Seven days passed like a single breath. And now… they stood at the edge of goodbye.
It was morning — the seventh day.
The wagon had finally cleared the last hills of Umbryss. And there, basking in the light of a different sun, lay the border town of Solmira.
Even though Froy had glimpsed it before — in visions gifted by Sethvyr — it still caught him by surprise. For a land called "simple" or "rural," it looked far finer than any village he'd ever known.
The moment he stepped from the shadows of Umbryss into Solmira, the sky changed. The sun above was no longer dark. It glowed a gentle amber-yellow, casting warm light over golden fields and orderly houses. Everything felt cleaner, lighter... as if the very air had shed its weight.
As they drew closer, Brumgar was the first to step down. Then came Luma, followed by Selene and little Aryvael.
There were no speeches. No long farewells. Just soft voices and full hearts.
Luma smiled wistfully."We part ways here, little one. Thank you… for everything."
Brumgar placed a heavy hand on Froy's shoulder."Don't go dying on me, boy. I've still got a debt to repay."
Selene gave a calm nod."If you ever need us, seek the human capital of Solmira. That's where we'll be. We'll come, if you call."
Then Aryvael — timid and soft as always — peeked out from behind her sister's cloak. Her voice barely rose above a whisper."I'll miss you, Froy. I really hope… we meet again."
Froy returned their words with a smile, eyes calm and bright."I'll come collect those debts when the time comes. Don't forget them."
He waved. And so did they.
Then, without hesitation, he climbed back onto the wagon. He'd never driven one before. But Sethvyr had taught him how — in the place between dreams.
He turned the reins, letting the horses carry him forward.
Toward a country he didn't yet know.Toward a future shaped by masks and miracles.But more than anything...
Toward growth.Toward usefulness.Toward Sethvyr.
Froy watched as his companions stepped down from the wagon, one by one.
They weren't leaving just because it was time. They had to.
In rural towns like this, non-humans weren't just rare — they were unwanted. Distrusted. Feared.
Brumgar, Luma, Selene, and Aryvael couldn't walk through the main gates like he could. They had to slip through the outskirts, using old paths and forgotten trails.
The town ahead was peaceful on the surface — warm fields, quiet chatter, smoke curling from chimneys — but beneath it all, secrets writhed.
This place was said to be the heart of the black market in Solmira.
And yet, the townsfolk lived as if none of it existed.No one spoke of it.No one asked questions.Only nobles and high-ranking merchants knew where the rot truly lay.
Froy was alone now. Not in spirit, but in journey.
He had no coin. No connections.He could not summon gold or conjure comfort.Sethvyr had forbidden it.
"If you are to grow, little one," the god had once whispered,"then let it be through sweat. Let hunger sharpen your mind."
So he would grow.He would survive.And one day… he would repay that trust.
The gate loomed ahead — tall, wooden, iron-braced.Guards barely spared him a glance. A quiet, young human boy? Harmless.
The town inside was overwhelming.
To Froy, raised in a crumbling village beneath Umbryss's black sun, this rural human town looked like a kingdom.Cobblestone streets. Lanterns hung between posts. Stalls selling fruit, fabrics, and tools.Children ran laughing. Merchants argued over copper coins.It was alive.
He stepped down from the wagon, heart quiet but eyes wide.
The first thing he needed was money.
So he looked for the one place Sethvyr had told him to find — a merchant guild.
It wasn't hard.A painted wooden sign marked it: crossed scales over a scroll.He led the horses there and offered to sell the wagon.
The merchant glanced at him once, then smirked.
"Three silver," he said.
Froy knew it was worth more.But he didn't argue.
He simply nodded. Took the coins.Lesson learned.
Now… he had to find work.
Froy didn't follow the crowds. He didn't head for the main streets, the markets, or the bustling guilds.
Instead, he turned into the side alleys — narrow, shadowed paths that twisted deeper into the unseen veins of the town.
The noise faded. The sunlight dimmed.
And then, he saw it.
A street lined with rich fabrics, heavy perfume, and soft, beckoning laughter.
The red district.
Not loud or vulgar — this was no tavern gutter — but something quieter. Hidden. Silk behind shadows.
And there she was.
A woman standing at the heart of it all. Draped in a black cloak embroidered with gold thread. Her skin pale as moonlight. Her lips red as wine. Her eyes sharper than any blade he'd yet seen.
Froy didn't hesitate.
Sethvyr had taught him well."Use your gaze," he had whispered."Use your voice. Use your weakness — make it your mask."
So the child stepped forward.
He walked with the calmness of a stray lamb, soft and wide-eyed.When he reached the woman, he gave the slightest bow, then looked up with his crystal-blue eyes shimmering beneath golden lashes.
"Miss… pretty lady," he said, voice small, sweet, and aching."Do you have work for me? I have no home… no family. I'll do anything. Anything small is fine."
He let his voice tremble just enough.Not pitiful — just lost.Not fake — just vulnerable.
The woman raised an eyebrow. For a moment, she said nothing.
She simply looked at him.
Really looked.
And Froy held her gaze without blinking.
Because this — this was no plea for mercy.
It was a test.
The woman said nothing for a long moment.
She tilted her head slightly, as if inspecting a rare gem at a merchant's stall.Her fingers — gloved in soft black lace — brushed along the edge of her chin in thought.
"You're not from here," she said finally. Her voice was low, warm, like wine left in the sun.
Froy blinked once. "No, miss."
She crouched down to his level, eyes never leaving his."You've got no dirt under your nails, no fear in your eyes, and not one wrinkle in that ragged shirt of yours."A pause."That's a problem."
Froy tilted his head, softly. "Why?"
"Because no real orphan in this part of the world looks that clean… or speaks like a noble child hiding in peasant's cloth." She narrowed her eyes. "So. Who taught you to talk like that?"
Froy smiled — just a little.
"I listen well, miss. And I remember things better than most."
That made her laugh.A low, melodic laugh that didn't echo — it cut.
She stood again, turning away.
"I should send you off," she said, voice floating. "This is not a place for soft boys with sad eyes."
She glanced back over her shoulder. "But then again… who could resist a pretty little knife wrapped in velvet?"
Froy said nothing. He didn't need to.
The woman sighed — and gestured for him to follow.
The woman raised an eyebrow, the corner of her lips twitching in amusement.
"Call me Madame Lys," she said, her tone velvet-smooth but sharp as a razor. "And you are?"
Froy placed his hand over his chest with quiet politeness."Froy, ma'am."
His voice was respectful — but there was no fear. Only calm calculation.
"I can read and write. I'll do any job you deem worthy. I'm grateful in advance for your kindness, Madame."
His tone was warm, but beneath it lay something else — a softness designed to prevent refusal. A carefully measured balance of humility and hidden control.
Madame Lys let out a faint chuckle."Well then, Froy."
She turned, her cloak fluttering like a shadow made of ink.
"You'll work as a front desk attendant.You'll greet guests, keep a list of names, and remember faces — all of them."
Her heels clicked softly on the polished wood floor as she walked.
"No days off. You eat here. You sleep here. You keep your ears open and your mouth shut unless asked.Your payment will be… five silver a week."
She glanced over her shoulder.
"Too little for your taste, dear angel?"
Froy shook his head once, eyes glowing faintly with acceptance.
"It's more than enough, Madame."
"Welcome to the House, little Froy,"Madame Lys said without turning back."The real lessons begin now."