It was barely an hour since the duel ended, yet word had already spread across the capital like wildfire.
Inside The Mcronald, the once-rowdy chatter of the lunchtime crowd had turned into a low, reverent buzz. The restaurant no longer felt like a place to just eat—it felt like a battlefield's aftermath. Cernan Vellmont's blood had been cleaned off the cobbles outside, but the mark he left—both metaphorically and literally—lingered in the air.
Inigo wiped down the counter, the smell of seared beef clinging to the air as grease popped on the skillet. Lyra passed him a fresh tray of buns.
"They're still talking about it," she murmured, eyes flicking to a group of students seated by the windows. "Every new batch that walks in has that same look—like they're expecting you to explode into another duel at any second."
Inigo snorted. "If they behave, there won't be a problem."
