Chapter 47: THE HARVEST FESTIVAL

Millow Town’s harvest festival came once a year, and The Retired Demon King catered it — a tradition that had started three years ago when Vael had made the mistake of saying "we could do the roast" within earshot of the town council.

"You said ’we,’" Lyria reminded him, as they loaded the cart at dawn. "That’s a commitment. In every culture."

"I said ’we’ the way generals say ’we’ before a battle. It was rhetorical."

"Tell that to the forty pigs." She nodded at the cart. "Rhetorical pigs."

The festival was — by all accounts — chaos. Stalls, music, dancing, a pie contest (which Vael was judging, under protest), and a fortune-teller’s tent that Lyria had been eyeing since they arrived.

"No," Vael said, before she could speak.

"You don’t know what I was going to say."

"You were going to say ’let’s get our fortunes told.’"

"...That’s oddly specific."

"I’m married to you. It’s pattern recognition." He handed a roast to Pell. "No fortune-teller."

"You’re no fun."

"I’m plenty of fun. I organized the roast rotation."

---

The roast was — objectively — a triumph. Forty pigs, twelve ovens, one retired Demon King conducting the whole thing like a symphony of logistics. Morrigan ran the serving line with military precision ("NEXT! NO CUTTING! THE LINE IS SACRED!"). Toma, promoted to "official taster," took his duties with extreme seriousness.

"How is it?" Vael asked, watching the boy chew.

Toma closed his eyes. Nodded slowly. "Better than number five."

"Better than—" Vael stared. "It’s the *same* recipe."

"It’s the *festival*," Toma said, like it was obvious. "Everything tastes better at festivals. That’s —" he gestured vaguely, "— science."

Seraphina, documenting the festival for the town archive, wrote: *Festival roast: superior to number five. Cause: unknown. Toma’s hypothesis ("science") under review.*

Halric found Vael by the ovens, ale in hand, watching the crowd.

"Look at them," Halric said. "Three years ago, half these people would’ve run screaming if they’d known who you were."

"Half of them *do* know," Vael said. "The pamphlet."

"And they’re still here. Eating your pig." Halric clapped his shoulder. "That’s not fame, Vael. That’s —" he searched for the word, "— trust. They trust the cook more than they fear the king."

Vael was quiet. Then: "The pig did the real work."

"The pig always does the real work."

---

The pie contest was Vael’s punishment for being good at dessert.

"You’re judging," the town councilor had said, pressing a ribbon into his hands. "You made the honey cake. Number four. Everyone knows."

"I don’t want to judge pies."

"Everyone wants you to judge pies. That’s worse."

Seven entries. Vael approached them the way he’d once approached treaty negotiations: seriously, and with a notebook.

Entry one: adequate. Crust lacked commitment.

Entry two: good filling, soggy bottom. "Structural failure," he noted.

Entry three: excellent. Flaky, golden, the filling — apple and something — balanced. He wrote *excellent* and underlined it.

Entry four was Morrigan’s.

Vael stared at it. It was — geometrically perfect. A lattice top so precise it looked engineered. He cut a slice. Tasted.

"...It’s good," he said quietly.

"IT FOLLOWED THE RECIPE," Morrigan said, standing at attention beside the table. "NO IMPROVISATION. I MEASURED EVERYTHING. TWICE."

"It’s —" Vael took another bite. "It’s genuinely good."

Morrigan’s chest swelled. "THE GENERAL CAN BAKE."

"The general can *follow instructions*," Vael corrected. "Which, in baking, is the same thing." He wrote *excellent* next to entry four and looked up. "It’s a tie. Three and four."

"A TIE?" The councilor paled. "There’s never been a tie."

"There’s a tie now." Vael stood. "Split the ribbon. Or —" he glanced at Morrigan, who was trying not to smile and failing, "— share it. The lattice was engineering. The apple was art. Both deserve recognition."

The crowd applauded. Morrigan accepted half the ribbon with the gravity of a medal ceremony. She wore it for the rest of the festival. She was still wearing it at dinner.

"YOU’RE A FAIR JUDGE," she told Vael.

"I’m a *tired* judge."

"FAIR AND TIRED. THE BEST KIND."

---

Lyria got her way, in the end. She always did.

It happened during the pie judging — Vael was mid-bite on entry number seven (adequate; the crust lacked commitment) when Lyria grabbed his wrist and pulled.

"Fortune-teller. Now. You owe me."

"I owe you nothing."

"You owe me for the 89% letter."

"That was *three years* ago."

"Debts don’t expire." She dragged him toward the tent. "Come on. It’s fun."

The fortune-teller’s tent smelled of incense and lamp oil. The fortune-teller herself was an old woman with cloudy eyes and a deck of cards worn soft with handling.

"Sit," she said, without looking up. "Both of you."

Vael sat. He crossed his arms. "This is nonsense."

"Most things are," the old woman said agreeably. "Nonsense is just truth wearing a costume." She dealt three cards, face down. Turned the first.

"The tower," she said. "Fallen. Behind you." She glanced at Vael. "You’ve already survived the worst thing. The rest is —" she waved a hand, "— cleanup."

Vael’s arms uncrossed, slightly.

She turned the second card. "The hearth. Warm. *Here*." She tapped it. "You’re building something. Slowly. With your hands." A pause. "You hum while you work."

Lyria choked. "How did you—"

"I’m a fortune-teller, dear. It’s the job." She turned the third card. Studied it for a long moment.

Then she looked up — directly at Vael, with eyes that were suddenly, startlingly clear.

"I see a small hand," she said quietly. "And a sword. And a rock —" she frowned, "— a *beige* rock, that finally stops DINGing." She set down the card. "The cards are oddly specific today."

Silence.

"That’s —" Vael started.

"Fearfully specific," Lyria finished.

The old woman gathered the cards. "I don’t do refunds on specificity." She looked at Vael. "Whatever you’re waiting to open —" she nodded, vaguely, in the direction of the inn, "— open it soon. The cards are impatient. And so —" a small smile, "— is she."

Lyria paid double. "For the specificity."

"Worth every copper," the old woman said.

Outside, in the festival noise, Vael was quiet for a long time.

"Beige rock," he said finally.

"She knew about the DINGing."

"She knew about the *box*." He looked at Lyria. "How did she know about the box?"

"She’s a fortune-teller, Vael. It’s —" Lyria stopped. "Actually, I have no idea how she knew about the box. That’s genuinely unsettling."

"Should we be worried?"

"She said the tower already fell. We’re in the cleanup phase." Lyria took his hand. "I choose to be reassured."

---

They got back to the inn at dusk, flour-dusted and festival-tired, to find Morrigan waiting in the doorway with a letter.

"MY— MANAGER. POST. FROM LADY VALCREST."

Vael took it. Broke the seal. Read.

Then read it again.

"What," Lyria said.

"She’s —" Vael looked up. "They’re coming early."

"How early?"

"Three weeks." He held up the letter. "Aunt Corvina insisted. She — and I quote — ’refuses to let the boy’s sword arm go unassessed any longer.’"

Lyria closed her eyes. "Three weeks."

"Three weeks," Vael confirmed. "Also —" he squinted at the postscript, "— she’s bringing her own swords. ’For comparison.’"

Behind the counter, the crystal DINGed — sharp, alert:

[OBJECTIVE 3: DIPLOMACY — TIMELINE UPDATED.]

[Valcrest return visit: 3 weeks.]

[Additional guest detected: "Aunt Corvina." Threat assessment requested.]

[The module has recalculated its threat assessment.]

[Previous assessment: afraid.]

[Updated assessment: *very* afraid.]

[The module recommends: OPERATION SWORD ARM be reactivated.]

[The module notes: the host has a philosophical objection to dueling.]

[The module notes: philosophy may not survive Aunt Corvina.]

Morrigan, reading over Vael’s shoulder, whispered: "THREE WEEKS."

Vael looked at the letter. He looked upstairs — toward the dresser, toward the box.

Then he looked at Lyria, who was already smiling the smile that meant trouble.

"How bad can it be?" he said.

"Don’t," she said. "But —" she took his hand, "— three weeks. That’s —" she counted, "— that’s enough time. For —" she glanced upstairs.

"For what?"

"For whatever you’re going to do about the box." She squeezed his hand. "The fortune-teller said soon. The cards are impatient."

"And you?"

"I’m —" She smiled. "I’m ready when you’re ready. I’ve been ready." A beat. "Don’t make me wait too long, F-minus. Even I have limits."

He looked at her — really looked — and felt the word rising in his chest. Not "soon." Not "pending."

Something else. Something closer.

"Lyria," he said —

— and the crystal DINGed, loud and triumphant, like it knew exactly what he was about to say and wanted to timestamp it:

[The module is logging this moment.]

[The module does not know what the moment is.]

[But it is *a* moment. The module can tell.]

"Not yet," Vael told the crystal. "Three weeks."

[Understood. Three weeks. The module can wait three weeks.]

[The module notes: it has never been this invested in anything.]

[The module is not ashamed.]

Upstairs, the box sat on the dresser. Unopened. Patient.

Three weeks.

Vael was done postponing. He just had to figure out *how*.