The inn’s dining room ran warm as a kiln.

  Heat rolled off a broad hearth at the far end, where a cook turned skewers over coals and a pot of stew breathed slow bubbles. Steam slicked the rafters. The air carried onions, rendered fat, damp wool, and the sour edge of spilled ale that had soaked into floorboards for years.

  Oil lamps hung from iron hooks along the beams. Their flames wavered in small glass chimneys, throwing amber pools across the tables. Smoke clung to the corners of the room, thin and patient. This high up, mana stayed thin, and anything that fed on it went quiet. Light came from wick and oil, same as it always had.

  Antoine stepped inside and let the noise hit him like a wall.

  Laughter, dice, boots on plank, chairs scraping, a dozen conversations that overlapped and fought for space. He felt his shoulders tighten on instinct, then he forced them down. Crowds did that to him. Too many eyes, too many angles, too many hands that could bump his belt and make it an accident.

  Still, he found comfort in the seat by the door.

  He chose it without thinking, then realized why as soon as he sat. The door meant air. The door meant a line of retreat. The door meant he could leave if the room pressed too close. He set his back to the wall beside the frame and kept the table at an angle that let him see the bar and the main floor.

  His hands rested on the tabletop, palms down, and he let his breathing settle. A day of moving between dry seams left grit in his throat and a fine ache in his forearms. He could still feel the phantom weight of Trent’s bag strap across his shoulder, the drag of jars inside, the careful way they had hopped seam to seam and kept the work contained.

  Three hours, the System said, and then his provisional gatherer permit would expire.

  The thought came with a twist of urgency, then eased, because he had coin now. Eight gold.

  The number still felt unreal, like the world had blinked and misplaced a decimal. It should have been sweat and weeks and small trade. Instead it was one afternoon of crafting and one night of Trent running his mouth in the right places.

  He remembered Trent’s telling him how to get a provisional permit renewed, said with that same grin and that same practiced confidence.

  First renewal free. You earn the money for the next one. Then it’s five silver each run.

  Five silver. Half a gold. A fee small enough to sound reasonable, and large enough to keep people circling the Undercity like moths around a lantern. Pay the city. Keep the right to descend. Keep the right to return.

  Antoine looked down into his mug as a barmaid arrived with a tray of bread and bowls, her steps quick and sure. She paused when she saw him by the door. Not a pause of fear. A pause of assessment.

  “You eating?” she asked.

  “Soon,” Antoine said. His voice came out even, almost soft. “First I want a drink.”

  Her gaze flicked over his hands, then to his face. “What kind?”

  “Whiskey,” Antoine said, keeping the word casual, like it belonged on any menu. “Or any hard spirit. Clear liquor is fine.”

  She blinked. The word landed wrong, then she tried to place it. “Whis. Key.”

  Antoine waited.

  Her mouth curled as if she expected a punchline. When none came, she glanced toward the bar and then back to him. “You mean strong.”

  “Yes.”

  “How strong?”

  “Stronger than wine,” Antoine said. “Clear, if you have it.”

  That finally drew a short laugh, more surprise than mockery. “Clear and stronger than wine.” She shook her head once. “We’ve got ales, ciders, wines. We’ve got a few heavy brews that put dockhands on their backs. That’s the top of the ladder.”

  Antoine kept his expression neutral and let the disappointment stay inside. “No spirits at all?”

  “Spirits are for prayers,” she said, then softened it with a shrug. “If you mean strong drink, you want Blento wine, or Black Rye ale. Blento bites. Rye sits like a stone.”

  He followed her gesture to the slate board behind the counter.

  Ales in neat rows. Ciders. Wines. A “high gravity” list set apart with names meant to sound dangerous: Stonejaw, Widow’s Kiss, Black Rye. Blento was on the wine line with a small mark beside it, like the inn wanted to warn people without saying so aloud.

  Antoine’s mind made the jump without asking permission.

  Ethanol.

  He watched the barmaid’s face while he spoke, keeping his tone simple. “How do people clean tools here? Brewing tools, kitchen tools. Anything that spoils if it stays damp.”

  She tipped her head, considering. “Boiling water. Sand. Vinegar. Ash soap. If you have coin, you buy a guild powder that eats grease.” She leaned closer, curious now. “Why?”

  “Old habit,” Antoine said. “Back home we used strong clear drink as a solvent. It pulled oils and resins. It kept things from spoiling.”

  “Drink for cleaning,” she said, then snorted. “Sounds rich.”

  “Depends what it saves,” Antoine replied.

  The barmaid studied him for a beat longer, then set her tray down on a nearby table and returned with a squat bottle. She poured a dark ale into a thick mug, foam rising in a tight crown, then slid it across the table to him.

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  “Black Rye,” she said. “If you’re chasing strength, this is as close as you get here. Blento is almost as strong, and cheaper but never sits right unless ya drink something else first.”

  Antoine took the mug with two fingers and pulled it close. He waited for the room’s motion to stop feeling like a tide, then took a careful mouthful.

  Bitter. Dense. Grain-forward with a roasted edge. The warmth spread in his chest after the swallow, steady and heavy. It was good, in a winter way. It also told him what he needed to know.

  No sharp burn. No clean cut that made the senses tighten. Beer and wine lived here, and they lived confidently, like they had never met their stronger cousins.

  Hard alcohol simply did not exist here in the way it existed in his old world.

  More important, the word for it did not exist in common speech. The barmaid’s reaction was honest confusion. The concept was missing.

  That meant the gap was deeper than supply.

  It meant nobody here walked around thinking, “I could concentrate that”. But, I could strip out the water. I could make something that bites harder.

  Antoine leaned back a fraction and let his gaze travel.

  There were plenty of reasons for strong drink to exist. Cold nights, hard labor, grief, celebration. In his old world those reasons had built a market all on their own.

  So why was the ladder cut off here?

  Antoine’s answer came with the weight of the System.

  Alchemy sat on top of daily life like a lid. Where his old world had built tools out of pressure, this world bought outcomes through mana and permission. Potions replaced medicine. Charms replaced cleaning. Extractions could be folded into a sanctioned craft that took a handful of ingredients and a spark, then spat out a finished vial with a message.

  A still was a tool that answered many questions at once, and the System made most of those questions less urgent.

  The one question the System did not answer was vice, and vice had been channeled into beer and wine, where it was manageable, taxable, and familiar.

  Antoine took another sip and let the idea stretch, then pulled it back. He needed more than a neat theory. He needed a path he could actually walk without tripping every wire in the city.

  Fermentation existed here as part of ordinary life. The inn proved it. High gravity offerings existed. Ethanol was present, trapped in low proof liquids, scattered across barrels and bottles.

  If he could concentrate it, he would have a solvent that could carry plant compounds cleanly. He could separate oils and resins with more precision. He could clean his tools better, keep contamination down, scale batches with less waste. He could sharpen the quality of what he already made, and do it without the system and therefore preventing the wards from blaring.

  Antoine set the mug down and rubbed his thumb along the grain of the table. He could feel the ward sink anchor belt under his tunic, the leather snug and comforting against his waist. His stash lived there for now. It was safe because it was small. Bigger work would demand a safer place, and safe places always came with a price.

  He took a slow breath and thought about distillation.

  In his old world, the answer was straightforward. Heat, condensation, separation. A pot, a coil, a collection vessel. Make your cuts. Keep the good fraction. Toss the rest.

  Here, stills did not exist as a household tool. And he had nowhere to set one up, plus he’d need help constructing the apparatus. Too many eyes. He needed a quieter method.

  Freeze concentration.

  The thought came with an image of a chest freezer in a cheap apartment, plastic jugs half frozen, clear ice forming while the liquid became stronger beneath. Fractional freezing. A method simple enough to feel like a trick. It did not require a coil or a copper pot. It required cold and patience.

  Cold storage existed somewhere. Meat had to keep. Cheese had to keep. Even if hard spirits were absent, cellars would exist, and some would be cold enough to keep a carcass from turning.

  The problem was he did not own a cellar.

  Nor did he have the social cover to buy a barrel of Blento wine and stash it somewhere. Even if he had the coin, the act itself would invite questions. Eight gold was a cushion, not a fortress. It could vanish into fees, bribes, and bad luck faster than he wanted to admit.

  He would keep it theoretical for now.

  Theory was cheap. Theory left no footprints. Theory could be carried in his head while he secured the next practical step, which was simple.

  Renew the permit.

  Stay legal enough to move through gates.

  Keep the Undercity access that fed everything else.

  He glanced toward the barmaid as she moved between tables, collecting empty bowls and dodging elbows with practiced ease. She came back past him and paused again, curiosity still on her face.

  “You really drank clear fire back home?” she asked.

  “Sometimes,” Antoine said. He chose the word carefully, then added a truth she could accept. “It was used for work more than pleasure.”

  Attempting to change the subject he asked: “Do you know anyone who rents cellar space? Cold space. For keeping food, meat preferably.”

  “Maybe,” she said slowly. “Butchers do. Some inns do, if you pay. Guilds do, if you belong. Why?”

  Antoine gave a small shrug. “I’m tired of losing things to spoilage.”

  She studied him again, and this time the assessment felt less like suspicion and more like interest. “You’re a trader.”

  “Something like that.”

  The barmaid’s mouth twitched. “Finish your drink. You look like you need to eat, like you’ve been living on air.”

  Antoine almost smiled. He let it show, a fraction. “I’ll take the house stew.”

  She moved away, and the room’s noise filled the space she left behind.

  Antoine stared at the slate board again, at Blento wine written in looping script, and felt the shape of the next few weeks settle into place.

  Hard alcohol did not exist here as a common craft. That meant he could introduce it as a tool rather than a vice, at least at first, and sell it as something practical. A solvent for extraction. A way to sharpen antiseptics. A way to preserve and clean. Or he could use it all himself, perhaps for a new project that’s been worming through his mind since he saw the “Chom-Chom” sticks.

  He needed a path that looked like common sense. Fermentation was common. Cold storage was common. Freeze concentration could be framed as clever storage practice, a way to stretch value.

  The barmaid returned with a bowl of stew and a heel of bread. Antoine ate slowly, letting the food anchor him. When he finished, he set one coin on the table, enough to cover the meal and drink, with a tidy extra that carried respect without buying friendship. The stew was cheap, but the ale cost six silver, leaving him with 7 gold coins and a debt of 5 silver coming soon. Trent had better have moved the second batch by morning or he’d be on his own soon.

  He stood, shoulders easing as the door came closed again.

  Outside, the street air was colder and cleaner, edged with stone. Lamps and torches glowed along the main road, their light pooling in steady circles. Between those circles, shadows gathered. Antoine’s eyes adjusted quickly. He had learned to see in dim places.

  He paused beneath the inn’s eave and checked his sense of time. Three hours. The number sat in his mind like a ticking needle. He had coin, and that meant he had options.

  He started walking toward the permit office, footsteps soft on worn stones.

  As he passed under a ward lamp, he caught his reflection in a window. A pale outline. Eyes alert. Shoulders set. He looked like a man with a job, and that was good. Jobs were ordinary. Ordinary things survived longer.

  He turned a corner and listened.

  Somewhere down an alley, a cat yowled. Somewhere else, boots crossed cobbles at patrol pace. The city kept moving, kept breathing, kept measuring the difference between acceptable and dangerous.

  Antoine tightened his grip on the thought that mattered most.

  Soon, he would renew his permit.

  Then he would decide how to turn Blento wine into something this world had never named, and how to do it without giving the city a reason to bite.