Allen was just about to declare it a semi-successful market run—no one arrested, no crates stolen, only one really dumb trade—when it happened.
They were packing up, just loading the last of the leftover herbs into a woven basket, when the guards from earlier returned. Same sneers. Same fake professionalism wrapped in obvious disdain.
"Oi," one of them barked, stepping right up to Fina. "You. Tail-fluffer."
Allen blinked. "Excuse me?"
The guard didn't look at him. His eyes were fixed squarely on Fina, and not in the appreciative way. More like he'd spotted dirt on his shoe.
"That skirt. Too long."
Fina looked down at the feathered piece barely hanging onto her hips. "It's literally just feathers."
"Exactly," the other guard cut in. "Regulations say two large feathers and no side braids on the waist string. Yours has beads. Decorative. Not allowed."
Allen's jaw dropped. "You're seriously harassing her over beads?"
