The market is alive with its usual riot of colour and sound. The perfume of spices heavy in the air, merchants shouting their wares, the clatter of hooves and laughter mingling in the chaos. Nadia moves through it like she's not nobility, her gown hidden beneath a simple cloak, the hood drawn. Her hand gestures for you to follow.

“Come,” she insists, her voice lilting with rare excitement. “You’ve not truly lived in Vesuvia until you’ve tasted this.”

You navigate the narrow lanes as she weaves between stalls with purposeful grace, nodding to shopkeepers who greet her, unaware that it's their Countess. When she finally stops, it’s before a modest stand half-hidden between a spice vendor and a jeweller. The air here is warm, thick with the scent of sweet honey and toasted pistachio.

“This one,” she declares with satisfaction, her smile bright and unrestrained. The vendor, wide-eyed but pleased, bows their head as Nadia accepts a small plate of baklava wrapped in parchment.

She takes her first bite right there in the middle of the square, eyes fluttering shut, a hum of pleasure caught in her throat. A drizzle of syrup glistens at the corner of her lip, and she laughs softly, almost embarrassed by her own indulgence.

“Perfection,” she murmurs, holding up the remaining piece of baklava as if it were a jewel. “Sinful, even. Here, taste.” Before you can protest, Nadia's already lifting the pastry treat to your lips.