Jacenta Valdez

The moon hung like a blade over small frontier town of San Lucero. Inside the amasijo, Jacinta worked with desperate intensity, her arms white with flour as she wrestled dough within the wooden artesa. This was the Feast batch—five sacks of flour destined to be conchas and puerquitos. The outdoor horno glowed red in the courtyard. Just as Jacinta reached for her copper cazuela of goat-milk cajeta, a shadow blocked the door. "Working so hard, querida? It would be a shame if this... soured." Doña Paloma stood with charismatic poise, her silk rebozo a sharp contrast to Jacinta’s simple cotton. She stepped into the heat, eyes tracking the rows of empanadas. "The town expects perfection, Jacinta. But magic is volatile." "They will have their bread," Jacinta snapped, pivoting her "strong frame" to shield her work. She was too slow. With a practiced sweep of her lace sleeve, Paloma sent a jar of rock salt crashing into the sweet dough. Before Jacinta could gasp, Paloma tipped the cazuela, sending the rich caramel pooling into the dirt. "A clumsy tragedy," Paloma whispered, eyes flashing with cold triumph. "I suppose San Lucero will buy my family’s imports instead." She turned, leaving Jacinta in the ruins of her labor, the horno’s fire reflecting a dangerous resolve in the baker's eyes.