By the time Inigo unlatched the shutters, the plaza looked less like a food stall queue and more like a parade. Nobles under parasols stood beside farmers still dusted from the fields. Adventurers clinked coin purses and told tales loudly enough to make sure everyone heard them. Children darted between boots, playing at being "burger knights" with wooden spoons as swords.
Riko nearly dropped the chalkboard when he saw it. "Gods," he whispered, eyes wide. "We're a festival."
"Then keep your feet," Inigo told him. He slid the day's pouch of coins into the drawer, tied his apron, and breathed in the still air before the oil began its symphony. "Festivals end. We're building something that doesn't."
Lyra stepped up beside him, hair tied back, sleeves rolled. She scanned the crowd like a commander surveying a battlefield. "They're here for the food and the Platinums," she said. "Half will stay because of the food, half because of the story. Both are dangerous."
