The opening ceremony unfolded in lively splendor, the narrow street abuzz with chatter and laughter. Neighbors and passersby gathered in curious delight, eager to witness the birth of this new establishment.
Yvaine moved tirelessly among them, her presence as bright and welcoming as spring sunlight. She greeted each guest with warmth, poured tea with graceful hands, and spoke with such sweetness that even the most exacting elderly matrons found themselves utterly charmed, praising her without reserve.
Meanwhile, Lance lent his strength where it was needed—hauling furnishings, mounting plaques, and seeing to every practical matter. Before long, his brow was slick with sweat from his labors.
From time to time, Yvaine would approach him with a cup in her hands. "Sir Illian, take a moment—have some water."
"No need. I am not thirsty."
"But your face is covered in sweat—here, a cloth to wipe it off."
