The center of Myrath opened before them like a living organism.
The large square was wide and circular, paved with light-colored stones worn by time, forming irregular patterns that told a story no one else fully remembered. In the center, an ancient fountain gushed crystal-clear water from the mouths of sculpted lions, and children ran around it, laughing, wetting their hands, completely oblivious to the political weight that city carried on its shoulders.
The air was a mosaic of smells—freshly baked bread, warm spices, grilled meat, cheap incense, human sweat. Sounds overlapped: vendors hawking wares, musicians improvising melodies, lively discussions, hurried footsteps.
Morgana slowed her pace without realizing it.
Her eyes scanned everything with almost reverent attention.
"So…" she murmured. "This is what happens when people aren't kneeling or calculating every word."
