The arena roared.
Not just with the clash of steel and thud of bodies from the first bouts of the top 16 echoing within, but with the hungry, thirsty chaos swirling around its entrance. Eamond's arena stand was an island of frantic, delicious efficiency in the sea of jostling spectators.
Sunlight glinted off the polished drink barrels. Steam hissed from the compact enchanted oven as Jake slid out another tray of perfectly warmed "Count's Revenge" tarts – peach and redberry bubbling under a golden crust.
Mia, a whirlwind in a flour-dusted apron, deftly filled cups: the vibrant pink "Fairy Tales" for a giggling group of girls, the cool, minty "Elementary, My Dear" for a sweating guardsman.
Link handled the complex "All for One and One for All" four-fruit blends with surprising grace, while Vale, ever watchful, managed coin and crowd control, his eyes scanning for pickpockets or overly enthusiastic drunks.
