Tournament begins (1)

The sun was now high, casting warm golden light over a street that had transformed into a full-blown battlefield of aromas, colors, and impatient coin purses.

And at the heart of it?

Our stall—The Orphans' Guild Presents: Story Brews & Heroic Bites.

It was chaos.

Good chaos, but chaos nonetheless.

"Two Treasure Tarts and a Fairy Tales brew!" Mira shouted, barely catching a coin pouch tossed by a well-dressed merchant. "Next!"

"Make that three!" someone else called from the side.

"Back of the line, bard-boy!" Lysandra snapped, elbow-deep in tart shells and syrup. "You cut again and I'll garnish your flute."

Farrah was juggling drink requests at a breakneck pace, her arms practically a blur. "One Elementary, My Dear! Two All for One and One for All! Syd, are we out of mint again?!"

"Check the cooler barrel!" Syd hollered, narrowly avoiding a spill as he turned a tray of steaming Count's Revenge cakes onto the cooling rack. He was sweating, sleeves rolled up, face flour-dusted and focused. He looked terrifyingly competent.

Children tugged on parents, nobles eyed the menu with intrigue, and performers in painted masks darted in for drinks between stage acts.

A group of city watch guards arrived in full armor, demanding "whatever that pink stuff is," and walked away fanning themselves with hand-stitched napkins.

We'd started slow that morning, but by midday, our stall was the eye of a consumer storm.

The menu stood proudly on both sides of the stand:

Story Brews

All for One and One for All: Four fruits in a drink with a twist.

Elementary, My Dear: Peach and mint, lightly chilled.

Fairy Tales: A pink brew with a sweet yet tangy flavor.

Heroic Bites

Count's Revenge: Peach and redberry tart cake served with vengeance.

Two-Sided Tart: A lemon and peach tart, both sweet and sour.

Treasure Tart: Golden-orange tart with a shiny finish.

A group of academy students was staring at the chalkboard, laughing at the descriptions.

"Do I order based on flavor or emotional trauma?" one joked.

"Both," Mira said dryly, handing her the Two-Sided Tart with a wink. "This one hits like a breakup."

Meanwhile, Syd and Mia were practically back-to-back at the oven, piping custard, rotating trays, and doing the sacred kitchen shuffle to avoid burns and customer collisions.

Steam curled from the oven, syrup glistened under the sun, and cold drinks shimmered in enchanted glass jugs behind Farrah. She'd added a sparkle enchantment to the serving jars, so every pour looked like liquid starlight.

Children stared in awe. Adults tried to hide the fact that they were impressed.

Despite the madness, Mira kept track of everything—orders, coin, restocks—like a sugar-dusted field marshal.

She shouted efficiently, charmed nobles, and glared down price hagglers with all the dignity of a queen commanding her pastry kingdom.

I watched for a brief moment, half-amused, half-proud. We weren't just surviving this festival.

We were dominating it.

Meanwhile, at the Arena Stand...

By midday, the battlefield was alive.

The cheers of the crowd merged with the clang of steel and the thud of spells hitting arena walls. All around us, voices rose, drinks were downed, and tarts were devoured like battlefield rations for spectators.

At the arena stand, we'd sold over thirty drinks, and half of them led to the same puzzled question:

"Why does this taste like energy?"

Which, of course, gave Vale or me the perfect opportunity to lean in and say, "Ah, that's the All for One. Inspired by The Three Musketeers. Have you read it?"

Sales pitch, secured.

Just as Vale handed out another Count's Revenge—our most dramatic and visually intimidating tart—a trumpet blared from the center of the arena, signaling the end of the opening ceremony.

A hush swept over the stands. The last of the nobles had taken their shaded booths. The final flower petals from the dancer procession had been swept up by enchanted brooms.

A tall crier stepped forward, voice booming with magical amplification.

"Let the 87th Grand Tourney of Alcasa—begin!"

The response was immediate. A tidal wave of cheers rolled across the stands. Spectators leapt up, waving flags and sigils, and somewhere above, fireworks burst in the noon sky—brilliant arcs of gold and red.

Armored fighters entered in ceremonial order—some in gleaming plate, others robed, or wrapped in exotic silks or monster hides. Their guild colors flew proudly behind them as they marched through the central promenade. Some summoned magical sparks or unleashed little flourishes of power to impress the audience.

It worked.

The crowd was electric.

"Alright, everyone," I said, straightening my coat, "now we hustle."

The real wave was coming. The kind that could wipe out an underprepared vendor in thirty minutes or make you rich for a week.

Jake prepped the tart boxes. Link readied the siphons. Garret—bless his soul—wore an enormous foam sword and waved it above the crowd like a knight-turned-marketer.

"Defend your honor with citrus!" he called."Thirsty? So was the last champion—look where he ended up!"

Vale laughed. "That's going in the advertising book."

Soon, a line was forming.

Orders were flying in.

"Two Treasure Tarts, one Elementary, My Dear! Stall three!"

"Garret, the nobles there!" I barked. "Offer the Fairy Tales and bow like you mean it!"

"Aye aye!"

Everything swelled—chatter, clinking coins, the smell of fruit and sugar, and summer magic. People were yelling across rows, raising their drinks like toasts, and more than a few were taking pictures or sketching us into their journals. A bard at the next stall even started improvising a ballad about the "Guild of Tarts and Triumph."

Garret's foam sword wobbled as he saluted a group of giggling girls. Jake flipped a tray of Two-Sided Tarts like a pro. And I?

I smiled as I counted another round of silver into the lockbox.

This wasn't just a food stall anymore.

This was a legend in the making. 

With things settling down, I was finally able to leave the stand and step into the arena proper. The noise was thunderous—cheers echoing like drumbeats against stone walls, the clash of metal from the arena floor reverberating up through the stands.

Spectators moved in a steady flow toward the upper viewing decks, arms full of snacks, children riding on shoulders, the scent of roasted meat and dust thick in the air.

I was about to follow the stream of bodies when I felt a tiny tug at the hem of my coat.

I turned.

Standing there, clinging to a folded scarf and trembling slightly, was Alfon Albert, the five-year-old heir of Marquess Albert—and, arguably, the reason my entire bookstore had a roof.

His face was scrunched up, eyes glassy, lip wobbling like the world's most fragile piece of fruit jelly.

"Alfon?" I knelt to his level, voice low. "Why aren't you with your parents?"

He sniffled, gripping the edge of my sleeve. "I—I lost them."

My heart sank.

He wasn't a loud crier. That would've been easier to notice. Alfon was the quiet type—the kind of child who'd wander off following something shiny or poetic and only realize he was lost once the excitement wore off.

"Alright," I said gently, brushing his bangs from his face. "Tell me when you last saw them."

He blinked up at me. "There were knights! Really big ones! I wanted to see their swords up close and... then they were gone."

I sighed, more at the situation than him. The arena, in all its overwhelming chaos, was no place for a five-year-old to be alone—even if said five-year-old was dressed in a tiny waistcoat more expensive than my first ten months of rent.

"It's okay. You're safe now." I offered him my hand. "Come on. We'll find them."

He took it without hesitation, his small fingers wrapping around mine tightly.

As we walked along the corridor, passing between stone arches and bursts of cheers, he looked up at me and asked in a whisper, "Eamond... are you mad at me?"

I paused mid-step.

"...No. Why would I be?"

"Because I messed things up. You were doing important stuff."

"Alfon," I said firmly, glancing down at him, "It doesn't matter, let's get you back to your parents. Alright?"

His eyes shimmered again—but this time with relief.

"Okay."

We kept walking, passing a pair of armored duelists warming up by slashing at invisible opponents. I scanned the crowd for a flash of nobility—a bodyguard, a panicking attendant, anyone remotely marquess-adjacent.

I found it in the form of Lady Thorne, Alfon's mother, stomping toward us like a hawk in riding boots, eyes wild and braid swinging.

"There you are!" she hissed, relief and fury battling in her expression. "Do you have any idea what your Father will say if he hears you have disappeared again?!"

Alfon immediately ducked behind me.

"I found him near the gate," I said calmly. "He was looking for swords. Very on-brand."

She exhaled sharply, running a hand down her face. "Thank you. Seriously. He has the reflexes of a cat and the survival instincts of jam."

Alfon peeked out. "I like jam."

"That's not the point," Lady Thorne muttered and sighed. She knelt and tugged him into a hug. "Come on. We were worried sick."

Lady Thorne rose, still holding Alfon close to her side, though her breath was steadier now. Her sharp eyes softened for the briefest moment as she looked at me.

"You have my gratitude, Eamond," she said, brushing a few specks of dust from her sleeves.

"Would you like to join us in the noble stands?" she asked. "Front row view. Shaded. Less shouting. And it would be a fine way to repay you for returning my son in one piece again."

I blinked, surprised.

It wasn't every day that a Marquess's wife offered you a seat beside the silk-and-gold elite. I imagined the view, the cooling enchantments, the trays of wine and sugar-dusted biscuits—

Then I remembered the drink cart, Jake's wild pouring technique, and Vale probably intimidating a customer with a quote from The Three Musketeers again.

Tempting. But I had a war to win.

"As generous as that sounds," I said, bowing slightly, "could I make a different request?"

Lady Thorne raised an eyebrow.

"Tickets," I said. "For the arena events. As much as you're willing to part with. I'd like to pass them out to our staff. I want to promote our food product inside the arena to increase our customer traffic."

She blinked, surprised, then smirked.

She chuckled, then reached into a small, rune-locked pouch at her waist and handed me a sleek envelope. It shimmered faintly with golden sigils.

"Ten passes," she said. "They'll grant full access to the entire arena for every match. Use them wisely."

I accepted them with a grateful nod. "Much appreciated. Your son's safe—and now my business is too. A fair trade."

Alfon, now calmer, gave me a big smile. "Can I have a tart later?"

"I'll set one aside for you."

"With extra jam?"

"Only if you don't get lost again."

He saluted me with all the seriousness of a pint-sized knight, then let Lady Thorne guide him away into the noble corridor.

Once they were out of sight, I turned on my heel and grinned.

Now to hand out these tickets like candy laced with economic intent.