"I'm fine, Barl. Just focus on the soup station," Lencar mumbled weakly through the linen mask, waving the teenager away.
By the time the late afternoon rolled around, Lencar's acting had completely convinced the entire staff. He made sure to keep his internal temperature elevated, ensuring his face remained slick with cold sweat whenever Rebecca popped her head into the pantry to check on him.
Finally, as the dinner rush began to taper off and the shadows outside the tavern lengthened, Gorn walked into the back room. He took one look at Lencar leaning heavily against the cutting board and grabbed the chef's knife right out of his hand.
"That's it. You're done," Gorn announced, pointing a thumb toward the back door. "Go wash your hands and take your apron off. I'm not having you collapse in my watch."
Lencar didn't argue. He slowly wiped his hands on a towel, untied his apron with deliberately trembling fingers, and grabbed his heavy cloak.
He walked out into the main dining room, which was now mostly empty save for a few lingering merchants. Gorn stood behind the bar, pulling a small leather pouch of coins from the cash box. He tossed it onto the counter.
"There's your pay for the day," Gorn said gruffly. He crossed his massive arms, fixing Lencar with an immovable, uncompromising stare. "Now, listen to me closely. Do not come to work tomorrow. You were too sick today, and honestly, I would have sent you home hours ago if the traffic wasn't so overwhelming. We managed today, and we'll manage tomorrow."
Barl poked his head out from the kitchen, holding a dripping ladle. "Yeah, Lencar! Stay home! You sounded like you were dying back there. I can cover the prep station tomorrow, I promise!"
Even old man Silas, nursing a warm cider in his corner booth, raised his mug. "Listen to the boss, lad! A young man needs his rest to fight off the damp lung!"
Lencar stood near the door, looking at the concerned faces of his colleagues and the tavern owner. He let his shoulders droop, playing the part of the defeated, reluctant worker perfectly.
"Alright," Lencar conceded, his voice raspy and weak. He reached out and grabbed the pouch of coins. "I hear you. I'll take it easy."
He paused, adding the final, crucial hook to his alibi. "But... if this fever breaks overnight, and I wake up feeling good tomorrow, I might still come in for the afternoon shift. I hate leaving you guys short-handed during a festival."
"If you walk through those doors tomorrow looking anything less than perfectly healthy, I'm locking you in the cellar," Gorn threatened, though he was smiling beneath his beard. "Get out of here. Go sleep."
The walk back to the Scarlet house was slow and quiet. The evening air was crisp, the sky clear and dotted with early stars.
Rebecca walked closely beside him, her face set in a stern, deeply unamused scowl. The moment they were out of earshot of the tavern, she turned to him, her hands planting on her hips.
"You," Rebecca started, her voice sharp with affectionate anger, "are the most infuriating man I have ever met. You sounded horrible all day, Lencar. I spent half my shift terrified you were going to pass out in the pantry and crack your head on the stone floor."
"I survived, didn't I?" Lencar mumbled through his mask, offering a weak shrug.
"That is not the point!" she berated him, her green eyes flashing. "You push yourself too hard. You think you have to carry the weight of the entire tavern on your shoulders. Well, I am laying down the law right now. I do not care what you told Gorn about 'feeling better' tomorrow. I will not allow you to work tomorrow no matter what. If you are still sick, you are staying locked in your room, and I am not letting you out."
It was exactly what he needed her to say.
"Okay, Rebecca," Lencar agreed softly, projecting a sense of total exhaustion. "You win. I'll quarantine tomorrow. I don't want to risk getting the kids sick anyway. I think whatever I caught is pretty contagious."
"Good," she said, her fierce scowl softening slightly into relief. "You're going straight to bed after dinner."
When they reached the house and opened the door, the usual chaos erupted. Marco and Luca came barreling down the hallway, ready to tackle Lencar's legs.
"Halt!" Rebecca commanded, throwing her arms out like a traffic guard, physically blocking the children from reaching him. "Nobody touches Lencar today! He is very sick, and he is full of nasty germs."
Marco stopped in his tracks, tilting his head as he looked at the white linen mask covering Lencar's face. The boy's eyes crinkled with sudden mischief.
"Lencar sounds like a barking dog!" Marco announced loudly, pointing a finger at him. He puffed out his chest and mimicked a hacking, exaggerated cough. "Look at me! I'm Lencar! Hack, hack! Give me more potatoes!"
Luca burst into a fit of high-pitched giggles, immediately joining in. She pulled her shirt up over her mouth to mimic a mask and started stumbling around the room like a zombie. "Oh no, I'm so sick! The carrots are attacking me!"
Rebecca tried to look stern, but a small smile broke through her composure. "Hey, be nice to him. He's miserable."
Lencar looked down at the two children mocking his carefully crafted performance. Despite the heavy, dark reality of the war he was preparing to step into tomorrow, he couldn't hold back a genuine, booming laugh.
The laugh immediately turned into a harsh, rattling cough, which only made Marco and Luca laugh harder.
"Alright, alright, mock the sick man," Lencar wheezed, waving a hand at them in mock defeat. He leaned against the wall, his eyes warm and bright above the linen cloth. "Just remember this when I'm feeling better and the invisible goblins attack your pillow fort. I might just let them win."
"No!" Marco gasped, instantly abandoning his mocking cough. "You wouldn't!"
"Try me," Lencar threatened playfully.
Rebecca herded the children toward the kitchen to help with dinner preparation, leaving Lencar alone in the hallway.
He watched them go, the sound of their laughter filling the small, warm house. The alibi was perfectly established. Gorn had ordered him to stay home. Rebecca had forbidden him from working and accepted the necessity of his quarantine. The children knew he was sick.
Tomorrow morning, he would lock his bedroom door. He would weave the vines, cast the illusion, and plant the obsidian token. To the world of Nairn, Lencar the prep cook would be miserable, contagious, and bedridden.
But to the Royal Capital, the Forged Heretic was about to arrive.
Lencar pushed off the wall and walked slowly toward his bedroom, his mind already shifting gears, leaving the warmth of the family behind and stepping into the cold, calculating void of the coming war. The trap was set. Now, it was time to spring it.