CHAPTER 178: THORNE VISITS AGAIN

The second "Golden Fry" day landed on a bright, breezy morning that smelled like rain long before any cloud bothered to show. Mcronald’s had its shutters up early, flour bowls set, oil gently warming, buns stacked in tidy pyramids, and the chalkboard outside redone in Lyra’s neat hand:

TODAY ONLY — GOLDEN FRY SPECIAL

Crispy. Juicy. Gone when it’s gone.

Riko rehearsed his greeting behind the counter like a swordsman running forms. "Welcome to Mcronald’s! Burgers? Fries? Or the special?" Maddy rolled her eyes fondly and checked the chicken sacks a third time, tapping them like a drummer to feel the cold through the paper. Inigo adjusted the fryer flame and watched for that shimmer he’d learned to trust more than any thermometer in this world.

Lyra leaned her elbows on the pass, chin in one hand, watching foot traffic gather on the plaza. "We’ll sell out in an hour," she said.

"That’s the point," Inigo answered without looking, and smiled when she sighed in that way that meant she secretly enjoyed being right about the chaos to come.

The door latch thunked, and the first rush washed in—early workers with dust on their sleeves, two academy students arguing about enchantment theory, a guardsman who’d "just stop in for tea" and immediately betrayed himself to a double burger. Orders flew; the fryer sang. Inigo fell into rhythm—coat, dip, coat again, lower; lift the basket when the sound went from frantic fizz to a confident crackle. Maddy plated, Riko called numbers, Lyra moved where the line needed strength—one moment coating chicken, the next salting fries with that magician’s flourish of hers that made kids stare.

The bell over the door chimed again.

Conversation softened by a degree, like a room inhaling. Lyra didn’t even glance up; she knew that particular hush. Inigo felt it too—a shift in attention, the way crowds unconsciously accorded space to the weight of certain people.

Guildmaster Thorne stepped inside.

He wore no insignia today, but authority clung to him like a second cloak. He took in the space—chalkboard, busy hands, the small miracles of organized heat and hunger—and then found Inigo behind the pass. There was the smallest curl to the Guildmaster’s mouth; for Thorne, that was practically a grin.

"Inigo," he rumbled.

"Guildmaster." Inigo tipped his spatula like a salute. "Pulling double duty again? Lunch and business?"

"In that order." Thorne’s eyes slid to the chalkboard. "And it appears I chose the right day."

"Luck favors the hungry," Lyra said, then raised her voice without turning around. "Riko—Guildmaster Thorne’s order goes through as listed and paid. No ’house’ nonsense."

Riko jolted. "Y-yes, Commander!" He recovered with a smile to Thorne. "What’ll it be, sir?"

Thorne considered. "Golden Fry. And a burger. And... tea."

"Adventurer’s Feast with an upgrade," Riko said, quill scratching. "Name?"

Thorne paused, amused. "Thorne will do."

Maddy snorted behind the pass, then turned it into a cough. Inigo pretended not to hear and slid into motion—two drumsticks into the oil, a burger down on the flat iron, buns to the little oven slot for a kiss of warmth. Lyra salted a fresh harvest of fries, shook them twice, and tapped the tray twice on the counter in that odd little ritual she’d invented. "For consistency," she’d said. No one questioned it anymore.

Ten minutes later, Thorne’s tray landed on a corner table near the window—two golden drumsticks still murmuring heat, a neat hill of fries, a Classic Burger wrapped and steaming, and a stone cup of sweet tea.

He took a bite of chicken first.

The Guildmaster didn’t do theatrics, not even for food, but he had tells. He ate, set the drumstick down, sat back as if to weigh it, and then went for a second bite with the steady inevitability of a man who had already decided. He didn’t speak until one drumstick remained. Then, with the gravity of a verdict: "You’re going to make enemies with this."

"Only the hungry kind," Inigo said from the pass, plating the next order.

Thorne glanced around the room, gaze catching on the packed bench by the window, the kids sharing a plate in the corner, the academy mages arguing quietly over whether crispness was a function of oil temperature or flour ratio. (Inigo fought a smile; the answer was "both.")

He ate the burger, too, slower—appreciating the construction, the balance of salt and fat and the brightness of the sliced pickled greens Maddy had insisted they add. When he finished, he folded the wrapper cleanly and dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin he produced from nowhere, as if he carried the guild’s order with him even into lunch.

"You’ve done well," he said simply. "Elandra needed this."

"You mean a place to eat that isn’t a tavern brawl waiting to happen?" Lyra said.

"That," Thorne allowed, "and something people can be happy about that has nothing to do with a monster dying."

He rose then, not quite done with the tray; there were still a handful of fries left, and he took them with him like talismans as he drifted to the counter where Riko was ringing up a trio of students. The Guildmaster waited until Riko finished, then set his tea down and indicated, with the slightest angle of his head, that it was time for a quieter word.

Inigo caught the look. "Maddy, you’ve got fry duty for three minutes. Lyra—"

"I’ll run the pass," she said, already stepping in.

They moved to the little prep alcove behind the register—a sliver of space no bigger than a closet, walled by shelves of paper, a spare keg of sweet tea, and a little window that breathed the plaza’s cool air.

Thorne didn’t sit. Neither did Inigo.

"First," Thorne said, the vestige of lunch in his voice softening the edges, "the food is excellent." A breath. "Second—I wouldn’t be here in person if this were not important."

Inigo wiped flour from his palms onto his apron. "I figured."

"I’ll not spill details in your shop. You’ve earned your peace where you can find it." Thorne’s gaze flicked to the line, to Lyra’s hands moving with swift economy, to Maddy looking almost joyful amid the steam. "And you’ve built something that holds the city together in small ways. That matters."

Inigo waited.

Thorne continued, voice lower. "Come by my office at first bell tomorrow. I’ll brief you both then. It isn’t the Lord of Destruction... but it isn’t nothing. It will require speed, discretion, and the kind of thinking you don’t find on a contract board."

Inigo exhaled through his nose. "We just finished turning chicken into gold, Thorne."

"You can have the rest of today," the Guildmaster said, not unkindly. He set a small sealed envelope on the shelf between sacks of paper. The seal bore the guild sigil, wax pressed deep. "This contains your formal summons and a travel chit—covers supplies you might need before departure. Don’t open it here."

"Because you know Lyra would read it aloud to the entire room if she smelled trouble."

Thorne’s mouth twitched. "Because I know you would make a face I would rather the staff not see." He tipped his cup to Inigo, polished off the last of his fries, and stepped out of the alcove like the tide receding.

Back at the pass, Lyra met Inigo’s eyes between orders. He gave her the smallest nod. She didn’t ask; she didn’t need to. Her mouth tightened, and then she turned and salted another batch like nothing had shifted.

The lunch rush thinned to a simmer. A trio of guild pages came in on break and split a single order of fries three ways, arguing about who’d carry messages to the north road. A street bard set up outside and played a jaunty tune that had nothing to do with Mcronald’s and yet somehow sold three extra sodas. Around midafternoon, a pair of city guards stopped by to "check on permits" and walked out with burgers in hand, satisfaction and grease equally evident.

By three, the special was long gone, and Riko hung the little sign: SOLD OUT — GOLDEN FRY RETURNS SOON. A cheer rose from outside anyway, like people applauding a performance after the curtain had already fallen.

They cleaned. Oil drained, pans scrubbed, spent flour taken out to the alley for the stray chickens that sometimes roamed there. Maddy hummed under her breath—some traveling song from the docks—and Riko counted the till with a reverence that made Inigo absurdly proud.

Only when the last table was wiped and the lamps turned low did Lyra slide onto the front bench and pat the space beside her. Inigo sat, the day finally settling into his bones.

"Thorne?" she asked.

"Tomorrow. First bell." He tapped the shelf behind the counter with his knuckles; they both knew the envelope was tucked there, pretending to be just another supply order.

Lyra rested her forearms on her knees. "You want to open it tonight."

"I do."

"But you won’t."

"I won’t."

They let the quiet gather, the din of the plaza fading as merchants packed their carts and families headed home. Somewhere down the lane, a kettle drum thudded once, twice, calling the shift change at the city watch. The scent of fried chicken still lingered—woven into the rafters now, a promise and a memory.

Maddy and Riko finished up in the back and drifted forward. "Do we... meet early tomorrow?" Riko asked, trying for casual and landing at hopeful. "For the morning rush?"

"Not too early," Inigo said. "We’ll prep as usual. Then Lyra and I have to step out. You two can handle the lunch shift without us."

"Without—" Riko’s eyes went wide, then narrowed with determination. "We can do it."

Maddy nodded, jaw set. "We’ve got this place. Go do... whatever it is you two do."

Lyra’s smile was wry. "Kill spiders. Stop cults. Start rumors." She stood, clapped Maddy’s shoulder, and flicked a crumb off Riko’s sleeve. "We’ll be back before the fryer cools."

They locked the door. Outside, the plaza glowed in the last peach light, and the Mcronald’s sign creaked softly in the breeze: red letters, bright promise.

As they walked home, Inigo’s hand brushed the outline of the envelope in his apron pocket. He didn’t need to open it to know the shape of what was inside—coordinates or directions, a time, a note of urgency phrased like a request and felt like an order. The world had a way of finding them, even when they hid in flour and fire and the small goodness of feeding people.

"Another mission," Lyra said, not quite a question.

"Seems so."

"Think it will wait until after breakfast?"

"It will wait until after breakfast," he said, with the stubbornness of a man who had decided some rituals were worth guarding like treasure. "Silog. Then Thorne."

Lyra’s shoulder bumped his. "Deal."

They turned the corner toward home, the city breathing easy around them, the taste of salt and spice and a day well won still in their mouths.

Inside the quiet kitchen, Inigo set the envelope on the counter and left it there, untouched. He washed his hands, set rice to soak for morning, and looked at Lyra over the rim of a chipped cup.

"Tomorrow," he said.

She lifted her cup in a small toast. "Tomorrow."