CHAPTER 187: PROMOTION

Riko hummed while chalking the sign. His letters were more legible now—practice and pride had shaped them into something approaching neatness. He still insisted on slipping in a flourish somewhere, today curling the "R" in "FRIES" into a spiral.

The morning crowd was lighter than yesterday, which meant apprentices with pockets still jangling from guild stipends and farmers who came in from the outskirts early. The line moved, burgers wrapped, fries salted, drinks poured. The rhythm was soothing, like the shop itself was breathing again.

It was nearly mid-day when the shadow fell across the counter.

"Inigo. Lyra."

The voice was low, resonant, and made the chatter behind it stutter into silence. Thorne never needed to raise his voice; it carried weight like iron in a scabbard. He stood there in plain clothes again—worn shirt, rolled sleeves, nothing to draw attention except the fact that every man and woman in earshot unconsciously shifted to give him room.

"Thorne," Inigo said, flipping the last patty with a steady hand. He did not salute. He never had. "Hungry?"

The guild officer’s eyes softened, just a fraction. "Always. But that’s not why I’m here."

Lyra slid down from the counter, eyes narrowing. "Then it’s another job."

"No." Thorne shook his head. "Not a job. A reckoning."

That earned him a few stares from the waiting line, but when he reached into his coat and produced a narrow black folder, even the curious learned to look away. Black folders from the Adventurer’s Guild never carried bad news—not to the recipient.

Thorne laid it flat on the counter between the grease stains and flour dust. "You two have been busy."

"Work keeps us out of trouble," Inigo said mildly.

Thorne ignored him. "Cindralock. Before that, the eastern ridge. The flame dragon. The spider cave. I could go on." He snapped the folder open. Inside, neat columns of script filled a ledger page, each stamped with a guild seal. Too many for one page. Too many for two.

Lyra leaned in, whistled softly. "You’ve been keeping score."

"That’s my job." Thorne tapped the bottom of the ledger where a new seal waited—larger, burnished, etched with a sigil that gleamed like molten silver. "And when someone crosses this many tallies in this little time, the guild takes notice. Officially."

Riko, wiping a tray, whispered under his breath, "Is that...?"

"It is," Thorne said. He looked from Inigo to Lyra. "By authority of the council, the two of you are raised to Platinum rank."

The words landed like a dropped anvil. Conversations in the line died entirely. Even the fryer’s hiss seemed to hush, as if heat itself respected the announcement.

Platinum. The highest tier. Fewer than fifty held it in all of Elandra, maybe fewer in the continent.

Lyra blinked, lips parting as if she’d laugh, then didn’t. "You’re serious."

"I don’t do humor," Thorne said dryly.

Inigo wiped his hands on a rag and studied the seal without touching it. "What does Platinum buy us, other than another target on our backs?"

"Authority," Thorne said. "Freedom to pick or refuse jobs at will. Access to sealed contracts. The right to recruit. The right to walk past every door in this city without explanation. And—" he let the pause stretch "—recognition. Which means every guild hall between here and the sea will know your names before week’s end."

The silence behind them broke into a low, astonished murmur. Apprentices elbowed each other. A guard in line muttered a curse of respect. Riko looked like he might explode from the effort of not shouting.

Lyra crossed her arms, staring at the seal as if it might sprout fangs. "Platinum," she repeated slowly. "We didn’t ask for this."

"Which is exactly why you earned it," Thorne replied.

Inigo finally touched the folder, sliding it closer. His expression was unreadable—half pride, half something harder. "And what strings come with it?"

"Only the ones you tie yourself," Thorne said. "The guild won’t command you anymore. They’ll request. They’ll offer. But you’re free men and women at this tier. You choose your battles."

Riko couldn’t hold it in. "You mean—" He squeaked, cleared his throat. "You mean they’re legends now."

Lyra shot him a look sharp enough to cut bread. "We’re cooks who moonlight badly."

Thorne almost smiled. Almost. "Cooks, archers, engineers, killers, couriers. Call it what you want. The council calls it Platinum."

Inigo closed the folder with a decisive snap. "Then we accept."

The murmur behind them swelled into applause—hesitant at first, then warm, then rolling like a tide against the counter. Someone banged a cup against the bench. A farmer shouted, "Burgers on the Platinums!" and laughter broke the tension like a drawn bowstring finally released.

Lyra exhaled slowly. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath.

Thorne leaned close, voice low enough for only them to hear. "This city is shifting. Your names will be called more often now—sometimes in thanks, sometimes in anger. Be ready."

"When are we not?" Lyra asked.

Thorne straightened, gave them a curt nod, and stepped back into the crowd. The line folded around him, then swallowed him entirely, leaving only the hush he always carried in his wake.

Inigo stared at the counter for a long moment. Then he turned back to the grill, set another patty down, and let the hiss of grease reclaim the air. "Order up," he said, voice steady.

Lyra shook her head in disbelief but smiled despite herself. "Only you could treat Platinum like it was another bag of potatoes."

"Potatoes keep," Inigo said. "Titles don’t."

They worked the rest of the day with the news humming under the surface like a second heartbeat. Customers treated them differently now—more cautious, more reverent, like stepping into the stall meant brushing shoulders with myth. Even the baker who’d glared yesterday bought a burger, muttering that competition made a man honest.

By the time lanterns bloomed across the plaza, they’d sold out again. Riko practically danced on his stool, retelling the announcement to anyone who would listen, embellishing details with the zeal of a bard. Lyra didn’t stop him. Inigo didn’t correct him.

When the shutters closed and the fryer was scrubbed, the two of them walked home in silence. Not heavy, not light—just full.

Platinum.

At their table, Inigo poured tea. Lyra stared at the seal resting on the counter between them.

"Do you feel different?" she asked.

Inigo considered. "No. Do you?"

She tilted her head, then shook it. "Still tired. Still hungry."

"Then nothing’s changed."

She smiled faintly, reached for the last bun, and split it in half. "Except now we’re tired, hungry Platinums."

Inigo raised his cup in a quiet toast. "To tired, hungry Platinums."

They clinked porcelain, and for one rare evening, that was enough.