Morning came gently.
Not with drums.
Not with omens.
Just sunlight sliding over tiled rooftops, lanterns dimming one by one as dawn stretched its pale fingers into the streets.
The inn woke slowly.
Wooden stairs creaked under descending footsteps. Bowls clinked. Low voices murmured. The city resumed its rhythm—as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
As if history hadn't paused here last night.
Shaurya stepped out first.
Hands tucked into his pockets.
Crimson robes loose around his frame.
Hair slightly messy, like he hadn't bothered winning against sleep.
He yawned.
Then—
Stopped.
So did everyone behind him.
The street in front of the inn was filled.
No—
Packed.
People stood shoulder to shoulder, flooding the road and spilling into side alleys. Some stood on tiptoe. Others craned their necks. Parents held children close, fingers gripping small shoulders as if afraid opportunity might slip away.
