The Ashen Boar Tavern was thriving.
Not thriving like modest prosperity or consistent crowd flow. it was overflowing. The kind of success that spilled into the streets. The kind where customers fought for chairs, and lineups curled down the hill like a festival parade.
Kaelen had to start handing out wooden tokens to track orders.
Derek, for the first time in years, had a ledger that required extra pages.
Neal was getting tips just for glaring at people who tried to sneak in line.
And Alira? She'd appointed herself the official Wyrmleaf Guardian, personally inspecting every leaf they used with the judgment of a high priestess and the flair of a butcher.
"We need more space," Derek said one evening, rubbing the back of his neck while scanning the crowd.
The tavern, built for thirty, now hosted over a hundred.
"We could push the walls out, open a second floor, maybe an outdoor kitchen,"
