The town square buzzed like a stirred hornet's nest. Farmers hauled crates of pumpkins the size of wagon wheels, children darted underfoot with armfuls of sunflowers, and old women argued over whose jam deserved the festival's centerpiece table. The air smelled of cinnamon, sweat, and the metallic tang of anticipation.
The town was bustling with activity—every person, be it elder, adult, or child, worked together in a symphony. After all, it was time for the Harvest. To celebrate the occasion, the townspeople held a harvest festival every year, and this year was no different.
Aria watched from the inn's window, her cheek resting against her palm. "They're like bees," she mused, tracking a man struggling to hang a banner that read "HARVEST'S BOUNTY" upside down. "Chaotic. Fragile. Adorable." The town had never been so active; it was a secluded place. Not many came here—only merchants or adventurers, and even that wasn't a regular occurrence.
Those who lived here were people who cherished peace and silence. For Aria, watching the town buzz like a beehive was hardly a daily experience.
Daren appeared beside her, drying a mug with a threadbare cloth. "You say that like you've never seen the festival before."
She smirked. "Well, it always amazes me how they enjoy such a small thing every year with the same vigor, as if they're doing it for the first time."
"Well, they aren't the ones who live for millennia."
"Hmm," she hummed, lost in long-lost memories.
"We should get to work, dear. There'll be more customers today than usual. We'll need to work extra hard."
With that, they both left to perform their daily duties. Aria went to the kitchen, while Daren arranged the bar—though there was nothing to arrange, he still had to act the part.
---
Daren was busy serving ale to the customers while Aria cooked the ordered dishes. They worked efficiently, their movements precise, postures straight. They labored nonstop, like the seasoned fighters they were.
The inn was filled with people—some eating and drinking, some gossiping, and some who'd come merely to catch a glimpse of their goddess, 'Aria'. Their ends would not be pleasing at all.
A pair of merchants—regulars with dirt under their nails and silver on their tongues—leaned over their stew, gossiping.
"Heard the Blackwood's stall has a 'dragonmelon' this year," one said.
"Pah! Old man Rigby's ale could outdrink a Sage!"
Daren's ear perked up at their conversation. A Sage. The word slithered through the room—harmless to oblivious mortals, sharp as a blade to him. Then a sudden idea struck, one that pleased him immensely.
Aria materialized at his side, her hip brushing his. "You've got that look," she purred. "The one where you're plotting."
"Let's set up our own festival stall," he said. "Our ale. Your pies. Let them taste what real legends are made of."
Her eyebrow arched. "Darling. Are you… showing off?"
"Call it civic duty," he said with a straight face.
Aria giggled at her husband's childlike behavior, her voice soft as silk and sweet as honey—enough to make hearts race.
After deciding to set up a stall, they discussed what they'd need, then headed out to restock supplies and gather materials for their preparations.
---
The market was a riot of color and noise. Many stalls were already set up, others still in progress. Kids ran through the streets playing catch, while adults worked tirelessly to make their stalls outshine the rest.
Aria walked through the stalls, turning heads wherever she went. No matter how much she suppressed it, her presence and appearance outclassed even the nobles and wealthy merchants in town.
Every stall she visited offered her discounts—some even gave items for free, claiming it was a day of celebration. Aria didn't refuse such generosity. Her basket seemed magically light despite the sacks of flour and jars of honey she piled into it.
"M-My lady!" A beet-faced farmer thrust a basket of apples at her. "F-For your pies! No charge!"
Aria's smile was a work of art—warm and hypnotic, enough to make the man lose himself. But a sudden chill snapped him out of his reverie, as if the Grim Reaper stood just a step away.
"How kind of you," Aria replied. "I'll make a special pie for you—one that'll take you to the heavens." Her smile remained the same, but her eyes darkened like swirling abysses. The man sensed there was more to her words than he understood. A primal instinct warned him that if he didn't leave this lady alone immediately, calamity would befall him. And so, he fled back to his stall, heart pounding.
Just as the man left, Daren appeared behind her.
Daren snorted, hefting a barrel of molasses onto one shoulder. His muscles strained 'just enough' to make the nearby fishmonger's daughter drop her trout.
"Stop that," Aria hissed, though her eyes sparkled.
"Stop what?" He played clueless.
"Flexing." Her voice carried a threat.
After finishing their shopping, they returned to the inn and went straight to setting up their stall.
They claimed a corner near the smithy, far from the square's bustling heart. Aria insisted: "Less traffic, fewer 'accidents.'" The "accidents" might or might not involve her, depending on how many homewreckers lingered near her husband.
Daren hammered the stall's frame together with precise, unnecessary force—each nail sank in one strike, each board aligned like palace masonry. Meanwhile, Aria arranged tables and supplies, weaving a magic circle around the stall to prevent accidental fires.
"Done," Daren announced**, wiping sawdust from his hands.
"Almost." Aria snapped her fingers. The sign above them flipped, revealing elegant script:
The Whispering Hearth's Harvest Special
Ale That Quenches Gods
Pies That Bribed Death
Daren nodded. "Subtle."
"You sure that's not showing off?" She smirked.
Soon, night fell, and the festival began in full force. Children begged their parents for treats, young couples walked hand in hand, and elders reminisced about days gone by.
Despite their stall's remote location, Aria and Daren had no shortage of customers. Their ale and Aria's handmade pies tasted like nothing the townspeople had experienced before. The couple worked tirelessly, fulfilling orders without a hint of fatigue.
When they ran out of stock, they closed the stall and strolled through the festival, reminiscing about similar occasions during their adventures. Daren was especially pleased after counting the day's earnings.
He was like a hoarding dragon—despite possessing wealth beyond the mightiest empires, he still yearned for more. Too much wealth could never be too much afterall.
---
That night, they sat on the inn's roof, sharing a slice of Aria's special pie—reserved only for them. Below, the town slept. Above, distant stars twinkled as if beckoning them closer.
"This is nice," Aria murmured, her head on Daren's shoulder. "Pretending to be… 'this'."
"We 'are' this," he said.
"Liar." She pressed closer. "But keep lying. I like it."