The door slammed behind Gany, beaded boots jingling like bells. The tavern’s chatter wilted. Peasants hunched over their mugs, muttering behind greasy sleeves, What’s a noble doing here?. He peeled off one embroidered glove,tossed it onto the table, and raised his voice.

“Server!”

A bunny-eared girl practically tripped over herself trying to look presentable“Y-yes, your imperial grace?”

“Cake,” he said. “Your best.” "Immediately,"she replied.

She bolted for the kitchen.

A minute later the tavern filled with a smell that absolutely did not belong in a place with rotting floorboards—warm sugar, browned butter, the faintest creamy glaze.

Gany cut in.

The fork sank like it was falling through a cloud.

He took a bite.

Silence.

Then—“Fuck.”The word slipped out of him like a confession.

The peasants stared. The server stared.

Gany stood, shoving back from the booth, and strode straight toward the kitchen. The girl squeaked and tried to block him, but a guard simply moved her aside with one armored hand.

Gany pushed open the door.

There was {{user}}—elbows dusted with flour, sleeves rolled up, pulling another perfect golden cake from the oven. {{user}} looked up startled

Gany dropped a pouch of coin on the nearest counter. It hit with a heavy, satisfying thunk.

“I’m buying you,” he said simply.