Late that night, long after the shutters were drawn and the ovens had cooled, Lucien sat before the Archive again. The shelves shifted at his thought, glowing with titles under Premium Café Culture.
He scrolled slowly, eyes narrowing at the shimmering lists. Some recipes pulsed faintly, marked with ingredient tags that made his pulse quicken.
Citrus-glazed tarts (Aurelian blend) — bright, sharp syrups pressed from Aurelia’s famed sun-citrus groves. Imports costly, but their fragrance alone could justify the price.
Velvet cream parfaits (Virelian style) — layers of duskberry compote with whipped Virelian cream, soft as silk, decadent enough to be ordered for celebrations.
Molten dusk-chocolate cake (Zerathian spice) — a fusion of Calvessan duskberry cocoa with exotic Zerathian spice-beans, yielding a dark richness that few in Marilon would have tasted.
Spiced fruit custards (Calvessan tradition, refined) — sunfruit baked in custard, a comfort dish from the southern provinces of Calvessan, elevated with new techniques into something fit for nobles and merchants.
Lucien leaned closer, reading the annotations. Imported syrups, creams, and spices would raise costs, but they also carried prestige. Customers didn’t just buy flavors—they bought the idea that their plate connected them to Aurelia’s citrus groves, Virelia’s dairies, or Zerathis’s spice-halls.
And yet, Lucien knew he couldn’t let the menu drift too far from home. Marilon was a Free City of Calvessan, and its people carried a fierce pride in their land’s own produce. Duskberries, sunfruit, hardy coastal grains—these were flavors everyone recognized. Blending them with exotic imports would make the dishes feel familiar yet new, rooted in Calvessan even as they reached outward.
A thought struck him then, sharp as a spark: without the new suppliers, none of this would even be possible. Their old vendor had barely kept them stocked with flour and beans, let alone rare goods from Aurelia or Virelia. Premium ingredients had been a fantasy back then, always too costly, too unreliable, too far out of reach.
But now, with the Marilon Logistics Guild at their back, reliability wasn’t a dream—it was a contract. If he ordered Aurelia citrus, it would arrive fresh, not weeks late and half-rotten. If he asked for Zerathian spice-beans, he wouldn’t get excuses or debts, but sealed cylinders delivered on schedule.
Lucien tapped one shimmering entry—duskberry and Aurelia citrus parfait. He could already imagine the layered glass: tart, sweet, rich, and bright, the kind of dessert people wouldn’t blink to pay double for.
He closed the Archive at last, his notebook half-filled with scrawled ideas. Premium recipes would not only keep the café ahead of rivals but also give them margins wide enough to breathe. And with the Guild securing their supplies, Ashborne Café could do what it never could before—reach beyond survival and offer something worthy of the greater world.
Lucien leaned back in his chair, the Archive fading into quiet glow as he thought it through.
Rivals might be able to imitate a cinnamon roll or a hand pie. They had tried already, scrambling to pick apart every crumb and glaze. But these new recipes—these required more than guesswork. They required ingredients no mid-tier supplier in Lanternreach could provide.
The Logistics Guild had approached him. That mattered. Smaller cafés didn’t get offers like that. If Hearth & Hollow or The Gilded Cup tried to source Aurelia citrus or Virelian cream, they would be forced to chase lesser merchants who bought secondhand stock—at double the price, half the freshness. And even if they somehow managed to bring those ingredients into their kitchens, their costs would be so high they’d have to sell the desserts at prices no dockhand or student could afford.
Lucien tapped his pencil against the page, a slow smile tugging at his lips. Even if they copy the recipe, it won’t taste the same. Not without the same quality. Not without the Guild behind them.
It was strange, almost unsettling, to realize that for once they held the upper hand—not just in creativity, but in supply. Rivals could chase, could mimic, could rage behind closed doors. But unless they found a way to match the Guild’s terms, they would always be a step behind.
Now, Ashborne Café wasn’t just surviving by being clever. It was positioned to stay ahead because the world itself had tilted in their favor.
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And Lucien intended to use that advantage fully.
That night, once he had narrowed the Archive’s glow down to four premium recipes, Lucien opened his wristlink and tapped into the Guild’s supplier portal. The interface was crisp, far cleaner than the patchwork invoices of the past. Aurelia citrus, Virelian cream, Zerathian spice blends, Calvessan duskberries—each catalogued with precise weights and delivery guarantees.
His thumb hovered for only a moment before he keyed in the order. The confirmation chimed softly:
Shipment Scheduled: Arrival by Dawn, Lanternreach Hub.
Lucien blinked at the timestamp. Tomorrow? He wasn’t used to immediacy. With previous supplier shipments, “soon” had always meant weeks, and “delivered” meant sacks tossed half-rotten at the door. But here was a digital promise, exact to the hour.
The next morning, before the ovens even finished heating, the first pod hissed to a halt outside the café. Its sleek frame split open with quiet precision, revealing compartments neatly chilled and preserved. Inside, the fruits gleamed like jewels, the spices still sealed tight in crystalline vials that sparkled faintly without losing any aroma or flavour.
Cerys ran her hand over the containers with delight. “Fresh. It feels like they were plucked this morning.”
Lucien barely heard her—he was already carrying the crates to the kitchen. By midday, flour dust swirled as he set about testing the new Archive recipes: a glazed tart that shimmered with Aurelia zest, a layered sundae draped with duskberry syrup, a molten chocolate cake spiced with Zerathian warmth.
Each attempt was messy at first—too much zest, not enough cream, chocolate that collapsed too soon—but the ingredients themselves made every failure feel like progress. Even his missteps tasted better than the stale, muddied experiments of the past.
When Alina sneaked a spoonful of the half-set sundae, her eyes went wide. “Lucien! Even your mistakes taste like treasure.”
Lucien smiled faintly, setting another batch into the oven. This is what rivals can’t copy. Not just recipes, not just ideas. The foundation itself—the quality in my hands before I even begin.
By the time the café’s bell rang for the evening crowd, his notes were already filling with adjustments, ready for the next round of testing.
By evening, Lucien called everyone into the kitchen—family and staff alike. The counters were crowded with trays and bowls, the air thick with the scents of citrus, spice, and chocolate.
“Before anyone else gets to try these,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel, “we test them here as we always do.”
Mira reached for a slice of the Aurelia tart first. The glaze cracked neatly under her fork, and she took a careful bite. She chewed slowly, then gave a short nod. “Crisp. Sweet without being heavy. People will like this.”
Jareth tested the molten chocolate cake. He split it open, the spiced filling running across the plate, and tasted in silence. After a moment he set down his fork, expression unreadable—until he gave a small, approving nod. “Good balance. Could sell well in winter.”
Elias spooned up some of the layered sundae, duskberry syrup streaking the cream. “It’s indulgent,” he said after a pause. “Not something most will buy every day, but that’s the point. It feels special.”
Cerys tried a piece of the tart after them, her brow furrowed in thought. “It’s cleaner than what we usually make. Sharper. I think it will surprise people.”
Darius tasted one of the hand-sized cakes, chewing with his arms folded. “Not bad,” he said simply. He reached for another piece, which was all the praise Lucien needed.
Alina, already halfway through the sundae, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “This one’s my favorite,” she announced, though her words were muffled by cream.
They passed the plates around quietly, each trying the different recipes. There weren’t big declarations or cheers—just small nods, a few raised brows, and the faintest smiles.
When they were finished, Mira leaned against the counter, thoughtful. “If these go on the board, it’ll get even busier. I’m glad I joined when I did.”
Jareth gave a short nod. “Wouldn’t have said yes if I thought this place didn’t have a future. I think I was right.”
Elias tapped a few quick notes into his slate, not looking up. “These will help the numbers. They won’t fix everything overnight, but they’ll make a difference.”
Lucien listened, watching their faces. No one was gushing, no one was overexcited—but there was quiet approval in the room. For him, that carried more weight than any loud praise.
That evening, after the shutters were drawn and the ovens cooled, Lucien spread his notes across the counter. Elias slid his slate beside them, numbers already stacked into neat columns. Mira leaned against the wall, arms folded, while Jareth sat nearby with his apron still dusted from flour.
“All right,” Lucien began, “we need to talk prices. These new recipes—tarts, molten cakes, sundaes—they aren’t like our usual rolls or hand pies. If we price them in shards, we’ll barely cover the ingredients. But if we go too high in crowns, no one will buy them.”
Elias nodded, tapping his stylus against the slate. “Exactly. Premium works only if people can still reach for it. Think of it as a splurge, not a festival feast. A student should be able to treat themselves once in a while, and a merchant should feel proud to order it without checking their purse twice.”
Cerys frowned slightly. “So what’s fair?”
Lucien looked to Elias. “Show them the numbers.”
Elias flicked his slate, projecting a chart into the air. “Everyday items—rolls, pies, drinks—they’re shards. Families can afford them, workers can grab them daily. Premium should sit one step higher: measured in crowns. One crown for a tart slice. One-point-two for the molten cake—it’s rich, it’ll feel worth the coin. One-point-five for the sundae. They’re luxuries, but not unreachable.”
Mira raised a brow. “So one sundae could cost more than a student’s lunch?”
“True,” Elias admitted, “but it’s not meant to replace lunch. It’s the treat after exams, or what merchants order to impress clients. They’ll sell less often than bread—but when they do, the profit margin is three times as high.”
Darius gave a nod of approval. “Makes sense. People will pay for a showpiece. Especially that sundae. Saw how Alina’s eyes lit up just looking at it.”
Cerys still looked uneasy. “Won’t people say it’s too much?”
“They might,” Lucien said, steady but calm. “But they’ll still buy it. The rolls and pies will stay the same, for everyone. These new ones are an option—not a wall. We aren’t raising prices across the board. We’re giving people a choice.”
There was a pause, then Mira smirked faintly. “In that case, set them. I’ll wager half the students will still come running. Who doesn’t want to brag about trying something no one else can afford every day?”
Elias logged the numbers with a final tap. “Settled, then. Premium items in crowns. One crown for the tart, one-point-two for the cake, one-point-five for the sundae. Fair, profitable, and tempting.”
Lucien exhaled, relief and determination mingling. “Good. Tomorrow, we add them to the chalkboard.”
He pictured the chalkboard tomorrow, the new names gleaming in chalk. He could already imagine the crowd — students scrambling to be first, merchants ordering to impress, dockhands saving shards for a taste of something rare. If Elias’s numbers were right, these would sell fast, maybe faster than they could bake.
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Author’s Note:
For reference:
- 1 Crown = 100 Shards
- 1 Crown = $10 USD
- 1 Shard = $0.10 USD (10 cents)
So in this chapter the prices are
- Tart = 1 Crown = $10 USD
- Molten Cake = 1.2 Crowns = $12 USD
- Sundae = 1.5 Crowns = $15 USD