Pastries and Pettiness

The Ember Moon Festival lit the heart of Atheria Port like a dream sprung to life. Lanterns—paper and silk, strung high above the plaza—swayed gently with the sea breeze, painting the cobbled streets in hues of gold, crimson, and amber. Music drifted through the air, carried on lilting flutes and cheerful lutes, while the scent of baked sugar and spiced fruit wafted through every corner. The crowd pulsed like a living tide, laughter and chatter echoing beneath the celebratory bells.

Ellan pushed through the bustling plaza, his steps steady but slow. The fever in his limbs dulled his senses, and yet the vivid beauty of the scene seeped through the cracks of his exhaustion. Lanterns reflected in the sheen of sweat on his forehead. Children darted between dancers with ribbons in hand. Above, the sun hung low behind the festival lights, casting a twilight glow that gave the plaza a near-mythic shimmer.

He wiped his brow, exhaling. “So noisy,” he muttered, eyes flicking around for the stalls. “Where are the damn pies…”

One by one, he approached the bakers' stalls lining the plaza. Each table was overflowing with colorful sweets and seasonal treats—berry clusters dipped in caramel, candied nuts, smoked apple rolls—but not the one he sought.

“Ember Moon Pie?” he asked at the first.

“Sold out, sorry.”

He moved to the next.

“We ran out an hour ago. They go fast during the festival.”

Another. “None left, lad. Try the far stalls—maybe they’re still baking.”

On it went, stall after stall, until frustration nipped at his heels. Finally, Ellan drifted toward the edge of the market where a quiet stall, nestled near a rose-tiled fountain, still drew a line. The air was thicker here with the scent of sweetened pastry and warm spice. He paused, fingers tightening in the fabric of his coat.

He stepped forward, eyes half-lidded from fatigue. “Ember Moon Pies,” he said simply, voice hoarse with strain.

The older man behind the stall—his cheeks red from oven heat, eyes kind beneath thick brows—offered a small, sympathetic smile. “They’re still available, young man. But…”

“But?” Ellan ’s eyes narrowed.

“You’ll need to wait a bit,” the baker said, leaning forward with a beckoning motion. “Come, look.”

Ellan followed the gesture, and the old man pointed toward a group standing several stalls away. A noblewoman with silver-threaded silk sleeves, a sharp gaze, and an aura that drew a respectful distance from the crowd stood amidst a formation of guards and a single well-dressed maid.

“You see her?” the baker whispered. “She came earlier, dropped a gold coin, and said she wants pies sent over. Didn’t say how many. Just that someone from her party would return to collect them.”

Ellan blinked. “That’s it?”

“She paid well. So I’ve got to hold them till they come for them,” the man explained with a shrug. “If there’s some left after, they’re yours.”

The words soured Ellan ’s mood. He exhaled sharply and muttered under his breath, “Tsk. Annoying noble brats. Can’t act normal even when buying pastries.”

The old man looked scandalized. “Young man—!”

But Ellan was already turning, slowly walking toward the noble’s group. The baker leaned over the counter, calling after him, “Wait! Don’t be impulsive—!”

Too late.

At that moment, a guard stepped toward the stall from opposite direction from the group.

“Old man. Pack ten pies,” the guard said brusquely.

The baker’s shoulders relaxed. “Ah, perfect timing. You’ve come just in time.” He waved a hand urgently. “Young man! You can get your pies now!”

Ellan turned halfway, catching the baker’s call—but the guard followed his gaze and locked eyes with Ellan .

Recognition bloomed—and with it, disgust.

‘That bastard again?’

The guard’s jaw clenched. “Who’s he?” he asked sharply, pointing.

The baker hesitated, then said carefully, “He just wanted a few pies. Poor lad looks half-dead.”

The soldier scowled. His eyes darted toward the noblewoman—Lady Aminthea—still browsing the stalls a few paces away.

‘What’s he doing now, getting close to Lady Aminthea again? Is he stalking young lady? Sick freak…’

Anger simmered behind his eyes. He wanted to strike the boy down—but not here. Not in front of her. His gaze dropped to the straw basket the baker was filling with pies.

A spiteful thought formed

“How many pies do you have?” he asked suddenly.

The old man blinked. “Thirteen left.”

The guard grinned. “Then I’ll take them all. That makes twenty-three total. I misspoke earlier.”

“But… you asked for ten,” the baker said, brows furrowing.

“I meant twenty-three. Lady Aminthea wanted that many.” His voice grew louder, making sure Ellan could hear. “Add whatever cost remains. I’ll pay.”

Ellan stepped forward just as the final ember moon pie was tucked into the straw basket.

“How many left?” he asked, voice rough with fatigue but steady.

The old vendor hesitated, glancing down at the empty tray. “I’m… sorry, lad. That was the last of them.”

Ellan nodded once. His lips parted as if to sigh, but no sound came—just a long, measured breath. He turned his gaze to the guard, who stood beside the stall with arms crossed and smugness spread across his face like a polished badge.

“Just one pie,” Ellan said lightly, like he was discussing the weather. “You’re carrying enough to supply a wedding feast. Surely your lady’s generosity could stretch to letting one sick man have something that isn’t salted fish and dry biscuits.”

The guard’s eyes narrowed. “Why should I? Some stray off the docks doesn’t get to demand favors.”

Ellan tilted his head slightly. “I don’t know. Basic decency? Or is it in scarcity like the pies?”

A few nearby vendors snorted, trying and failing to hide their amusement.

The guard’s mouth tightened. “Watch your tongue. These pies aren’t yours.”

“No,” Ellan agreed, eyes glinting. “But I’m not so highborn I can’t imagine someone else might like a single bite.”

That did it. The guard stepped forward, posture stiffening.

“You dare mock Lady Aminthea?”

“I didn’t mention any names,” Ellan replied with a faint smile. “But if the title fits like a too-tight corset…”

The flush rose in the guard’s cheeks like a storm brewing.

“You think you’re clever?”

Ellan ’s smile deepened, still not reaching his eyes. “No. I know I’m clever. But I appreciate the confirmation.”

That was the last straw.

The guard snapped. With a shove of his shoulder, he struck Ellen square in the chest, knocking the sick young man.

Ellan ’s balance broke in an instant—his fevered limbs sluggish, reflexes dulled. His boots skidded on the cobblestones, knees cracking hard against the ground as he hit with a grunt. Pain flared bright and raw through his body, but he didn’t cry out. He just looked up, breath shallow, eyes bright with something that wasn’t fear.

“Careful now, don't drop them” Ellan rasped, voice low but clear. “Wouldn’t want your mistress tasting dirt with her filling.”