The Guild courtyard had been transformed.

What was normally a formal, austere space—all marble tiles and pristine stonework—now looked like the street market had picked itself up and moved wholesale into the upper district. Forty carts lined the perimeter and filled the central area, each one a splash of color and life against the Guild's elegant backdrop.

The egg bread vendor's cart with its hand-stamped boxes. The dumpling station with steamers sending fragrant clouds into the air. A skewer cart with a small grill producing perfect char marks. The molten cheese pancake stand—the one where Marron had achieved a 47cm cheese pull—was already drawing a crowd of curious onlookers.

And in the corner, distinctive with its white paint and gold accents, Millie's moon cake cart glowed softly in the afternoon sun, paper lanterns swaying gently in the breeze.

"This is incredible," Kira said, appearing at Marron's side. The young chef had thrown herself into the partnership program with enthusiasm, and now she was helping coordinate the showcase. "I've never seen the Guild courtyard look so... alive."

"It's not what they're used to," Marron agreed, watching several Guild officials hovering near the entrance with expressions somewhere between curiosity and concern. "But that's kind of the point."

The showcase had officially started twenty minutes ago, and the crowd was still growing. Citizens filed in steadily, some clearly regulars of the street market coming to support their favorite vendors, others just curious about the free tastings and the chance to explore food they'd never tried before.

Marron had worried about turnout. She needn't have.

"We're at capacity," Mokko rumbled from his position near the main entrance. He'd appointed himself unofficial security, watching the crowd with sharp eyes. "They're having to manage the line outside."

"That's good, right?" Marron felt a flutter of hope. "Shows people care?"

"Shows people are hungry," Mokko corrected. "Whether they care about the politics or just want free food remains to be seen."

Ever the optimist, her bearkin companion.

Lucy burbled from her jar, which Marron had tucked into a carrying sling so her hands would be free. The slime formed an excited star shape—she loved crowds and attention, always had.

"Come on," Millie said, gesturing for Marron to follow. "We need to make our rounds. Talk to people. This isn't just about feeding them—it's about showing them what's at stake."

Right. The showcase had a purpose beyond just being a pleasant afternoon event. They needed to demonstrate the quality of street vendor food, yes, but also build emotional connection. Make the citizens of Lumeria care about these vendors as people, not just sources of convenient meals.

Marron followed Millie into the crowd, trying to project confidence she didn't entirely feel.

Their first stop was the egg bread cart, where a line had already formed. The vendor—an older human man named Marcus—was working with practiced efficiency, stamping each box with his distinctive seal before handing over the warm bread.

"Marcus," Millie greeted him warmly. "How's it going?"

"Busy. Good busy." Marcus's weathered face creased into a smile. "I've had five people ask where my regular location is. Three more asked if I do catering." He lowered his voice. "And two asked about my partnership status. Word's getting around about the program."

"That's exactly what we hoped for," Marron said. She watched Marcus stamp another box—the seal was hand-carved wood, depicting a wheat stalk and the initials ML. "How long have you been running this cart?"

"Fifteen years this summer." Marcus handed bread to a young couple, accepted their thanks with a nod. "My wife used to run it with me. She passed three years ago, but I kept it going. She'd have wanted that."

Marron felt her throat tighten. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. She loved this work. Loved feeding people." Marcus looked around the showcase, at the other vendors, at the crowds of citizens tasting and talking and enjoying themselves. "She'd have been so angry about that decree. Grateful for what you're doing to fight it."

"We're not done fighting yet," Marron said. "Eight days left."

"I know. But you're giving us hope. That's worth something." Marcus handed her a box of bread, stamped with extra care. "Here. On the house."

Marron accepted it, the warmth seeping through the cardboard. Inside, the bread was golden-brown, perfectly baked, still steaming slightly. She broke off a piece and tasted—simple, honest, delicious. The kind of food that didn't need fancy presentation because the quality spoke for itself.

This is what we're fighting for, she thought. Not just the bread. The fifteen years of care that went into learning to make it this well.

They moved through the showcase systematically, stopping at each cart to check in with vendors and engage with customers. Marron found herself falling into a rhythm—tasting food, asking questions, listening to stories.

The dumpling makers—three mimics who'd learned the recipe from a grandmother figure in their community—nervously explained their technique to a group of fascinated onlookers. Their forms were stable in the sunlight, barely flickering, and Marron noticed several people who seemed surprised to realize they were mimics at all.

"I didn't know mimics could cook," one woman said, not unkindly. Just curious.

"We can do anything humans can," one of the dumpling makers replied, a little defensively. "We just need the chance to prove it."

The woman nodded thoughtfully and bought a full order of dumplings.

Small victories, Marron thought. Changing minds one interaction at a time.

At the grilled fish cart, the vendor—the woman who'd argued with the Merchant's Guild official—was holding court with a group of customers, explaining her sourcing process.

"I buy direct from the docks every morning," she said, gesturing at her immaculately clean grill. "I know the fishermen by name. I check every fish myself for freshness. My prep area is sanitized twice daily. The Merchant's Guild wants to claim I'm a health risk?" She laughed, sharp and bitter. "I'm cleaner than half the restaurants in the upper district."

"Then why the decree?" someone in the crowd asked.

"Because we're competition." The vendor's voice was matter-of-fact. "We offer good food at fair prices without the overhead of a fancy dining room. People come to us instead of the restaurants. So the restaurants are trying to eliminate us through regulation."

Murmurs ran through the crowd—some agreeing, some skeptical, everyone at least thinking about it.

Marron saw Millie working another section of the crowd, doing the same thing. Engaging people in conversation. Helping them see the vendors as individuals with stories, not just faceless "street food problems."

This was working. It was actually working.

Marron was helping explain the partnership program to a curious couple when she felt it again—that prickling awareness of being watched.

She turned, scanning the crowd, and spotted him.

The man from earlier. Tall, graying hair, wire-rimmed glasses. He was standing near the molten cheese pancake cart, notebook in hand, writing something while watching the vendor work. His expression was... difficult to read. Not hostile, exactly. But intense. Focused in a way that suggested professional interest rather than casual curiosity.

"Excuse me," Marron said to the couple, and started working her way through the crowd toward him.

He noticed her approach. For a moment, Marron thought he might leave again, disappear into the crowd like before. But instead, he closed his notebook and waited, his posture relaxed but attentive.

"Can I help you?" Marron asked when she was close enough to speak without shouting.

Up close, he was older than she'd initially thought—maybe late forties, with the kind of elegant aging that spoke of good health and better resources. His glasses were good quality, slightly tinted to protect against bright light. His clothing was expensive but understated—tailored jacket, good boots, a scholar's pin on his collar indicating some kind of academic credentials.

"Perhaps," he said. His voice was cultured, accent suggesting education in one of the eastern cities. "I'm Edmund Erwell. I teach history at the Lumeria Academy." He offered his hand, which Marron shook automatically. "And you're Marron Louvel. The organizer of this... impressive event."

"One of the organizers," Marron corrected. "Millie did most of the coordination work."

"But you started the partnership program. Recruited the chefs. Challenged the decree on legal grounds." Edmund's eyes behind the glasses were sharp, assessing. "Quite an undertaking for someone who only earned their Guild certification a few months ago."

Warning bells went off in Marron's head. "You've been researching me."

"I research many things. It's my nature." Edmund gestured at the showcase around them. "Food culture, particularly street vendor traditions, is one of my academic interests. So when I heard about the decree and the subsequent resistance movement, naturally I was curious."

"Curious enough to follow me around taking notes?" Marron tried to keep her tone neutral, but some accusation leaked through.

Edmund's expression didn't change—still polite, still distant. But something flickered behind the glasses. Surprise, maybe. "You noticed. Observant."

"Hard not to when someone keeps showing up everywhere I go."

"Fair point." Edmund opened his notebook again, showing her a page covered in neat handwriting. "I've been documenting the vendors here. Their techniques, their specialties, the quality of their work. It's rather remarkable, actually. Several of these carts are producing food that rivals anything in the restaurant district."

"That's what we've been saying," Marron said. "The decree isn't about quality or hygiene. It's about eliminating competition."

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