Riko hummed while chalking the sign. His letters were more legible now—practice and pride had shaped them into something approaching neatness. He still insisted on slipping in a flourish somewhere, today curling the "R" in "FRIES" into a spiral.
The morning crowd was lighter than yesterday, which meant apprentices with pockets still jangling from guild stipends and farmers who came in from the outskirts early. The line moved, burgers wrapped, fries salted, drinks poured. The rhythm was soothing, like the shop itself was breathing again.
It was nearly mid-day when the shadow fell across the counter.
"Inigo. Lyra."
The voice was low, resonant, and made the chatter behind it stutter into silence. Thorne never needed to raise his voice; it carried weight like iron in a scabbard. He stood there in plain clothes again—worn shirt, rolled sleeves, nothing to draw attention except the fact that every man and woman in earshot unconsciously shifted to give him room.
