Lord Malrec had spent twenty years preparing to bring the Kingdom of Bellweather to its knees. His armies were buried beneath the northern hills, his forbidden spells were complete, and all he needed was a tower from which to command his forces. Unfortunately, the builders wanted nine thousand gold crowns before they would finish it.

“Nine thousand?” Malrec demanded. “For stone and mortar?” The dwarf foreman folded his arms. “For black granite, six floors, a moat, and a roof that opens during thunderstorms. You also requested gargoyles with working jaws.” Malrec raised one hand, gathering a curse. “And if I refuse to pay?” “Then you can haunt the scaffolding.”

His treasury contained forty-three crowns and a ceremonial dagger that nobody wanted to buy. His familiar, a one-eyed raven named Crumb, examined the accounts. “We could sell the dagger again,” Crumb suggested. “The last three buyers returned it,” Malrec said. “It keeps screaming at supper.” Crumb tapped a claw against a battered recipe book. “Your aunt left you something else.”

So, on the following market day, the most feared sorcerer in three provinces rented a stall between a turnip farmer and a woman selling woolen socks. He wore his robes of mourning and set a tray of cinnamon cookies beneath a sign reading MALREC’S CONFECTIONS. He had baked through the night, weighing every ingredient on the scales from his poison cabinet. A small boy approached while his mother examined the turnips.

“Are they cursed?” the boy asked. “Not presently,” Malrec replied. “Are they good?” Malrec hesitated, then offered him one. The boy took a bite and shouted, “Mum! These are brilliant!” Within minutes, the turnip farmer had abandoned his own stall to purchase six.

By noon Malrec had sold everything. By the next market day, customers were waiting before sunrise, and the baker’s guild had sent an inspector. “You cannot sell enchanted food without a permit,” the inspector declared. Malrec leaned over the counter, his eyes burning green. “There is no enchantment. I use butter.” The inspector sampled a cookie, requested the recipe, and quietly approved the permit.

The orders multiplied. The innkeeper wanted three dozen for a wedding, the mayor requested a hundred for the harvest feast, and the convent ordered two hundred after deciding that cinnamon was not inherently wicked. Malrec tried raising prices. This only convinced the merchants that his cookies were particularly exclusive. When he announced he would close the stall, twelve villagers appeared at his gate carrying baskets and complaints.

“I am a servant of darkness,” he informed them from the battlements. “I command the restless dead.” “That’s fine, dear,” said Mistress Fen, who ran the village laundry. “But you’ve taken payment for Saturday’s christening.” Malrec checked his ledger and discovered she was correct. “The dead will have to wait,” he muttered.

He hired three goblins to mix dough and a retired knight to deliver orders. His underground laboratory became a kitchen, and the summoning circle proved excellent for keeping trays warm. Crumb managed the accounts, though he insisted on being paid in candied walnuts. Each evening Malrec counted his profits and watched the tower fund climb, while new orders filled the margins of his spellbooks.

At last the foreman returned, this time with a wagon of stone samples. “You’ve enough for the tower,” he said. “We’ll start next week.” Malrec looked toward the royal capital, where the king remained entirely unaware of his approaching doom. Then Crumb dropped a parchment on the desk. The king’s steward had ordered five thousand cookies for the coronation anniversary.

“Five thousand?” Malrec whispered. “They want them iced with little crowns,” Crumb said. Malrec stood in silence before reaching for his quill. “Tell the foreman to add a commercial kitchen to the ground floor.” “And the dungeon?” “Cold storage. The butter keeps spoiling.”

The tower was completed by winter, with six floors, working gargoyles, and a moat. Its doors opened at dawn every market day, and people traveled from across the kingdom to buy cookies baked by the Dark Lord himself. Malrec still intended to overthrow the crown, of course. But the coronation order had earned him a royal warrant of trade, and the palace had just asked whether he catered banquets.

He moved the invasion to Tuesday.