The worst of the chaos had passed, but the tension clung to the market like dust after a storm.
Uniformed guards had arrived at the market—late, as usual—and started questioning rattled vendors, gesturing to overturned crates, and scrawling notes into worn ledgers. Words overlapped as vendors tried taking turns playing victim or witness, depending on who had the guard's attention, their retellings growing increasingly theatrical.
The fruit vendor had calmed down, no longer shouting, just rubbing his arm while he tried to explain what led to the shouting.
Meanwhile, Wrye returned to his spot at the corner of the market, standing calmly with arms crossed as a senior officer questioned him. He answered in clipped phrases while brushing wood splinters from his coat, looking vaguely uninterested, even yawning in the middle of his explanation.
Auri stayed on the sidelines, resting against a post, his gaze drifting—not toward the wreckage, but toward the spot where the thief had fled.
