Lythor, Lumithar 24, 528 EK

  The lower market of Kaelithar swallowed the group in thick sound and stench. Merchants’ shouts, the stomp of boots, and the clink of scales merged into an unending pulse. The guards’ eyes flickered constantly, weighing the crowd so life would not slip into chaos.

  Kaelus rode with squared shoulders—calm as stone. On the saddle beside him, Thalion was smaller; his hands gripped the leather tightly, the boy’s eyes reflecting every stall they passed: bread layered with butter, skewers of smoking meat, fabrics dyed in tempting colors.

  Hooves struck the market stones like drumbeats. The smell of meat and spice surged forward; Thalion’s stomach tightened, his breathing quickened.

  Kaelus glanced sideways.

  “Patience,” he said. The word was short, certain—not a rebuke, but a promise that a place was waiting.

  Ahead of them stretched the old bridge of Kaelithar—a stone arch veined with magic, binding the lower and upper districts. Beneath its curve, the market still pulsed; above it, the wind carried resin and salt. When the horses stepped onto the bridge stones, the market’s noise shrank like a held breath, replaced by the clean, measured echo of hooves. The cadence rang between orderly buildings: curtains drawn, family banners rolled tight, elite guards standing like living statues as they rendered their salute.

  The group reorganized. The line of common soldiers bowed, turning toward the road that led to the barracks—rough saddles, the smell of oil. Kaelus leaned forward, signaling the young captain at the front.

  “To the barracks,” he ordered. The captain nodded without a word and led the formation away.

  Kaelus turned into a descending lane toward the residences of high-ranking and elite soldiers. The pace slowed; recognition, neatly arranged, appeared in the brief greetings of the elite guards. In the saddle, Thalion felt the difference like fine cloth against his skin—safe, yet fragile.

  At the final bend, Kaelus reined in his horse. A single hand signal was enough—the group halted. A soldier opened a leather sack at his saddle; the scent of metal and dried blood drifted out. Drake scales from yesterday’s battle were stacked within, wrapped in oiled cloth to keep them from cracking, catching the daylight with a greenish sheen.

  Thalion swallowed. The glimmer reminded him of thunder, splitting earth, the hot breath of a night-born creature.

  “Don’t take it to the lower market,” Kaelus said quietly. “Hand it to the specialty traders. Don’t squeeze the price. We need fast flow.”

  One soldier nodded. Their movements now were not celebration—this was work after violence: counting, binding, making sure every scale was intact.

  From behind canopies, merchants’ eyes curved toward them. The shine of the scales drew more attention than the soldiers’ faces. Coins would move this afternoon; from those coins would come grain, salt, medicine—small arteries that gave breath to the barracks.

  Kaelus gave it one brief look, then split his focus: one path to the barracks, another to the houses of power. The battle in the forest did not end with clashing steel—it continued in calculation, supply, and ordered steps that ensured no blood had been spilled in vain.

  “Come,” he said to Thalion.

  The horses moved again.

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  They advanced slowly along a narrower stone path. The city sounded different here—more restrained, like a whisper that knew its place. Behind tall windows, curtains shifted a fraction of an inch; Kaelithar’s old watchers recognized the crest on Kaelus’s saddle and chose silence. Respect was not always a greeting—sometimes it was simply not asking.

  Thalion looked back, toward the bridge now hidden by buildings. The lower market had vanished from sight, but its smell still clung to his memory. He realized, without fully understanding, that the drake scales would become bread on soldiers’ tables, iron in storehouses, and nights that were slightly safer. Yesterday’s battle had not ended in the mud; it flowed into the city, into hands that had never lifted a sword.

  Kaelus adjusted the reins, keeping a safe distance from other groups that had split away. His shoulders remained straight, his face calm—like someone who had counted the next steps long before the horse’s hooves touched stone.

  “Stay at my side,” he said without looking back. Not because danger was visible, but from the habit of a soldier who knew: a city, too, could be a battlefield.

  Thalion nodded and tightened his grip. Ahead, the road bent toward a quieter quarter—a place where conversation would begin, not with swords, but with names and old memories.

  They stopped before a large noble house—its fa?ade facing a small garden washed in midday light, stone pillars carved with old sigils that reflected a pale gleam. In the front yard, two guards stood rigid with spears grounded, while a servant waited a few steps behind a half-open iron gate. Kaelus dismounted first, helping Thalion down with movements made routine: lifting him, tying the reins, stroking the horse’s neck until it calmed. The boy’s hand was warm in Kaelus’s palm; trust grew in that small silence.

  Kaelus handed the reins to the courtyard servant, who received them with a bow, then stepped toward the door. He gave two firm knocks—concise, recognized as the signal of a commander, not a hesitant guest. The door opened; the servant dipped his head slightly, his smile controlled as he recognized Kaelus.

  “Is General Dunwald at home?” Kaelus asked, his tone familiar yet precise—the way a respected officer addressed his superior’s house, without ornamental court language.

  The servant bowed deeper, posture stiff with the military protocol bound to the name spoken. “The General is not at home, Master Kaelus. He has been summoned to the palace—His Majesty the King requires him for urgent matters,” he replied.

  Laughter broke the air from the corner of the street—a man appeared, carrying a bottle. His face creased into a friendly grin when he saw Kaelus. “Kaelus, you’re late for my dinner,” he joked, his steps light despite the wine on his breath.

  Kaelus gave a thin smile, half annoyed. “Dorian,” he greeted briefly.

  Dorian Vaneorian poured himself a glass, drank, then looked at the boy beside Kaelus. His eyes narrowed, measuring, like a captain reading the current before turning the helm. “Oh—you came back carrying a burden?” he said calmly, a faint smile lacing his tone. “Walking to Brightwater, returning with a child—you truly chose the largest wave, Gate.”

  Kaelus shrugged. “He’s my adopted son.” He glanced at Thalion briefly, as if weighing something, then chose silence.

  Thalion turned quickly, brows furrowing with unrestrained curiosity. “Why does he call you Gate? Why not Kaelus?” he asked softly, honest and unguarded.

  Dorian inhaled, his faint smile surfacing like a small ripple on still water. He opened his mouth, the tone of a mentor about to unravel an old tale. “That’s a name from when we were still—”

  Kaelus raised one finger. The motion was light, but enough to cut the current. “Not now,” he said shortly.

  Dorian fell silent, then nodded slowly, accepting the boundary his friend had drawn.

  Another set of steps filled the doorway—a noblewoman emerged with measured grace, her gown draped neatly over her arm, her movements calm like one accustomed to commanding a room without sound. Lady Adalyn regarded the group, then smiled gently upon noticing the small child beside Kaelus. “Kaelus,” she greeted him with trained authority, inclining her head just enough—the posture of a noble who understood hierarchy without pressing it. “And who is this child?”

  Kaelus and Dorian bowed in unison. “Lady Adalyn,” Kaelus offered a quick salute. “This is Thalion,” he continued. “My apologies for the intrusion. I intended to report directly to General Dunwald regarding the results of our journey, but it seems he is at the palace.”

  Adalyn studied Thalion for a moment, her eyes soft yet assessing. “You must be tired. Please, come in—eat with us. In this house, a hungry guest is not made to wait.” Her voice was calm, carrying an authority that sent servants moving at once.

  Kaelus hesitated briefly, weighing courtesy against the child’s need. At last, he nodded. “Thank you, Lady.”

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