Morning broke restless.
Not the clean kind of dawn where fog lifts and the streets clear, but one that felt heavier than night itself. The city hadn't slept. The songs hadn't stopped. Even as Inigo cracked eggs into the pan, their names still echoed faintly from some tavern down the street.
Lyra sat at the table, hair still braided from yesterday, bow leaned against her chair. Her eyes never stayed still. Window. Door. Window again.
"You're jumpy," Inigo said, voice low.
"I'm alive," she countered. "For now."
The skillet hissed between them. Neither spoke again until the smell of fried eggs filled the room.
By the time they opened the stall, the plaza was already choking with people. Not just the usual adventurers or students now—it was nobles, merchants, even clerks with their robes tucked high enough to run across cobblestones.
