Impossible Dream

By noon, the commercial area no longer needed me.

It was running like a well-oiled merchant war machine—orders steady, coins clinking, and even Mira wasn't glaring quite as much—a minor miracle. Farrah had charmed three noble kids into buying six drinks with nothing but sparkles and compliments, and Syd had weaponized the scent of fresh tart glaze so effectively that even the neighboring stalls looked hungry.

I was no longer managing.

I was loitering.

So, I did the reasonable thing—and left before Mira started assigning me actual grunt work.

Back through the winding paths, past the juggler troupe with too many swords and not enough common sense, past the enchanted woodturner selling wands shaped like candy canes, I made my way back toward the thunder that was the arena.

The closer I got, the louder the world became.

The sounds rolled over me like waves: cheers, gasps, the deep thud of magical impacts against arena shields. It wasn't quite the finals-level roar yet, but it had momentum—like a dragon slowly waking up from a nap, flexing its wings.

Our arena stand came into view: nestled by the outer arches, where the line was already thick and wiggling like a very profitable snake.

I spotted Jake behind the counter, sleeves rolled up and moving like a blur, flipping tart boxes and swapping siphons like a man possessed. Link was juggling slogans and actual tart samples with varying success.

I walked up just as Vale handed off a sparkling drink to a half-masked swordswoman.

"Wow," I muttered. "I'm gone for a few hours, and you all become as famous as a popular performance artist."

Jake looked up from a tray of Count's Revenge. "Well, it seems that Garret pitches in the arena truly works ."

Vale gave me a withering look. "You're back."

"I am. The commercial side is doing so well, they started giving me polite dismissals. You need anything?"

Jake wiped his hands on his apron. "Honestly? A breather. But we're holding the line."

I stepped behind the counter, surveying the scene. There was a rhythm here—orders flowing, jokes being tossed like pastries, eyes lighting up at every enchanted pour.

I watched as a teenager bit into a Two-Sided Tart and immediately made a face like she was being emotionally attacked. "It's sweet—and then it's sour—and I think it just judged me," she whispered.

Perfect.

"Alright," I said, "I'll handle counter and customer rotation. Link, go and take Jake's place. Jake, take five and chug water. Vale—"

"I'm not smiling," he cut in.

"I wasn't going to ask you to smile," I said.

"Yes, you were."

"I was going to ask you to scowl slightly less."

"Request denied."

Fair enough.

A passing bard scribbled down our latest sales pitch in a notebook. I exhaled, rolling up my sleeves and nodding to the line of new customers.

It wasn't peaceful. It wasn't quiet. It was loud, sticky, and smelled of sugar and magic.

And it was thriving.

A few hours later, the flood finally slowed.

The chaos faded into a trickle—one last noble pair arguing over whether "Elemental Fizz" sounded too aggressive for brunch, and a bard humming while scribbling on a napkin. After that, nothing.

No new customers.

No one is lining up.

Just the gentle hum of background arena noise and the lingering scent of sugar and sweat.

We'd survived the lunch hour. Somehow.

Jake slumped against the counter like a deflated pastry bag. Vale had pulled out his coin ledger and was furiously recalculating something with the focus of a man solving a national crisis. Link was crouched by the barrels, muttering slogans to himself like a soldier recalling battlefield mantras.

"Alright," I said, stretching my arms overhead with a satisfying pop, "we're calling a soft halt for now. Rest, hydrate, stare into the middle distance—whatever helps."

Jake raised a tired fist in salute. "Bless you, Tart King."

"Never say that again," Vale muttered without looking up.

I chuckled, then dusted off my coat. "I'm heading inside the arena."

Link perked up. "You finally going to watch a match?"

"No," I said, already halfway past the booth, "I'm looking for Garret."

"Tell him he owes me a chant," Jake called.

"Tell him to stop offering discounts to people who compliment him," Vale added dryly.

I waved over my shoulder, boots crunching against the sandy stone path as I made my way toward the coliseum arches.

Inside, the arena was a beast of its own—stone and banners and thunder.

Magic shimmered in the air, echoing from the barrier walls that kept stray spells from roasting the crowd. I walked past a merchant selling wooden weapons to children and dodged a boy with a wooden sword twice his size.

Garret had said he'd be switching between promoting and sneaking peeks at the matches.

And knowing him?

That meant I'd find him wherever the most dramatic noise was coming from.

I pressed on, scanning the stands, ignoring a hawker trying to sell me "genuine pre-blessed good-luck toothpicks," and made my way up into the arena rows.

The sun hung high above the open arena, casting long shadows between flags that fluttered above the stands.

The scent of dust and metal was thick in the air, mingling with faint trails of roasted peanuts and enchantment smoke.

I scanned the rows of benches, eyes flitting past vendors, yawning nobles, and a handful of kids waving wooden swords. Then I spotted him—Garret.

He sat near the edge of one of the mid-tier rows, elbows on his knees, gaze locked onto the arena floor with the intensity of a starving man watching a feast.

Below, two swordsmen were locked in a duel, their blades clashing like silver lightning, footwork sharp as dance and deliberate as war. The crowd roared with every near-hit, but Garret didn't cheer.

He just watched.

Completely still.

Completely absorbed.

I made my way up and slid into the seat beside him.

"You were supposed to be advertising," I said, voice low but just loud enough to be heard over the cheers.

Garret didn't respond immediately. His hands were clenched between his knees, knuckles white.

"You can watch the finals later," I added. "Right now, we need people buying drinks, not daydreams."

He still didn't answer. For a long second, I considered nudging him again. Then he spoke.

"…Thank you."

That caught me off guard.

He kept his eyes on the fighters, but his voice was softer than I'd ever heard it.

"Before you came to the orphanage… every year, I'd hear about the tournament. I'd imagine the banners, the clang of swords, the crowds. But we never had the coin for a ticket. Not even the cheapest spot."

He paused. I didn't interrupt.

"I used to sneak up to the rooftops. Try to catch a glimpse of it from outside the wall. Never saw much. Just sounds. Cheers. Sometimes the flash of magic."

He swallowed, throat tight. Then turned slightly toward me.

"I wanted to be like them. A swordsman. Renowned. Respected. But I never had a mentor. Or gear. Or… y'know, a chance."

His words hung in the air like dust motes, fragile and glowing.

I leaned back in my seat. "That's an impossible dream, Garret."

He went still.

He turned away from me quickly, but not before I saw the tremble in his lip. His fingers twitched at his sides, curling into fists. And for a moment, I thought he might just walk off.

I could practically hear the weight of my words crashing into him.

But before he could stand, I unconsciously added, "That's why I'll sit here with you."

Garret blinked, confused. "What?"

"I'll take over watching the match," I said, smirking faintly. "That way, you can focus on the stand when your shift comes back around. Fair trade, right?"

He stared at me, genuinely stunned.

Then, without another word, he practically dove into the seat beside me.

The two of us sat there, the noise of the crowd rolling over us like a tide. For once, I let the noise stay. Let it fill the silence between us.

"…Why didn't you stop me?" he asked finally. "You could've pulled me away. Told me to stop wasting time."

I didn't look at him. I just smiled faintly and replied, "Making the impossible possible isn't impossible, I know someone who did that once."

"Really!"

"Story for another time."

The swordsman in the arena landed a precise disarm, and the crowd burst into applause. But I wasn't watching the swords anymore.

In my mind's eye, I saw another boy—younger version of myself—selling buttons and bruised apples in an alleyway, pockets empty, stomach emptier. And then I saw him again, years later, counting gold rings in a manor that once turned him away.

An orphan who had become the richest person in the world.

Garret, beside me, was still staring at the match. But there was something different now in the way he watched—less hunger, more hope.

Maybe just a spark.

And then, as if answering the moment, I heard the faint chime in my mind.

You have earned +10 Karma Points for encouraging a child to dream.