CHAPTER 188: GETTING POPULAR

The next morning the chalkboard sign hadn’t even been set out when the first knock rattled the shutters.

Riko stumbled to the door with bed hair and yesterday’s apron, muttering, "We’re not even open yet." But when he slid the bolt, half a dozen townsfolk nearly toppled him with eagerness. Word had traveled fast—faster than a scent on the wind.

By the time the sun reached the plaza, the line stretched in both directions, curling around the fountain like a tail. This wasn’t the familiar trickle of apprentices and guards. These were guild scribes in pressed grays, merchants in jewel-toned vests, students with ink on their fingers, and nobles with polished boots who had clearly never stood in a food line in their lives.

"Platinum," someone whispered reverently. "The burger of Platinums."

Lyra leaned against the counter, eyebrows raised. "They’re not here for the food," she murmured to Inigo.

"They’re here for both," he corrected, tying his apron. "Celebrity is a spice. Let’s make sure the meal doesn’t disappoint."

Riko scrawled the day’s menu across the chalkboard with a dramatic flourish:

BURGERS • FRIES • FRIED CHICKEN • DRINKS

The word fried chicken made the crowd buzz like bees. Someone clapped. A student scribbled the letters down to make sure he hadn’t misread.

"You’re actually doing it," Lyra said under her breath, sliding into her station.

"I promised," Inigo replied, fishing marinated pieces from the chilled bin. The brine had worked all night, a mix of salt, sugar, and their guarded spice blend. He coated each piece in flour, the dust puffing into the air like smoke from a battlefield, then lowered them carefully into the hot oil.

The fryer hissed and popped. The smell rolled out of the stall like a warhorn’s call. The line surged forward instinctively.

"First order!" Inigo barked. "Chicken basket, two burgers, one fry!"

Lyra wrapped the burgers with the same precision she’d use stringing a bow. Riko darted to fill cups. When the first basket of fried chicken came out—golden, crisp, steam curling from the edges—Inigo salted it with a practiced shake and slid it onto the tray.

The nobleman who received it looked skeptical at first. Then he tore off a piece, bit down, and froze. His expression cracked into astonishment. "By the gods," he breathed. "This tastes like—like victory!"

The line erupted into laughter and applause. Word spread faster than a bard’s tale: the Platinums had unveiled something new.

By midmorning, the plaza was a carnival. Adventurers with dented armor stood shoulder to shoulder with silk-draped ladies. Children darted between boots, waving scraps of parchment like tickets. Merchants whispered about investing. The baker who had glared yesterday sent his son to buy six chickens and came himself for fries, muttering, "Competition’s healthy."

Inigo kept his rhythm—dip, dredge, fry, salt—while Lyra ran burgers like a commander on campaign. She had taken to shouting orders in clipped tones, voice sharp enough to cut through the din. Riko rang them back with all the pride of a herald at court.

"Order twenty-three! Two chickens, three burgers, two fries!"

"Coming up!"

When a cluster of students finally reached the counter, they ordered nothing but chicken. One of them, no more than sixteen, asked breathlessly, "What’s the secret?"

"Salt," Inigo said.

"And?"

"More salt."

They laughed, but wrote it down as if it were scripture.

By noon, the stall was nearly overwhelmed. Nobles were sending servants to hold their places. Adventurers were leaning on the counter, telling exaggerated stories about having once seen Inigo cut down a drake or Lyra shoot a goblin at a hundred paces. Lyra ignored most of it, but once, when a knight loudly insisted he could split an arrow the same way she did, she leaned across the counter and said, "Show me." He declined.

The fryer never rested. Basket after basket came up golden and crisp, the oil singing with each drop. The smell carried across the square, so thick it clung to clothes and hair.

Thorne himself passed by once, glancing at the line, then at the chalkboard. He didn’t stop—just shook his head with the faintest smile, as though he had known this was inevitable.

"Next!" Riko shouted, voice hoarse but triumphant.

The afternoon rush was worse than battle. They ran out of buns, then salt, then—horror of horrors—oil. Maddy sprinted back from the market with two more tins, panting as she dropped them by the fryer. "You’re draining the city dry!" she gasped, half laughing.

But still they came. Guards off-shift. Apprentices skipping lectures. Nobles lowering themselves onto benches and eating burgers with both hands because forks simply didn’t work.

Lyra caught Inigo’s eye once in the chaos and grinned despite herself. "You’ve created a monster," she said.

"Monsters feed people," he answered, flipping another patty.

By dusk, their supplies were gone. Not just low—gone. No potatoes, no chicken, not even a scrap of lettuce. Riko slumped on a stool, face streaked with flour and grease, muttering, "Legends shouldn’t have to wash dishes."

"You’re not a legend," Lyra told him, dropping a cloth in his lap. "You’re staff."

He groaned but started scrubbing anyway.

Inigo leaned against the fryer, apron stained, hands aching. His ears still rang from the noise of the crowd. Yet beneath the exhaustion was something else—a steady hum in his chest, like the memory of battle but without blood.

The plaza outside still buzzed even after the stall closed. People lingered, retelling the taste of fried chicken as if it were a bard’s tale, debating whether the crunch or the seasoning was its true magic.

Back at the table that night, Lyra collapsed into her chair with a sigh. "We’re feeding the city, Inigo. Not just a few strays. The whole damned city."

He poured her tea, then set the last chicken thigh—kept aside on purpose—between them. "Then we’d better keep up."

She looked at the golden crust, then at him, then laughed softly. "Platinums selling chicken. What would the council think?"

He raised his cup in mock salute. "That we’re doing more good here than half their missions."

She tore off a piece of chicken and bit into it, grease shining on her lips. Her eyes closed briefly, savoring. "It’s dangerous," she murmured.

"The chicken?"

"The fame."

Inigo nodded slowly. "Dangerous, yes. But so is everything worth doing."

They finished the chicken in companionable silence. Outside, Elandra still hummed with the memory of the day—a city that had discovered new heroes not on the battlefield, but at a food stall with grease-stained counters and the smell of fried chicken lingering in the air.

And tomorrow, the line would be longer still.