintly iill air.

  The pnts trembled as my spell took hold, their very essence bending to my will. From one, a sticky residue seeped forth—oil. From ainy crystals formed on its leaves—salt. And from the third, the sweetest prize of all, sugar dripped like goldear.

  The spell wasn’t easy; it never was. Alchemy was a demanding art, requiring precision and focus. But the satisfa of the results made it worth the strain. I gathered the extracted ingredients into a small leather poud released the pnts from my spell. They seemed relieved, if pnts could feel anything.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll grow back,” I muttered. “Probably.”

  Back at my workstation—just a ft rock by the river—I poured the tents of the poute wooden boinch of salt, a dollop of oil, and a sprinkle of sugar joihe heap of flour I’d prepared earlier. Now, for the final touch.

  Using a small cy pot, I scooped steaming water from the fire I’d kept burning nearby and poured it into the mixture. Steam rose as the water hit the flour, carrying the faint st of sweetness and warmth.

  Grabbing a sturdy wooden spoon, I began to stir, the ingredients bining into a sticky, unrefined dough. It was rough work, my hands straining against the thiing mass.

  “Alchemy and cooking,” I said aloud, smirking to myself, “basically the same thing, except one of them doesn’t explode. Usually.”

  The dough began to take shape, soft and pliable under my hands. As I k, I allowed myself a small moment of pride. I’d created something from nearly nothing—aep toward self-relian this Stone Age nightmare.

  If this worked out, bread might actually bee a thing again. And who knew? Maybe I’d even start charging the tribe for a taste. After all, nothing says “power” like trolling the food supply.

  I know I should be st my mana for few days and prepare to use the iron and gold I collected, but this task o be done, I distracted the nosey people ao eat the breed I keep craving.

  Actually, now that I thought about it, this wasn’t just about bread. I could coat fish or meat with flour before frying it—something I’d only dreamed of since being stu this prehistoric ary wastend. The thought of crispy, golden-brow made my stomach growl. I made a mental o test it soon, preferably before anyone iribe caught wind of my genius and tried to take credit for it.

  But for now, I had to focus. I wiped the flour dust off my hands ahe wooden bowl aside. There was still daylight, and I wasn’t about to waste it. My alchemy spell was taxing, but it worked wonders. I couldn’t risk ing back here every time I needed supplies, so I decided to gather as much oil, salt, and sugar as I could and take it back to the cave.

  I set to work, repeating the spell with the remaining pnts in the area. My aura hummed as I drew out more oil, watg it pool like liquid gold in a small cy jar. The salt crystals sparkled as they formed, and the sugar dripped like hohid glistening.

  The spell was effit but exhausting. With each cast, I felt the drain on my mana, a dull ache spreading from my core to the tips of my fingers. Still, I pushed through, determio make this haul worth the effort.

  Once I had enough, I carefully packed everything into a leather satchel I’d brought with me. The jars ked softly as I tucked them in, the weight reassuring. With this much oil, salt, and sugar, I could experiment with more than just bread. Maybe sauces? Marihe possibilities were endless.

  I gnced back at the river, the pnts swaying peacefully again, as if fiving me for stripping them of their essehanks for the tributions,” I said, tipping an imaginary hat. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it worth it.”

  With my satchel full and my mind buzzing with ideas, I headed back to the cave. My feet ched on the rocky ground as I climbed the familiar path. Thoughts of crispy, fried meals danced in my head, keeping me distracted from the growing ache in my legs.

  When I finally reached the cave, the air was thick with the smell of smoked meat and the distant chatter of the tribe. I ducked inside, greeted by the familiar warmth and flickering firelight. As I set my satchel down and began unpag my spoils, I couldn’t help but grin as my mother took the ingredients to the women helping her.

  As for the others. Let the others wonder what I’d been doing out there. Let them whisper their rumors and spread their wild theories. Because while they gossiped, I was building something—step by step, spell by spell.

  And tonight? Tonight, maybe I’d fry some meat.

  ---

  As night fell, the tribe gathered ihe cave, the familiar warmth of the evening small fire casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. People chatted and ughed as they prepared for their meal, the hum of their voices a f melody in my ears. Tonight ecial, though. Tonight, I would share something new.

  With the help of my mother and the other women, I had prepared the Msemmen—soft, yered bread, folded and cooked over the fire until it turned golden and crisp. The smell was intoxig, a rich, buttery st that filled the cave and made everyone’s mouths water in anticipation. And beside me y the jars of fresh honey I had collected today, glistening in the firelight like liquid gold.

  The The smell attracted attention the moment the first yered bread touched the oiled hot stone. Everyone khere is something new on the way, in this small tribe there are s that st long.

  Whehing was ready, I stood up, drawing the tribe’s attention with a smile. I held up a piesemmen, drizzled with hohe sticky sweetness glistening as it stretched between my fingers.

  “From now on this is called Msemmen, its our tribe new joy in this hard life” I announced, my voice carrying over the urmurings. “It’s a special bread, and tonight, I want to show everyone how to enjoy it together—with honey.”

  With that, I took a bite, my face lighting up as I tasted the sweet, rich fvor. The others watched him, their curiosity quickly turning to enthusiasm as they each took a piece of the Msemmen, dipping it in the honey, and tasting the soft, sweet bread for the first time. Gasps of surprise and murmurs of approval filled the air as they savored each bite, ughing and nodding to one another, sharing in the delight of something new.

  Around the fire, faces lit up with joy, smiles spreading from one person to ahe children ughed as they licked honey from their fingers, the adults exged appreciative gnces, and a sense of warmth and unity filled the space.

  I looked around, feeling a deep sense of fulfillment at my well pned distra. This wasn’t just a meal—it was a moment of false unity, a bond strengthened by the sharing of food and tradition. I had given them a taste of something that was mine, something that had e from my memories of another life, and they had embraced it with open stomach's.

  As the night wore on, I didn’t allow my heart to swell with gratitude. Here, surrounded by this tribe, I cultivated in them a sense of my belonging and purpose, the warmth of the fire and the sweetness of the honey reinf my trap.

  Am not naive in this world I am tribe of two me and my mother everyone else was just resource.

  It was a simple meal, but in its simplicity y a powerful e—a memory that would linger long after the st bite of Msemmen was gone. I learhat I don't need silver fork to enjoy good food.

  But see the funny thing about people is that if you feed them honey with your hand they think that your flesh must be sweet. That is something I will re-learn.