The bells above the bakery door jingled, not with a chime, but a low, ominous gong.
Vexar winced. "Too much." He waved a hand at the door, muttering a minor incantation. The sound softened into something cheerier—more "quaint village bakery" and less "undead army approaches."
He stepped back, brushing flour from his long, slightly scorched apron. "Much better. Inviting, yet not… apocalyptic."
Sunlight streamed through the enchanted glass windows of Vexar's Very Good Buns, illuminating rows of perfectly golden pastries, dark rye loaves with crusts like ancient tomes, and a peculiarly glowing lemon tart that hummed softly in A minor. Behind the counter, Vexar tapped a spoon against a bubbling cauldron of jam, sighed with satisfaction, and then promptly scowled.
"Still too cheerful," he grumbled, staring at a decorative sign one of the town's children had painted: 'Bakers Rise Early, But Evil Rises Earlier!' It had hearts on it. Vexar hadn't asked for hearts.
A knock came at the window. Old Miss Taddle, hunched and beady-eyed, was already peering in. She mouthed something through the glass.
Vexar blinked. "What? Speak up, you brittle wind chime."
She kept mouthing. Slowly.
"Oh for..."
He opened the door.
"You're late," Miss Taddle snapped, marching in like she owned the place. "It's two minutes past sunrise and I've yet to have my Bun of Blessing!"
"It's called a cinnamon roll."
"Well it blessed my bowels yesterday, and I expect consistency."
Vexar's eye twitched. "Right. One Bun of—cinnamon roll. Coming up."
As he plated the pastry, Miss Taddle glanced around, her gaze lingering on the bubbling jam cauldron. "I heard the duke's son saw you talking to a bat last night."
"It was a crow," Vexar corrected.
"It spoke back."
"It was polite."
"Vexar," she said in a low whisper, leaning in over the counter, "we like you here. Your buns are extraordinary. But if the Ministry of Magical Morality finds out you've been consorting with familiars again—"
Vexar's eyes narrowed. "It's not a familiar. It's named Gregory. And it's unionized."
She blinked.
"Also," Vexar added, "he owes me three copper for espresso."
Just then, the door swung open again with a triumphant jingle-ding! This time, it was a tall, broad-shouldered man in gleaming armor—polished enough to blind someone at the wrong angle. A great sword hung at his hip.
"Morning, neighbor!" he boomed. "Got any of those dark chocolate death scones left?"
Vexar stiffened. "Hero Aldric."
"Dark Lord Vexar."
"Former," Vexar growled, thrusting a paper bag at him.
"Just teasing," Aldric grinned. "You really have gone soft. In a good way." He paused. "These got raspberry in 'em today?"
"Yes. And vengeance."
Aldric laughed as he paid. "See you at the town council meeting tonight?"
"I'd rather resurrect a lich."
"You did that once."
"It was a different time."
Aldric waved and left, whistling.
Miss Taddle sipped her tea, eyes still on Vexar. "You're not fooling anyone, dear. That bun-loving hero's only here because he suspects you."
"He's here because he has taste," Vexar muttered.
Outside, a delivery sprite buzzed past the window, sneezing glitter onto passersby. The day in Dunderidge Crossing had officially begun.
Vexar leaned on the counter, watching the town shuffle to life through half-lidded eyes. The village was peaceful. Almost boring.
He scowled.
"Good."