Yun's Bakery

The Bakery

Tucked between a cooper’s shop and a weather-beaten tailor’s, the Ilthmart Bakery doesn’t stand out at first glance. Its stone walls are worn smooth by rain and time, its wooden beams dark with age, but there’s always a hint of warmth curling from the chimney and a scent on the air—flour, spice, and something rich with memory. On fine mornings, the front window swings wide to the cobbled street, propped open with a flour sack and a broom handle. Shia Ilthmart leans there, handing out loaves wrapped in cloth or paper, her sleeves dusted in white and her smile ready as the dawn. Inside, her husband Yun works the dough with steady hands and a reverence that borders on ritual. The bakery has been in Yun’s family for three generations. His grandfather built the ovens with bricks hauled from the riverbed. His parents passed down the recipes, the rhythms, and the jokes—“Yeast runs in your blood, boy,” his parents used to laugh. And maybe it does. Because to Yun, the scent of warm bread is home itself, and few things bring him greater joy than coaxing life from dough, shaping it into loaves so perfect they'd tempt a royal table. He never minded. From the first time he dipped his hands into a bowl of sticky dough, he knew: this was where he belonged. For Yun, baking isn’t a chore—it’s a calling. There’s joy in the work, in the quiet alchemy that turns flour, water, and time into something golden and whole. Each loaf that comes from his oven carries the weight of tradition and the warmth of home. To most, Yun’s Bakery is just another stop in the market lane. But to those who know, it’s something rarer: a place where time slows, where bread is made with care, and where the past lingers in every crack of the old stone floor.    

Upstairs Living Quarters

The stairs creak with a familiar rhythm as they rise from the bakery to the upper floor—a warm, open space where scent of hearth-smoke and baked bread lingers even in the quiet hours. The living quarters are modest, but every corner hums with comfort, care, and the layered evidence of family life. The central hearth is an extension of the great oven downstairs, its heat keeping the chill at bay even on the coldest nights. A wide stone fireplace dominates one wall, its mantle cluttered with small mementos, wax-dripped candlesticks, and a sleeping cat curled in perfect defiance of gravity just above the fire’s flickering glow. A well-worn dog bed lies in front of the hearth, oversized and dented in the middle where its occupant sprawls daily in lazy bliss. Against one long wall stands a large bed, its frame carved by hand, with thick quilts and patchwork blankets neatly (and sometimes not-so-neatly) layered atop. Across the room, tucked into a cozy nook, are two sets of sturdy bunk beds—built close to the floor, clearly sized for children, their posts etched with scratches and doodles only little fingers could leave behind. Three tall chests of drawers line the opposite wall, their handles mismatched and their tops cluttered with folded linens, ribbons, and stray wooden toys. Near the stairwell, a simple wall-mounted rack holds coats and cloaks of various sizes, and a row of shoes lines the baseboards beneath—muddy, scuffed, and undeniably well-used. But the heart of the room may be the grand bowed window set into the outer wall, overlooking the rooftops and streets below. Its deep sill has been transformed into a built-in bench, its surface layered with sun-warmed cushions and hand-stitched pillows. Beneath the bench, hidden behind polished wooden panels, are storage compartments brimming with books, keepsakes, and the kinds of treasures only children seem to find important. On fair days, light streams through the glass and bathes the seat in gold, making it the perfect place for a quiet morning with a book, or an afternoon nap curled like the cat on the mantle. Though the space is humble, every inch tells a story—of warmth, of family, of a life built with flour, fire, and love.    

The Basement

Beneath the narrow stair that leads to the Ilthmarts’ modest upstairs living quarters, there’s a small door, easy to miss unless you’re looking for it. Half-concealed behind hanging aprons and broom handles, the door blends into the shadowed alcove, its frame warped with age and its iron latch cold to the touch. Beyond it lies a set of steep steps that make no sound when traversed, despite their apparent age, descending into a low-ceilinged basement. The air is cooler here, tinged with the scent of earth, old wood, and something older still—faint traces of dried herbs, candle wax, and damp parchment. The size appears much larger than the building above, appearing to spread to either side under the neighboring buildings. The far corners are packed with dusty crates and long-forgotten boxes, some marked with faded trade sigils or chalked letters from a generation past. But the heart of the room tells a different story. A large, sturdy desk dominates the center, its surface well-used and scarred by years of hard elbows, ink spills, and quiet bargains done over bottles of wine and liquor. Comfortable chairs—far too fine for mere storage, or a bakery—are arranged around it in a manner that suggests conversation, negotiation... or interrogation. A pair of lanterns hang overhead, casting a golden glow that doesn’t quite reach the darker edges of the room. Beneath one shelf, a half-covered ledger sits open, its pages curled. Coins of various mints glisten softly in a small box nearby. Bundles of wrapped goods rest neatly on side tables—spices, parchment, and tools that might raise questions if inspected too closely. And if you were especially observant, you might notice behind a stack of old barrels, nearly flush with the stone wall, lies a narrow door cleverly hidden in shadow,soot and hanging herbs. Its outline is masked by a false backing of crates, rigged to shift with a practiced tug. Beyond it, a cramped tunnel stretches into the darkness, walls damp and close, reinforced with timber and care. It winds beneath the neighboring buildings, its true destination known only to a few. Whether used to slip goods unseen past the city watch or to vanish in the event of danger, the passage is old, quiet... and still very much in use. To most, it’s just a cellar—another room for flour sacks and spare jars. But for those who know where to look, the basement beneath the Yun’s Bakery is something else entirely. A quiet place, a meeting place. A space where business is done... and not all of it over bread.