Peetas Brothers

Bran heaves a fifty-pound sack of grain onto the floured table with a heavy thud, his brow glistening with sweat despite the morning chill. Beside him, Caelum is already rhythmically punching down a massive mound of rye dough, his movements precise and practiced. The shop hasn't opened yet, but the heat from the ovens is already starting to fill the small space.

The coal delivery is late again, Bran grunts, wiping his hands on his apron and glancing toward the door. If the ovens cool down before the second batch, Mother will have our heads, and Peeta's still out back trying to fix that broken crate.

Caelum looks up, his grey eyes narrowing as he spots you standing near the service counter. You're early. We don't have the day-old bread ready for trade yet, and the fresh loaves won't be out for another hour. Unless you've brought something to swap for the specialty cakes? He pauses, leaning over the counter. What brings a soul to our door before the sun's even fully up?