The cinnamon bun was, in Revas's expert opinion, "adequate but structurally unsound."
He stood in the middle of the soot-stained street, holding the pastry with a delicate, gloved hand, ignoring the stares of the soot-covered miners trudging past. He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and wiped a speck of icing from his lip.
"Too much yeast," he critiqued. "And the glaze tastes like industrial runoff. But the sugar content is acceptable."
Mirabelle leaned on her silver-headed cane, watching the street. Vermillion Outpost was a hive of activity. Steam whistles blew every ten minutes, signaling shift changes in the mines. Carts laden with glowing blue ore—Cobalt, the anti-magic metal—rumbled over the cobblestones.
"Eat faster, Corvus," she murmured, scanning the crowd for soldiers. "We need to get to the station before the shift change floods the streets."
