The second-distilled alcohol was sharply pungent, its afterburn fierce. Shortly after drinking, Butler Henry belched, his face flushing crimson. "Dwarven spirits live up to the legend, My Lord! Should we name this brew? 'Dwarven Alcohol' seems too plain."
"Name suggestions? You have any?"
Henry hesitated. "What about… 'Riverside Spirit'?"
Tom, adjusting the fire with a stick, nearly dropped it, his lip twitching. Sean sighed, rubbing his temple. A premium product needs a premium name. "'Holy Flame Spirit'—'Holy' honors the Light's guidance, 'Flame' reflects its intensity. Thoughts?"
Henry's eyes lit up. "Brilliant! A name fit for royalty. Dwarves will pay dearly for this! Though we don't have much ale to work with…"
"We brought 30 barrels," Sean agreed, calculating the yield—20-proof ale would distill into 6-7 barrels of 53-proof spirit. "Henry, did Viscount Lake store wine in his cellar?"
"Of course, but most are expensive wines. Only 30 barrels turned sour after he left for war." Henry's voice fell, grief flickering.
Sean clapped his shoulder. "Sour wine can still be distilled. Fetch a barrel—let's test it."
Henry returned with a sour-smelling barrel. Sean taught the slum kids—sharp, eager learners—how to control the fire and monitor distillation. They knew this spirit was key to the territory's future, soaking in every word.
The sour ale steamed and condensed into liquid. Henry handed Sean a cup; the taste was slightly different but indistinguishable without close inspection. "No difference. Sour wine works."
Henry grinned. "The town taverns have the same! We'll buy their spoiled ale and distill it. More spirit, more profit."
Sean nodded. "You've learned enough. Stay here—brew as much as possible in small barrels. I'll take them to Yorn in a few days."
"As you command, My Lord." Henry watched the distiller, already dreaming of gold—Holy Flame Spirit, blessed by the Light, would flow like liquid sunlight into dwarven coffers.The Alchemy of Naming,That night, Sean inscribed the first barrel with gilded characters.: HOLY FLAME SPIRIT – BLESSED BY THE LIGHT, FORGED IN FLAME. Kyle, passing by, arched a brow. "Clever—using the Church's brand to sell alcohol. Even the Pope would approve."
Sean smirked. "Faith and finance make strange bedfellows. Besides, the Light did 'bless' it—via my alchemy."
In the cellar, Henry polished another barrel, humming a hymn off-key. To him, the "holy" in the name was no lie—how else explain turning spoiled ale into gold?
In Riverside, Sean mused, even failure could be distilled into fortune—with the right name, and a dash of divine marketing.