Tournament Begin (3)

The morning sun had barely risen above the tiled rooftops when I arrived at the arena stand, boots crunching against dew-damp stones and cloak still trailing sleep.

The arena plaza was quiet, for now. Only the earliest vendors and fighters stirred, a few yawning attendants shuffling about like ghosts with clipboards. But give it an hour, and this place would roar.

Our stall stood exactly where we'd left it: nestled just beside the entrance arches of the arena, close enough for prime foot traffic, but not so close that noble entourages'd crush us.

And it looked good.

I let out a breath of relief. No scorch marks, no collapsed canvas, no exploded juice barrels overnight. Progress.

Jake was already there, sleeves rolled up, restocking the tart crates like a soldier preparing rations before a siege.

"You're early," I said.

He grinned without looking up. "I dreamt of a tart-shaped gold coin and couldn't go back to sleep."

Link showed up next, dragging the wooden sword behind him like a sleepy knight. "Do we have to chant today? Because I forgot to practice my heroic slogans."

"You'll improvise," I replied. "You're dangerously good at talking nonsense anyway."

"Thank you," he said proudly.

Soon, the rest of the team trickled in—Garret, Syd, and even Vale, who claimed he wasn't a "morning person" but showed up with a list of tactical adjustments to the signboard font size.

We worked in silence for a few minutes, moving in sync: setting out the fresh tarts, checking the siphons, re-enchanting the sparkle effects on the drink pitchers. Syd muttered a few warming charms over the oven while Garret drew battle lines in chalk around the booth.

Then I cleared my throat.

"Alright, now that everyone's here…" I paused for effect. "Let's talk about our real weapon today: visibility."

Jake looked up. "You mean the yelling?"

"Yes," I said. "But also charm. Storytelling. Energy. We're not just selling food. We're selling an experience. You've all got your tickets for the tournament, right?"

They nodded. Link raised his like a trophy.

"Good. Anyone working shifts in the crowd and at the stand, don't just sit and watch—promote. Mention the drinks. Whisper the tart names. Cheer a little louder if someone's holding one of our cups. Make people wonder what they're missing."

"You want us to turn into walking advertisements," Syd said.

"Precisely."

There was a brief pause. Then Link asked, "Can I try juggling the tart boxes between rounds?"

"No."

Vale didn't even look up from the coin ledger.

The sun was rising, and the arena gates were already beginning to open. The distant clang of armor, the murmur of the crowd—it was building again.

Another day, another wave of festivalgoers ready to be lured in by sugar, citrus, and just a little bit of theatrical flair.

I smiled as I stepped behind the counter, brushing imaginary dust from my coat.

"Okay, you all choose who to go first and promote in the arena," I said, walking away from the stand.

"And where are you going?" Vale asked

"I'm going to see how the stands in the commercial area are doing. After all, I need to oversee all operational progress."

"Good Luck, Eamond," 

I gave Jake a lazy wave over my shoulder as I slipped into the thinning morning crowd, the smell of roasted nuts and spicebread already drifting from nearby stalls.

The arena plaza was beginning to stir with the promise of a new day—and a new set of hungry, excitable customers.

But my attention was on the commercial district now.

A gentle breeze carried with it the faint echo of music, laughter, and the clatter of cookware being readied. The closer I got, the louder it all became—like walking into the rising tempo of a festival overture.

I turned a corner and spotted it at once.

Our flagship stall.

Story Brews & Heroic Bites.

From here, it looked like a miniature fortress built out of sugar and charm.

Mira stood front and center, already waving down a small cluster of early customers. Her eyes flicked over them with a merchant's intuition, already sizing them up for which drink or tart they'd fall for. Farrah, beside her, sent a splash of sparkling juice into the air with a flourish that made a nearby child gasp in awe.

I smiled.

The oven was up and running, steam curling from its chimney like a ship ready to sail. Syd was flipping tart shells with one hand and swatting away an over-eager squirrel with the other. Lysandra manned the register like a knight defending a treasury, while Mia added a finishing mint leaf to a row of Elementary, My Dear, like she was planting flags of victory.

They had it under control. But that didn't mean they'd object to a surprise check-in.

I made my way toward the stand, ready to deliver praise, suggestions, and possibly a reminder that glitter is not an acceptable topping unless edible.

And maybe, just maybe, I'd snag a tart for breakfast.

After all, management has its privileges.

"How is it going?"

"Eamond, you're not at the arena?" Lysandra asked in surprise

"No, today I'm here to help manage this area. Why don't you like seeing me here?" I said in a fake hurt voice.

"Of course I like seeing you here," Lysandra replied dryly, arms crossed. "Like I like a surprise mosquito during peak hours."

I held up my hands. "Not here to be a mosquito today. Just managerial excellence and free labor."

"Good," Mira chimed in from the side without looking up, adjusting the chalkboard menu with a flourish. "Because if you start rearranging anything, I will throw a tart at you. And not the soft kind."

I gave a mock bow and slipped behind the counter, surveying the flow of traffic and subtle gaps in movement. We were already drawing a respectable morning crowd—early strollers, off-duty performers, and even a few curious nobles in more relaxed dress.

"Farrah," I called, "try rotating the sparkle enchantments every few minutes. Let them cycle through different colors—make it look like seasonal specials."

"On it!" she said cheerfully, tapping the drink jars with a quick rune-stroke. The glimmering liquid shifted from a silvery shimmer to a warm golden hue that practically screamed, 'Buy me.'

"Mia, let the smell work for us. Crack the oven just a bit wider to let the aroma carry, especially when the next Count's Revenge batch is in."

She nodded, already turning the handle.

"Lysandra—"

"I'm already tracking who's skipping the line," she interrupted flatly. "You don't need to say anything."

I nodded solemnly. "I fear and respect you."

"Good."

We settled into a steady rhythm—orders, payments, flour dust, mint leaves, and laughter. The air was filled with the comforting chaos of success: clinking coins, sizzling tarts, and murmured decisions of sweet vs. sour.

And then—

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a familiar figure moving through the crowd.

A girl. Same one from yesterday.

The one who bumped into me at the arena. The one who vanished just as fast as she bumped me to the floor.

Her honey blond hair was fluttering, and she was still wearing a training outfit and light armour.

She came closer to the stand, and I instinctively stepped back. This girl radiated the kind of energy that screamed 'incoming headache.'

She spotted me instantly.

Her brows drew together like storm clouds, and before I could retreat behind the safety of a tart tray, she was already marching toward me.

"Hey, you!"

I blinked. "Oh no."

"What do you mean 'oh no'?!" she snapped, planting herself right in front of me with all the force of a cannonball in polite society.

"You again," I said with the exact tone one might reserve for discovering a bee in their teacup.

"You nearly made me miss my match yesterday!"

I recoiled, offended. "Excuse me?"

"You were in the middle of the walkway! Who just strolls like a daydreaming ghost in the arena district?!" she fired off, hands on her hips.

"I was walking! Like a normal person! You were the one sprinting like a charging boar through a festival!"

"It was urgent!"

"And you still didn't look where you were going!"

Her glare sharpened. "I had to climb over two weapon racks and a pile of chairs to make it to the back door in time. My friend thought I chickened out!"

"I got knocked over, too!" I exclaimed. 

We stared at each other for a beat, heat from the oven and mutual irritation hanging in the air like a storm waiting to pop.

Farrah peeked from behind the stand. "Friend of yours?"

"Not remotely," I said.

"Not even close," the girl echoed.

I turned back to her. "What are you doing here, anyway? More sprinting practice? Or are you looking for someone else to tackle?"

"I'm here for breakfast," she said stiffly, crossing her arms. "Because someone made me miss the free meal token in the waiting room, and I've been living on salted trail mix and regret ever since."

"Wel—"

"Eamond."

We both froze.

Mira.

She stood at the center of the stall, one eyebrow raised so high it practically cast its own shadow. Her arms were crossed, her tone even, but behind it was the kind of command that could silence a stampede.

"Argue somewhere else," she said, voice low but firm. "Preferably not in front of the line of paying customers who are now deciding if we're also selling drama along with the pastries."

I blinked. "We weren't—"

"Yes. You were." Mira gestured toward a group of amused customers, a few of whom were very clearly eavesdropping with the kind of delighted smirks that said they would absolutely gossip about this later.

"Sorry, Mira," I muttered, stepping aside.

The girl had the decency to look sheepish. "Right. I'll, uh, take this to go."

She jabbed a finger toward the menu. "Those two tarts. And that drink. To go."

"Please do," Mira said, with the exhausted patience of someone used to cleaning up everyone's nonsense before noon. And then she left to tend to the other customer.

Then she exhaled sharply and muttered, "You've got an annoying face."

"Likewise," I replied sweetly.

We stared each other down, the oven's warmth and mutual irritation thick in the air, like a thunderstorm waiting to strike.

We glared again. But this time… maybe it wasn't quite as sharp.

Still wary. Still annoyed.

But underneath it, maybe a sliver of curiosity.

"Name's Aile," she said finally.

"Eamond."

"Don't make me regret knowing that."

"I already regret knowing yours."

We both turned away at the same time, muttering under our breath.

But as she walked off, tart in hand, I caught the faintest flicker of a smirk tugging at her lips.

And gods help me—I might've smirked back.

This girl was definitely going to be a headache.

And I had the sinking suspicion that wouldn't be the last time she'd come crashing into my day.