Arthur’s POV
The first time someone refuses me, it happens over bread.
I’m in the west quarter, where the stone still smells new and the streets haven’t decided what kind of stories they want to hold yet. A bakery sits on the corner—windows fogged, laughter inside, a crooked sign that reads Still Warm.
I point to a loaf through the glass. “That one.”
The baker, flour-dusted and broad-shouldered, squints at me. “No.”
I blink. “No?”
He nods, utterly unapologetic. “That loaf’s spoken for. Come back in an hour.”
There’s no fear in his eyes. No recognition. Just certainty.
Something in my chest loosens, startled and almost giddy.
“All right,” I say. “What do you recommend instead?”
He grins and hands me a smaller round, darker, heavier. “That one’ll keep you standing longer.”
I pay.
