The second day at The Emberdrop Pavilion was chaos. Controlled, blistering, mouth-watering chaos.
The line wrapped around the plaza again. And now? It wasn't just eager locals and curious merchants.
Servants had begun to appear.
Not in uniform. Never in uniform. They came dressed in humble robes and worn sandals, quietly stepping into line with their heads lowered. But anyone with eyes could tell—they were trained.
The way they carried themselves, the way their eyes scanned the entrance, the way they whispered orders to each other while pretending to be ordinary citizens.
They weren't here for their masters.
They were here despite them.
Word had spread like wildfire through the noble households of Caerywn. Not officially—never officially—but down the servant halls and kitchen alleys, from stable boy to footman to chambermaid.
The Emberdrop Pavilion was the place. A temple of fire and flavor. A shrine of forbidden taste.
