Chapter 532: Festival Ashes, Strategic Fires
"Long live the pervert lord!" they shrieked, scattering a flock of pigeons.
Lyan pinched the bridge of his nose. "Josephine’s influence," he muttered, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a reluctant grin.
(Perhaps we should commission kinder titles,) Cynthia suggested, all maternal concern.
Lilith hummed. (No, no—pervert lord has a certain candor. Accurate branding.)
Arturia sighed. (Heralds will have headaches rewriting the ballads.)
He stepped aside as three recruits jogged by in half-armor, each trading mock blows with a tribesman wielding an antler club padded in straw. Friendly rivalries crackled in the training yard beyond: Astellian sword forms met mountain grappling, laughter punctuating every failed flourish. One tribeswoman flipped a broad-shouldered knight flat on his back; the yard erupted in cheers, equal parts admiration and teasing.
Past the drills, the main market spilled into two branching streets, stalls jam-packed so tightly the canvas roofs looked like overlapping sails. Fresh cabbages the size of helmets, strings of sun-dried peppers, jars of cloud-berry jam, bolts of violet silk that shimmered like oil on water—every colour clamoured for attention. Vendors hailed him with half bows, some sincere, some theatrical.
A plume of steam wafted from the baker’s booth. The young baker—flour dusting his eyebrows like early snow—beamed at Lyan and lifted a loaf high for inspection. The bread was unmistakably sculpted into a caricature of Lyan’s own face: sharp brow, wind-tousled hair, a heroic jaw somehow inflated like a balloon. Even the tiny bread-wolf on the shoulder sported a smug grin.
"I... see you’ve spared no expense," Lyan managed, eyeing the doughy doppelgänger.
"Made from finest Grafen wheat, sir!" The baker’s voice cracked with pride—and nerves. "Crisp crust, soft crumb, a dash of honey for, uh... sweetness?"
"Please tell me you didn’t use the bathing sketch from last week as reference."