The last day of the Imperial Festival dawned bright and loud, but with a different energy. The frantic, build-up excitement was gone, replaced by a kind of cheerful exhaustion.
Vendors shouted their "Final Day! Everything Must Go!" deals a little hoarsely.
The crowds were still thick, but they moved slower, weighed down by days of food, drink, and maybe one too many novelty dragon-shaped hats. The air smelled less like pure anticipation and more like fried dough, spilled ale, and the faint, dusty scent of things being packed away.
At the St. Marla's stand in the Commercial Quarter, the mood was pure, unadulterated relief mixed with bone-deep tiredness. Lysandra practically glowed as she counted coins, the heavy pouch clinking satisfyingly.
"All tarts sold out by lunch," she announced, a triumphant rasp in her voice. "Drinks gone an hour ago. Even the last of the slightly burnt experimental 'sunrise surprise' Jake made found takers at half-price."
