"That'll do, Silas," Elara whispered, watching from the kitchen door.

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?"

Silas, a man whose beard smelled perpetually of roasted barley and ozone, finally squinted through his spectacles. "A little lightning in the throat builds character, Elara. But fine. Bring me the dried star-anise."