CHAPTER 185: DINNER

They left the plaza as the lanterns were being lit, golden squares blooming one after another in the windows above the street. The market crowd thinned to families lingering at food stalls, voices soft now, tempered by the promise of rest. For Inigo and Lyra, the day had felt long enough to be two, but the prospect of a meal together drew them forward like a magnet.

"Where?" Lyra asked.

"You’re the one with standards," Inigo said.

She arched a brow. "Says the man who thinks silog counts as diplomacy."

"It worked, didn’t it?"

"It bribed me into not killing you," she said, but the corner of her mouth tugged upward.

They chose a tavern just off the square, one of the older buildings where dark beams crisscrossed the ceiling and the smell of smoke clung comfortably to the plaster. Tables were already filling, but a serving woman recognized Lyra with a flicker of familiarity—hunters and adventurers built reputations—and steered them toward a corner table by the shuttered window.

Wood creaked under Inigo as he sat. He eased the rifle case against the wall before leaning back. Lyra removed her bow, set it carefully beside her, and loosened her shoulders with the sigh of someone unbuckling their guard for a little while.

The serving woman returned with two mugs of cider before they’d even asked. "You’ve the look of people who earned this," she said, and vanished before they could argue.

Inigo raised his mug. "She’s not wrong."

Lyra’s mug touched his with a quiet clink. She drank deep, set it down, and let her eyes wander the room, cataloging faces, exits, angles of sight. Old habits.

Dinner came quick: roasted fowl laid on a board with herbs still steaming, potatoes crisp at the edges, and a small crock of thick sauce that smelled faintly of pepper and vinegar. Inigo carved without ceremony, handing her the first cut. She accepted without protest—hunters understood the ritual of sharing meat.

For a few moments the only sounds were knives against wood and the steady rhythm of chewing. Then Lyra broke it.

"Back there," she said. "With the brigands. You could’ve shot first."

"Could’ve," Inigo agreed. "But the story works better if they walk away."

"And if they hadn’t?"

He shrugged. "Then the story ends the same way, just bloodier. I don’t mind efficient, but... I don’t want to carry more ghosts than I need to."

Lyra chewed thoughtfully, eyes on him over the rim of her plate. "You’re strange, Inigo. Most men here think killing is the only way to prove they’re strong."

He chuckled softly. "Where I come from, the strongest men are the ones who figure out how not to waste bullets."

She smirked at that, though her gaze lingered a second longer, as if she was trying to peel back layers he wasn’t ready to share.

The tavern grew louder as more patrons arrived, the air thick with laughter and the thump of mugs on tables. A minstrel strummed a lute near the hearth, weaving a tune that felt older than the beams above. For the first time in days, Inigo let himself lean back fully, letting the sound soak into him.

"You’re thinking again," Lyra said.

"Dangerous habit, I know."

"What about?"

"About how easy it is to forget the road when you’re sitting here. Good food, warm roof, people singing like the world isn’t about to crack open. Feels like... normal."

Lyra stabbed another piece of potato. "You don’t trust it."

"Should I?"

"No," she said simply, and they both laughed.

The laughter carried them through the meal. When the plates were scraped nearly clean and the cider mugs drained, Inigo reached into his jacket and pulled out a small folded note—the receipt from the Alchemist Guild. He laid it flat on the table between them.

"That’s our proof we did the job. Hazard bonus included. We’ve got coin to spare."

Lyra tapped the paper. "What’s your plan with it?"

He leaned forward, lowering his voice though no one nearby was listening. "I’m thinking we put some of it into the shop again. Mcronald’s. Burgers, fries, cheap enough that anyone can sit down and feel like they’re kings for a meal. We left it shuttered too long."

Her brows lifted. "You really want to try again? After last time?"

"Last time we were running on scraps and borrowed oil. Now we’ve got coin, supply lines, and..." He hesitated, then smiled. "We’ve got regulars waiting. I saw them peeking at the chalkboard this morning. They’ll come back."

Lyra considered, chewing the inside of her cheek. She’d been skeptical before, when he’d first proposed the idea months ago. But tonight, after danger and exhaustion, the thought of anchoring themselves with something steady felt less foolish.

"You’ll cook?" she asked.

"I’ll cook. You’ll guard the door from anyone trying to pay with counterfeit coins or bad attitudes."

"That, I can do."

They both laughed again, softer this time, the kind of laugh that fit well in the warm corners of taverns.

When the serving woman returned with the bill, Inigo paid without blinking, leaving enough extra that her eyebrows climbed. She muttered blessings over them as she left, the kind tavern owners reserve for people who make their nights easier.

The street outside had cooled, the air carrying a crisp bite of early night. Lanterns swung gently in the breeze. Lyra pulled her cloak tighter, but her eyes shone the way they did after a good hunt—alert, but not burdened.

"So," she said, as they walked back toward their quarters. "Tomorrow we clean the grill."

"Tomorrow," Inigo agreed.

"And if the line’s longer than last time?"

He grinned. "Then we’ll hire someone to chop onions while I flip patties."

Lyra shook her head, but there was a trace of amusement she didn’t bother hiding. "You’ll make me fat with all this fried food."

"Not a chance," he said. "You burn more calories pulling that bow than I do running engines. You could eat three burgers and still shoot straighter than anyone in this city."

The road curved toward their small rented quarters. Ahead, a lantern glowed like a lighthouse in miniature. Lyra’s step slowed a little, as if she too was reluctant to let the night end.

"Inigo," she said quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Don’t get used to this. It’s rare."

He nodded, meeting her gaze. "That’s why I want to protect it."

For a moment, the city’s noise fell away, leaving only the sound of their boots on the cobblestones. Then Lyra looked forward again, her shoulders settling into their familiar, confident line.

"Fine," she said. "We open the shop. Tomorrow. And the day after that, if trouble comes, we deal with it. But tonight?" She reached for the door latch as they arrived. "Tonight we sleep."

Inigo followed her inside, the warmth of dinner still lingering in his chest. Trouble would come—of course it would. But for now the world was small, manageable, and kind. And that was enough.