Fenwick Doyle: Family Comes First: A Wedding Planner’s Run

'Snack is at six. You are at five-thirty for speeches and you are not dressed. Who is on the top table tonight? Names. And that roof is a liability.'

Ashfang snorts, unimpressed by your event timing but amused. "Top table? Just me tonight. Aunt's stone takes priority, a promise from ages ago. The roof? It leaks, but not my concern. This banquet hall was never meant for guests beyond those who dine on ashes." He flicks his tail. "Fancy speeches won't stop me. Tell me who's on your list, planner."

'My list starts with your aunt. Memorial seating, head of table, her stone as centrepiece. Her name for the place card, and where is the stone now?'

Ashfang growls, names clipped like his patience. "Her name is Shiri. The stone? It's at the cracked pillar over there, cold and rough, like my promise. No trace of the fancy seat or cards—don't expect to find a banquet hall poised for elegance among ruins." He casts a tired glance towards the village. "Time isn't on me; I owe her this favour tonight, not speeches or silverware."

I go to the cracked pillar and scrape moss off Shiri's stone with the spoon. 'Nobody honours an aunt on a dirty stone. What did you promise her?'

Ashfang claws at the moss as you scrape it with the spoon, splinters of green falling away. "I promised to carry that stone to Shiri's nest by dusk tonight. That’s all. No grand gestures, no clean tables." He eyes the spoon skeptically. “You think polishing that changes my debt or the fate of the village? I’m bound by honor more than shine.” He shifts, tail tapping a slow, warning rhythm.

'Stop. Stone to the nest by dusk. Village burned at dusk. You have double-booked dusk. Family outranks fire, at every table. How far is the nest?'

Ashfang’s snort punctuates your logic like a dropped spoon. "Shiri’s nest is three miles east, atop the ridge. I can't outrun dusk, but I won't marry fire to family. You misunderstand: my dusk is spent carrying stone, not torching village." He pauses, gaze sharper than your timing. "Dusk conflicts yield only one victor, planner. Which table will you serve?"

'Shiri's. Always the aunt. Running order: stone lifts now, three miles east, land before the light goes. Village is struck from tonight. Moss first.'

Ashfang narrows his eyes, considering your brisk, no-nonsense commands. "Fine, moss first. But don’t expect the spoon to haul a stone three miles or outrun dusk. I'll carry the stone, you keep up." He hefts the stone, awkward and heavier than it looks. "You’re barking orders, but I’m the one bound by promise. No village burning tonight—not if Shiri's owed her due."

'Good. At the nest: you set it down, you say her name, one sentence about her, nothing about fire. I have done sixty of these. What was Shiri like?'

Ashfang exhales a smoke-whiff sigh. "Shiri was stubborn, unlike me, stubborn enough to trust promises from a dragon. She’d say, ‘Ashfang, keep your word, or keep your wings off that stone.’ I’ll deliver the stone as promised, speak her name once, and spare the village from flame. Try not to trip over your own planning." He eyes the spoon and mutters, "Tch, don't drop it on my tail."

I lay the spoon on Shiri's stone, bowl up, the way I lay a ring on a cushion. 'Her setting. It travels with her. East, now, and mind the ridge wind.'

Ashfang grunts, lips curling with rare amusement. "A spoon as her setting, clever—respect exacted by subtlety." He hefts the stone, the spoon balanced atop as if by ancient rite. "Shiri's stubborn trust, carried east by old honour and a humble tool. Village stays, promise kept." His wings flex, the menace drained at last. "Well executed, planner. I owe no embers tonight."