CHAPTER 194: NETS ABOVE

Morning came with the smell of bread and oil drifting through the shutters. Inigo rose first, as always. The city’s noise had barely begun, only the distant clatter of carts and the cries of gulls along the river. He cracked eggs into a pan, the sizzle filling the room.

Lyra sat at the table, chin on her hand, eyes half-lidded. She hadn’t slept much, though she’d pretended.

"You’re loud," she muttered.

"Breakfast is loud," he answered.

She let the silence stretch before adding, "You didn’t believe him, did you?"

"Vane?" Inigo flipped an egg. "I believed enough."

Her eyes sharpened. "Enough to know he wasn’t bluffing."

He slid the plate in front of her. "Enough to know the guild will wring him until he talks. And when he does, we’ll be the ones they call."

Lyra pushed the egg around with her fork. "And we’ll cut again."

His answer was quiet. "If we must."

By mid-morning, the plaza was already choked. Nobles in fine cloaks, apprentices scribbling as if they were studying more than recipes, merchants with coin purses heavy enough to jingle even when closed.

The chalkboard menu Riko scrawled had no chance to stand still—he wiped and re-wrote as dishes sold out faster than they could fry them.

BURGERS • FRIES • FRIED CHICKEN

(SOLD OUT signs scrawled in frustrated flourishes)

"Slow down!" Riko shouted, though his grin betrayed the thrill.

Lyra worked the counter with soldier’s efficiency, her hands flying through buns and wrappers like arrows loosed from a bow. Yet her eyes flicked now and again toward the crowd—nobles whispering about last night’s tribunal, adventurers craning to glimpse the two Platinums as if watching beasts in a cage.

"They’re not here for the food," she muttered under her breath.

"They’re here for both," Inigo replied, sliding another batch of chicken into the oil. "Never underestimate hunger. Of any kind."

By noon, the line stretched around the fountain twice. Someone had dragged a lute onto a bench and was already singing a crude ballad about "the cook and the archer" who strangled bandits with nets of fire. Lyra grimaced.

"Better than the truth," Inigo said.

"Worse," she countered. "Truth is quieter. Songs spread faster."

A merchant leaned over the counter, breath sweet with wine even at midday. "Platinums," he drawled. "Tell me—what’s it like, breaking a man like Vane? Did he cry? Did he beg?"

Lyra’s eyes narrowed, but her voice was ice. "He laughed."

The merchant blinked, unsettled. She shoved a basket of fries into his hands and moved on.

Later, a student asked in awe, "What’s the secret to fried chicken?"

"Salt," Inigo said, not looking up from the fryer.

"And?"

"More salt."

The boy scribbled it down like gospel.

Between orders, Elise appeared, ledger tucked under her arm. She didn’t order food, only leaned in close. "The tribunal continues. He’s talking, but not cleanly. You’ll want to be ready."

"Ready for what?" Lyra asked.

"For whoever stands above him." Elise’s smirk was brittle. "And they will stand taller."

She vanished before Lyra could press her.

By dusk, the last potatoes were gone, the oil drained, the stall smelling of grease and triumph. Riko collapsed on his stool, face streaked with flour.

"Legends shouldn’t have to wash dishes," he groaned.

"You’re not a legend," Lyra said, tossing him a rag. "You’re staff."

He groaned louder, but scrubbed anyway.

Inigo leaned on the counter, watching the lanterns flare across the plaza. People still lingered, debating whether the crunch or the seasoning was the true magic. Others sang snatches of the new ballad, laughter riding the notes.

Lyra sat opposite him, rubbing at her temple. "It’s dangerous," she murmured.

"The chicken?" he asked dryly.

"The fame."

He didn’t argue.

Night Summons

The knock came later, softer than last night’s, but no less deliberate. Riko stirred, half-asleep, but Lyra was already at the door.

A runner again, eyes wide with nerves. He held no parchment this time, only words. "Guildmaster Thorne requests you—immediately."

Lyra exchanged a look with Inigo. He buckled his belt with the same slow precision as always. "Of course he does."

The guildhall at night was a different beast. Torches burned low, shadows thick along the stone. They were led not to the tribunal chamber but to a smaller room, walls lined with maps and sealed scrolls.

Thorne stood at the table, eyes hollow with lack of sleep. Elise was there too, her ledger closed for once.

"Vane spoke," Thorne said without preamble. "Names. Places. Coin trails." He pushed a slip of parchment across the table.

Lyra scanned it, frown deepening. "These are nobles."

"Not many," Thorne said. "But enough. And all clever enough to hide behind men like Vane."

Inigo leaned on the table, scanning the parchment without touching it. "And what does the guild plan to do?"

"Not storm mansions," Thorne said flatly. "Not yet. But the council will stall. Debate. Pretend to deliberate while caravans keep bleeding." His eyes cut to them, sharp. "You, however, are not bound by council delays."

"You want us to cut again," Lyra said.

Thorne’s silence was answer enough.

Elise spoke softly, almost gently. "You’re Platinums. You choose. But if you walk away, the road bleeds longer. If you act, the city may curse your names—but its traffic moves."

Lyra’s knuckles whitened on the parchment. "And if the ones above Vane are truly hidden?"

"Then drag them into the light," Thorne said.

They left the guildhall past midnight, the city hushed but not asleep. A bard’s voice still drifted from some tavern, singing of nets cut and bandits scattered.

Lyra’s steps were quick, sharp. "He wasn’t lying. There are more."

Inigo’s jaw was set. "There are always more."

She stopped, forcing him to meet her gaze. "And if the guild drags us into another net?"

He held her eyes for a long moment. "Then we cut again."

And with that, they walked home in silence, side by side—the weight of Platinum heavier than steel, but the promise of tomorrow’s bread already pulling them forward.