Definitely a Lunch Date

We ate at one of the busier food stalls in the Saint Giselle market, tucked beneath a rust-streaked awning just off one of the main through-paths. The scent of sizzling meat and singed spices hung in the air like perfume, and behind the counter, the vendor—a stocky man with a thick apron and a mane of silver hair—was fanning the flames under his clay-lined grill.

“These goats, I tell ya,” he said as he basted a skewer, “you give ’em rusted nails or mushroom stalks, they’ll eat ’em the same. Stomachs like compact alchemy kilns. That’s why Saint Fleur raises ’em like prized hounds.”

“Saint Fleur,” I mumbled. “That’s the upper middle layer.”

He laughed, flipping a pepper-studded pork skewer. “Pigs, too. Won’t complain. Give ’em trash and sludge, they’ll turn it into fat.”

I nodded along, taking a bite from my own skewer and letting the spice hit.

“Didn’t think anything fed on sludge could taste this good,” I said between mouthfuls. “I get why you’ve got a line.”

The vendor grinned. “Praise the pigs, not me.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Ravela looking at me. Her eyes were narrow, not quite a glare, not quite curiosity. Irritated, maybe. She never liked being confused. And to be honest, how pigs fed sludge could be this good was very confusing.

“You like yours?” I asked.

She looked down at her skewer like it had just offended her. “Obviously.”

I smiled. The way she was chewing, you’d think she had a vendetta against the morsel.

When the vendor turned away to take another customer’s order, Rav lowered her voice.

“You seriously thinking of sneaking into the upper layers?”

I shrugged, brushing grilled onion off my lap. “It’s a fun idea. Not sure I can do it just yet.”

“You don’t have business up there,” she said flatly.

“True,” I said. “But then, business can be made.”

“Don’t you have work to do? Don’t waste time scheming.”

“I’ve got a system. All my upcoming orders are already done,” I said, grateful for Timaeus and the ease of his version of modern alchemy.

She didn’t look at me. Just stared at her food like it held answers.

“Is it because of Elsbeth?” she asked suddenly.

I blinked. “Huh?”

“You were different after seeing her that day. You haven’t been the same since.”

I leaned back, letting the heat from the grill soak into my coat. I didn’t want to laugh—not because it wasn’t funny, but because Ravela looked genuinely uncertain.

“No,” I said softly. “It’s not because of Elsbeth.”

Her brow knitted. “Then what?”

“It’s because of her. And Meredi. And you.”

She paused, mid-chew. “What the heck does that mean?”

I smiled and tossed the stick of my finished skewer into the nearby bin. “I’m a big fan. Of the three of you. That’s all.”

There was a long, heavy silence between us—long enough that I could hear the sizzle of the next round of skewers behind us. Ravela kept her eyes on her food, but I could tell her grip on the stick had tightened.

“I want to reach you three,” I said. “That’s all. I’m just trying to step up.”

“You’ve got ambitions, apparently,” Ravela muttered.

“I do… But it’s enough that you’re still sitting next to me. I could die happy with just this.”

She clicked her tongue. “No one wants you dying, you idiot.”

I stood up, dusting my hands. “I’m heading back to Meredi’s. I got her something.”

Ravela glanced at what I was holding. “A lunchbox? When did you get that?”

“While you were staring at your skewer.” I nodded and grinned.. “I want to see what kind of face she’d make when she opens it.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no malice in it.

“You’re exhausting.”

“Thanks for letting me exhaust you,” I replied.

She sighed. “Shut up.”

She stood up a second later, and we walked together toward the next street, weaving through the crowd, the scent of grilled pork and charcoal trailing behind us.