The city announced itself with noise.
Not the roar of crowds or the clangor of bells, but the low, continuous murmur of existence layered upon itself—footsteps overlapping, distant arguments dissolving into laughter, the creak of carts, the mutter of prayers spoken without belief. After silence shaped by roots and vaults, the sound felt heavy, almost aggressive.
Aarinen felt it press against his ribs.
"This place doesn't breathe," Torren muttered. "It grinds."
They stood at the edge of the rise overlooking the city, its walls stretching outward like a deliberate boundary drawn against uncertainty. Stone towers caught the dying light, their banners hanging limp in air that refused to move freely.
Lirael narrowed her eyes. "This is not a great city. It is a useful one."
Eryna nodded. "Trade crosses here. Rumors linger. Authority passes through without staying."
Saevel scanned the walls. "And soldiers?"
"Enough," Eryna said. "And paid just poorly enough to listen."
Rafi groaned softly. "I miss caves. At least caves didn't pretend to be safe."
They descended together.
The gate did not stop them. It barely noticed them. A bored guard glanced up, counted bodies, then waved them through without comment.
That, Aarinen realized, was the first lie of the real world.
Inside, the streets narrowed quickly. Stone gave way to brick, brick to packed earth. The scent of sweat, smoke, and spice mingled thickly. Vendors shouted half-heartedly, already tired of the day that was ending. Lanterns flickered to life one by one, their glow uneven and imperfect.
Eryna slowed.
The shift was subtle, but Aarinen caught it immediately.
Her presence—so anchored beneath the world—tightened.
"Too many threads," she murmured.
Lirael stiffened. "You feel them?"
Eryna nodded. "They're not singing. They're arguing."
Torren snorted. "Welcome to civilization."
They moved deeper.
Eyes began to linger. Not long. Not openly. But enough.
Aarinen felt the familiar itch behind his eyes, the pressure that preceded laughter. Pain was close—not sharp, not immediate—but expectant. The city did not know him, but it recognized something wrong.
He breathed through it.
They found lodging near the inner district—a narrow inn wedged between a cooper's shop and a shuttered shrine. The sign above the door read The Bent Nail, painted once, repainted twice, and now fading into honest neglect.
Inside, warmth greeted them reluctantly.
The innkeeper barely looked up.
"Two copper per bed," he said flatly. "No trouble."
Torren raised a brow. "That's optimistic."
The innkeeper glanced at him at last.
"Then four copper," he replied.
They paid.
As they settled into the dim common room, Eryna remained standing, gaze fixed on the far wall where shadows pooled unnaturally.
Saevel noticed. "What is it?"
Eryna hesitated.
"There are names here," she said slowly. "Names tied to power. They're… heavier."
Lirael frowned. "Names always carry weight."
"Yes," Eryna replied. "But here, they bind."
Aarinen leaned against the table. "Meaning?"
"Meaning if someone speaks yours with intent," she said, "it matters."
That settled uneasily.
Rafi swallowed. "Then maybe we don't give ours."
Too late.
A man approached their table without invitation.
He was well-dressed, but not richly—clothes chosen for subtle authority rather than wealth. His hair was dark, his eyes sharp, his smile carefully measured.
"New faces," he said pleasantly. "Rare this close to the Quiet Hour."
Torren groaned quietly. "Here we go."
Saevel's posture shifted, imperceptibly ready.
"And you are?" she asked.
The man inclined his head. "Corven Hale. Clerk to the Eastern Trade Council."
Lirael's eyes flicked to Eryna.
Council.Authority.
Corven's gaze lingered on Eryna just a fraction too long.
"You stand strangely," he said. "As though the floor is listening to you."
Eryna met his eyes calmly. "It usually is."
Something unreadable crossed his expression.
"I like honesty," he said. "It saves time."
Aarinen smiled faintly. "Then you'll like us very briefly."
Corven laughed politely. "You'll forgive my curiosity. The city has… noticed you."
Saevel's voice hardened. "We arrived an hour ago."
"Yes," Corven agreed. "And in that hour, three informants failed to report. One bell rang early. And a Listener broke silence."
That last phrase tightened the room.
Torren's hand twitched near his sword.
Eryna's expression did not change.
Corven studied her openly now.
"You are the cause," he said, not accusing—stating.
Aarinen leaned forward. "And you're here to what? Arrest us?"
Corven shook his head. "No. If I wished that, I would not be alone."
"Recruit us?" Rafi asked weakly.
Corven smiled. "Observe you."
Lirael exhaled slowly. "For whom?"
Corven's smile thinned.
"For those who believe the Weaver is not the only hand on the Loom."
Silence fell heavy.
Eryna spoke softly. "Careful."
Corven raised a hand placatingly. "I mean no harm. Yet."
Torren muttered, "Everyone says that."
Corven turned to him. "And everyone eventually chooses otherwise."
He looked back to Eryna.
"You should know," he said, "that word of a disruption has reached higher ears."
"Which ones?" Saevel demanded.
Corven's gaze flicked briefly toward the window—toward the heart of the city.
"Those who name themselves Kings," he said. "Those who call themselves Protectors. And those who wear no titles at all."
Aarinen felt laughter scrape his throat.
"So," he said, "everyone."
"Yes," Corven replied. "That is the nature of consequences."
He straightened.
"I will not interfere tonight," he said. "But understand this: the city is not neutral. It never is."
Eryna held his gaze.
"Neither are we."
Corven smiled again—this time, genuine curiosity shining through.
"Good," he said. "Then this will be interesting."
He turned and left.
The door closed behind him with a soft, final sound.
Rafi collapsed onto the bench. "I hate cities."
Lirael rubbed her temples. "He's a thread-toucher. Not Weaver-aligned, but aware."
Saevel nodded. "Meaning we're already on a board we didn't see."
Aarinen looked at Eryna.
Her expression was distant—not afraid, not overwhelmed.
Focused.
"This is where it begins," she said quietly. "Where choices get names."
He laughed softly, pain threading through the sound.
"Then let's choose badly," he said. "It's what I'm good at."
She smiled faintly.
Outside, bells rang again—late this time.
Somewhere above the city, threads tightened.
And in places far more dangerous than vaults or roots, eyes began to turn.