That evening, the street market celebrated.
Word had spread quickly—the partnerships were approved, the vendors were safe, the decree had been survived. It wasn't a complete victory, but it was enough.
Someone organized an impromptu feast—multiple vendors contributing dishes, long tables set up in the market square, the whole community gathering to mark the moment.
Marron arrived to find the celebration already in full swing. Music, laughter, the smell of dozens of different foods mingling in the warm evening air. Vendors she'd helped, chefs she'd recruited, citizens who'd supported the resistance—all gathered together.
"The soup lady's here!" someone shouted, and suddenly Marron was being pulled into the crowd, congratulated, thanked, celebrated in ways that made her face burn with embarrassment.
"I didn't do it alone—" she tried to say, but no one was listening.
