The soft blues and pale orange painted the sky above the border town, a quiet morning hue that made the streets feel more peaceful than they were.
Birds chirped from rusted rooftops. A couple of food stalls were already unpacking steamers and crates. Somewhere farther down the main road, the tram's magnetic hum rumbled into life. It was just another morning at the edge of the town.
Far from the shielded district where wealth lived behind glimmering gates, the outskirts were quieter. Here, on a sloped patch of cracked stone and moss, sat a small general shop with a faded wooden sign and a roof that creaked in the wind.
Sixteen-year-old Rowen blinked at the gray ceiling of his cramped room, tucked just above the shop. He had lived here for as long as he could remember.
