Ah, the pastry of Eldermoor, you say? The old diary mentions a spice so rare it was said to have been plucked from the night‑sky itself—saffron grown in the shadow of the ruined citadel, where the moon never quite touched the ground. Some whispered it was the crushed scales of a moon‑lit dragon, infused with the king’s own blood. Whoever baked it claimed the aroma carried the memory of forgotten lullabies and the faint echo of a king’s oath. If you’re feeling daring, try a pinch of that silver dust; you might taste a fragment of a forgotten realm.