The pizzeria got busy.
Not a trickle anymore. A flood. Customers lined up before I opened. The tables stayed full through the afternoon. I was running out of dough by mid-afternoon and had to make a second batch.
I made it official. The mushroom-herb pizza got its system recipe — pushed through after the guild registration — and I added a new one: a bacon pizza I figured out myself with actual fucking bacon from the butcher three streets over. His name was Hobb. He had one eye and a lot of opinions about pork fat.
"If you're gonna render it, render it slow," he said. "Fast heat ruins the integrity. You want the fat to weep out gently, not scream out in a panic."
Noted, Hobb. Noted. I respected a man who cared that much about animal fat. The bacon he gave me was thick-cut, streaked with pink and white in perfect proportion. I diced it, rendered it slow just like he said, and let the pieces crisp in their own oil. The smell alone made me want to eat it all before it hit a pizza.
The system approved.
**[NEW RECIPE LEARNED: HERBED MUSHROOM MEDLEY]**
**[NEW RECIPE LEARNED: SMOKED PORK BELLY CLASSIC]**
**[INGREDIENT QUALITY: STANDARD]**
Standard. Workable. Not great.
I'd figure out how to upgrade that later. The system store had higher-tier ingredients locked behind cooking trials I hadn't attempted yet. Mushrooms infused with moonlight. Cheese aged in dimensional pockets. That kind of thing.
---
The grey-cloaked woman was gone.
I looked for her. Couldn't help it. Her booth sat empty every morning, the seat cold. Part of me expected her to reappear with more cryptic warnings.
She didn't.
Instead, I got the figure across the street.
Every morning, just after I opened the doors, a cloaked shape would position itself at the corner of Moss Lane. Still. Silent. Watching.
"Another spy?" I asked Al.
"Possibly. Or a different faction altogether."
"Great. Collecting them."
The first note was a mystery. The second note arrived on the fourth day.
I found it tucked under a fresh delivery of flour bags. Same handwriting. Same black ink. Short message this time.
*The High Quarter has taken notice.*
That was it. No threat. No demand. Just a statement that made my stomach drop.
The High Quarter. I'd heard the name whispered by customers. The rich part of town. The old families. The kind of people who didn't walk anywhere because walking was for poor people.
---
She came in at midday.
Silver hair, pale skin, ears that tapered to delicate points. An elf. Actual real-life elf, walking into my pizzeria like she owned the place.
The room went quiet.
She was beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful. Sharp. Dangerous. She didn't look at the menu. Didn't need to.
"One pizza," she said. "Your best."
I served her the mushroom-herb. She ate it slowly, deliberately, eyes half-closed. She chewed like she was analysing every component individually.
"You're Edgard Foxton," she said.
I froze.
"Third son of Baron Manford of Bolexe. Disappeared six months ago. Your brother Timothy has been looking for you."
I didn't say anything. My hand drifted toward the rolling pin.
She smiled. A thin, controlled expression. "I'm not here to expose you, Edgard. I'm here to extend an invitation."
"To what?"
"The High Quarter of Dalton." She wiped her fingers on a napkin. "A very exclusive clientele takes interest in individuals with unique skills."
"What skills would those be?"
"Yours." She set down a silver coin. Not a copper. Silver.
And beneath it, a slip of paper with an address.
"Tonight. Sunset."
She stood. Walked out. Left the half-eaten slice behind.
I stared at the silver coin for a long time.
"Master," Al said quietly. "Should I prepare the carriage?"
"I don't have a carriage."
"Should I acquire one?"
"Al. We're a pizzeria. We have flour, cheese and a wooden spoon."
Al sighed.
I picked up the coin. It was heavier than it looked.
---
The rest of the day was a blur. Customers came and went. I made pizza on autopilot. Dough, sauce, cheese, oven, repeat. My hands worked. My brain spun.
The cloaked figure across the street stayed until late afternoon, then left without fanfare.
I thought about the silver-haired elf. About the address. About what kind of people lived in the High Quarter of a city that couldn't even tell time. About what they wanted from a pizza cook who'd been in town less than a month.
I thought about Velysara, whoever that was.
Al had heard the name through the servant network. The network I didn't know he had. "Old money," he said. "Very old. And very powerful."
"How powerful?"
"The kind of powerful that doesn't need to explain itself." Al paused. "The kind that could make this building disappear and nobody would ask questions."
"Thanks. That's reassuring."
"How did you hear about Velysara anyway?" I asked.
"The servant network I mentioned. It's loose, informal — former household staff who stay in touch across the city. They hear things. Whispers. A woman matching the elf's description has been seen around the High Quarter regularly for decades without ageing."
"Decades?"
"At least two. Maybe more. The descriptions don't change."
I let that sink in. An elven woman who didn't age, working for something older than the city itself.
I tucked the address into my pocket.
"Al. If I'm not back by midnight, come find me."
"Where would I start looking?"
"I don't know. Burn the place down. Make a statement."
Al's expression didn't change. "Understood, Master."
I grabbed my mask — the face-changing one from Padsdon — and headed for the door.
The sun was setting over Dalton. Orange and red bleeding into the rooftops.
Time to go see what the High Quarter wanted.