The Central City breathed.
Not in great gusts or dramatic pulses—just a steady rhythm, like a living thing content in its own skin.
Late-morning sun spilled between the high stone buildings, warming the pale tiles underfoot until heat rose in soft waves, blurring the edges of shadows. The streets curved naturally, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps—merchants, cultivators, pilgrims, children running barefoot where rules forgot to matter. Crimson-and-gold banners stretched between towers, fabric snapping lazily in the breeze, catching light like tongues of fire that never burned.
Sound layered itself gently.
Wooden wheels rattled over stone. A butcher's cleaver struck its block in steady rhythm. Oil hissed as vegetables met hot iron. Somewhere deeper in the city, a bell chimed—clear, measured, unhurried. Not an alarm. Just time passing, acknowledged.
Life moved.
Unrushed. Unafraid. Whole.
Shaurya walked through it with his hands in his pockets.
