The orphanage courtyard buzzed with a different energy the morning after the tournament's tumultuous end.
Relief hung heavy, mixed with the lingering scent of fireberries from the dwindling festival supplies and the underlying exhaustion from weeks of relentless effort.
Sunlight streamed through the kitchen windows where Farrah was already kneading dough, the rhythmic thump a comforting counterpoint to the chatter drifting from the common room.
Eamond found Lysandra at the large, scarred wooden table they used for planning, meticulously cross-referencing their remaining inventory lists with a hastily sketched map of the festival's Commercial Quarter.
The heavy pouch of Voss gold sat prominently beside her ledger.
"Morning, Secretary Lysandra," Eamond announced, leaning against the doorframe with a tired but genuine smile.
Lysandra didn't look up immediately, her brow furrowed in concentration as she tapped a quill against a list of jam jars.
