CHAPTER 189: THE WEIGHT OF FAME

By the time Inigo unlatched the shutters, the plaza looked less like a food stall queue and more like a parade. Nobles under parasols stood beside farmers still dusted from the fields. Adventurers clinked coin purses and told tales loudly enough to make sure everyone heard them. Children darted between boots, playing at being "burger knights" with wooden spoons as swords.

Riko nearly dropped the chalkboard when he saw it. "Gods," he whispered, eyes wide. "We’re a festival."

"Then keep your feet," Inigo told him. He slid the day’s pouch of coins into the drawer, tied his apron, and breathed in the still air before the oil began its symphony. "Festivals end. We’re building something that doesn’t."

Lyra stepped up beside him, hair tied back, sleeves rolled. She scanned the crowd like a commander surveying a battlefield. "They’re here for the food and the Platinums," she said. "Half will stay because of the food, half because of the story. Both are dangerous."

Inigo lit the fryer anyway. "Stories don’t kill you. Hunger does."

The first batch of chicken went in with a hiss. The smell rippled through the line like a banner unfurled, and a cheer rose as though the crowd had just seen a victory charge.

The morning brought more nobles than any day before. Silks and brocade gleamed among the peasants’ wool. A young lord with an emerald pin stepped forward, handed his coin with exaggerated grace, and declared, "I have no interest in guild politics, but I could not ignore word of Platinum fried chicken."

He received his basket with a nod as solemn as a knight receiving a sword. One bite later, all decorum melted, and grease dripped unashamedly down his jeweled cuff. His laughter carried down the line, and servants took notes as though the seasoning itself was a state secret.

"Are we feeding them or arming them?" Lyra muttered under her breath.

"Both," Inigo replied, salting another basket.

By midmorning, groups of academy students crowded the benches, slates in hand. They scribbled not only orders but ratios, oil temperatures, and descriptions of "mouthfeel" that made Inigo snort. One girl raised her hand like she was in class and asked, "Do you add the salt before or after the second fry?"

"After," Inigo said, sliding another tray forward. "Always after."

They nodded furiously, etching the words like commandments. A boy muttered, "This will be on the exam."

Lyra leaned over the counter, amused. "Your burger is about to become theory."

"Then may they pass," Inigo said, flipping patties without missing a beat.

Adventurers and Tales

Adventurers filled the afternoon rush, louder and rougher than any noble but no less eager. They bought food in twos and threes, boasting about how many they could eat. One party of four slammed their tankards down on the counter and demanded, "The Platinum Combo!"

"There’s no such thing," Lyra said flatly.

"There is now!" one declared, grinning wide.

So Inigo improvised: two doubles, a basket of fries, and a full order of fried chicken, served with three sauces. The adventurers devoured it like wolves and then sang its praises in the middle of the plaza until others began ordering "the Platinum Combo" as though it had been on the menu for years.

Riko chalked it onto the board with a flourish, underlining it twice.

Not all the attention was welcome. The baker from across the plaza, who had once glared and later bought fries, now leaned against his stall with narrowed eyes as Mcronald’s line dwarfed his. By noon, he had doubled his own bread prices in a bid to keep up, but it only made his stall emptier. His mutters of "upstarts" carried farther than he realized.

"Think he’ll try something foolish?" Lyra asked, watching him between orders.

"Probably," Inigo said. "But bread alone doesn’t win a city. Salt and grease do."

Still, he noted the tension. Fame was as sharp as a blade—it cut both ways.

By dusk, they had run out again. Not just of chicken, but of fries, buns, even the last shred of lettuce. The stall’s counters were bare, and still the line stretched down the plaza.

Riko stood on the bench, hands raised. "That’s all for today!"

Groans rose from the crowd, then applause, then chants: "Tomorrow! Tomorrow!"

Inigo leaned against the fryer, sweat streaking his temples, body aching in the good way. Lyra slumped onto the counter, grease-smudged and smiling despite herself.

"We can’t keep this up," she said.

"We can," Inigo corrected. "But we’ll need more hands."

Riko, flushed with pride and exhaustion, blurted, "We should hire a bard. Someone to sing the menu!"

Lyra groaned, but Inigo only chuckled. "Not the worst idea."

That night, the stall shutters locked, the three of them sat with tea and the day’s coin. It was heavy enough to make the drawer groan. Fame had turned into fortune overnight.

Lyra eyed it warily. "This much gold makes people stupid."

"Then we’ll spend it wisely," Inigo said. "Supplies first. Upgrades second. And maybe..." He trailed off, thoughtful.

"Maybe what?" she asked.

He sipped his tea, gaze distant. "Maybe more stalls. One day."

Before she could argue, a knock rattled their door.

A guild clerk stood outside, face pale in the lamplight. He bowed quickly. "Forgive the hour, but the council requests your presence tomorrow. A matter of recognition."

Lyra’s expression darkened. "We’ve had enough recognition."

The clerk only bowed again, retreating into the night.

Inigo closed the door softly. "It seems the city isn’t done with us."

The next morning, the plaza would be louder still. Nobles would send more servants. Students would copy more recipes. Adventurers would invent more combos. The council’s eyes would sharpen, weighing whether food could sway a city as much as swords.

And Inigo knew—every tray, every fry, every golden piece of chicken carried more than flavor now. It carried their names.

Lyra leaned against the table, rubbing at her eyes. "We wanted steady work. Now we have an army."

Inigo raised his cup. "Then let’s feed them."

She laughed, low and weary, but lifted her cup to his. The toast rang soft in the lamplight, a promise wrapped in grease and salt.