The pot scraped against the concrete every time Elias shifted it closer to the fire.
He had built the thing too well.
That was the problem with Construct Stability now. The iron pot sat on the cracked basement floor with real weight, real heat stains, and real stubbornness. It did not flicker. It did not fade. It also kept taking a thin pull from his core while the broth inside it thickened over a fire made from chair legs, paper, and whatever dry trash the refugees had saved.
Two Federation protein bars had become gray paste in rainwater. Elias had asked for anything with starch and received a heel of hard bread, a handful of cracked grain, and one bruised root shaved so thin the pieces looked like paper. It was not enough to make a meal. It was enough to convince starving bodies that tomorrow might exist.
The refugees ate like the paste was roast meat.
