The eastern gate of Rygard rose from the plain like a wound carved into stone. Two towers flanked the entrance, their peaks lost in the grey afternoon sky. Between them, an iron portcullis hung half-raised, its teeth casting long shadows across the road.
Andrew Shellby had never seen anything so large.
He stood in the line of people waiting to enter. There were perhaps thirty of them—farmers with carts, merchants with heavy bags, a woman holding a child who would not stop crying. Andrew kept his eyes forward and his hands at his sides.
His suitcase felt lighter than it should.
He was twenty-two years old. His skin had the pale colour of someone who had spent too much time indoors. His hands were thin from work that demanded precision rather than strength.
His face, women in Ferot Village had said, was handsome. He had never known what to do with the compliment.
He wore a tunic of rough cotton, dyed a dull grey that had once been white. On the back, stitched in black thread, was a cross. He did not know what it meant.
The village elder had given it to him before he left. "It belonged to your father," she had said. Andrew had never asked about his father. She had never offered to explain.
The cross was old. The stitching was uneven. Andrew had decided it was better to wear it than to leave it behind.
His trousers were brown and wrinkled, clean but well-used. His boots were older than he was. They had belonged to three different men before him. Each had left his mark on the leather.
The suitcase contained two extra shirts, a pair of socks, a letter from Eldon, and a small pouch. The pouch held twelve Stachs. He had counted them five times on the journey.
Twelve Stachs. The coach from Ferot had cost him eight. He had four left.
The line moved forward slowly. Guards in black and silver checked papers, searched bags, asked questions. Andrew watched the man ahead of him—a merchant with a wagon of vegetables—argue about something.
The guards did not raise their voices. They simply shook their heads. The merchant moved on.
Andrew's turn came sooner than he wanted.
"Andrew Shellby," a guard called, reading from a list.
Andrew stepped forward. The guard was younger than he had expected, perhaps thirty, with a narrow face and eyes that moved too quickly. He wore the standard uniform of the Imperial Order—black coat, silver buttons, a short sword at his hip.
"Here, sir," Andrew said.
The guard looked at him. His eyes went to Andrew's face, then to his clothes, then to the suitcase. They lingered on the cross stitched into the back of his tunic.
"Where are you coming from?" the guard asked.
"Ferot Village, sir. In the western outskirts."
The guard made a sound in his throat. Not quite a hum, not quite a sigh. His expression shifted into something Andrew could not read.
"What is your business in Rygard?"
Andrew had practiced this answer on the coach. "A job, sir. A warehouse position. A man from my village arranged it."
The guard's eyes narrowed. "Which warehouse?"
"Eldon Shipping, sir. In the outer wards."
The guard said nothing. He turned and spoke quietly to another guard behind him. Andrew could not hear the words. He saw the second guard glance at him and nod.
"Open the suitcase," the guard said.
Andrew set it on the ground and undid the latch. The lid creaked as it opened. Inside: two shirts, folded. One pair of socks. A letter. A small pouch.
The guard picked up the pouch and weighed it in his hand.
"Four Stachs," Andrew said quickly. "That's all I have."
The guard dropped the pouch back into the suitcase. He picked up the letter instead. Andrew watched his eyes move across the page.
The guard could not read. Andrew realized it from the way his eyes paused at words, the way his brow furrowed. But he pretended to read for a long moment.
Andrew said nothing.
"There was a report," the guard said finally, putting the letter down. "A high-ranking member of the Hygard Cartel was seen near the eastern road. We were told to watch for anyone matching the description."
Andrew's mouth went dry. "I'm not—I've never—"
"You fit the profile," the guard said. "Young man. Traveling alone. Arriving from the outskirts. Limited belongings."
Andrew opened his mouth to speak. No words came.
"Is there a problem?"
The voice came from behind Andrew. He turned. A man was approaching from inside the gate. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his uniform identical to the others except for a silver badge pinned to his collar.
His hair was grey. His face was lined. His eyes were the colour of old iron.
The guards straightened. The one questioning Andrew took a step back.
"Captain," he said. "No problem. Just a routine check."
The captain looked at the guard, then at Andrew, then at the open suitcase on the ground.
"Routine," he repeated.
"Yes, sir. The Hygard report. We were told to be thorough."
The captain looked at Andrew. His gaze was not hostile, but it was not friendly either. It was the look of a man who had seen too much to be surprised by anything.
"What is your name?" the captain asked.
"Andrew Shellby, sir."
"Where are you from?"
"Ferot Village. Western outskirts."
The captain nodded slowly. He looked at Andrew's face, his hands, the cross on his tunic. His eyes stopped there.
"Your father," the captain said. "Was he from Ferot?"
Andrew hesitated. "I never knew my father, sir."
The captain was quiet for a moment. Then he turned to the guard.
"This is not your man."
"But sir, the report—"
"The report describes a man of forty-five, heavy build, a scar on his left hand. Look at this boy. Does he have a scar? Is he forty-five?"
The guard said nothing.
"Let him through," the captain said.
The guard's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "The entrance fee," he said. "Sixty Stachs."
Andrew felt the words like a blow. Sixty Stachs. He had four.
He looked at the captain. The captain looked back. For a moment, Andrew thought he saw something in the old man's face. Recognition, perhaps. Or memory.
"Sixty Stachs," Andrew said. His voice came out thinner than he wanted.
The guard smirked. "The fee is the fee. No entrance, no job."
Andrew stood there. His suitcase was open at his feet. His four Stachs sat in a pouch that would not even cover a tenth of what he owed.
He thought of Eldon's letter. He thought of the warehouse waiting for him. He thought of the twelve Stachs he had saved for months.
He had nothing left.
The captain reached into his coat. He pulled out a small leather purse, untied the string, and counted coins into his palm. Six coins. Each marked with the crest of the Imperial Order.
He held them out to Andrew.
Andrew stared. "Sir, I can't—"
"You can," the captain said. "The warehouse is on Merrow Street. Ask for Foreman Hale. Tell him Gerald sent you."
Andrew took the coins. His fingers trembled. "I'll repay you. I swear it. As soon as I—"
The captain raised his hand. "Work hard. Stay out of trouble. That is repayment enough."
He turned and walked back through the gate without looking behind him.
The guard cleared his throat. Andrew gave him the coins. The guard counted them twice, then nodded and stepped aside.
"Go on," he said. "Before I change my mind."
Andrew closed his suitcase. He picked it up. He walked through the gate.
The city swallowed him.
The noise came first—a wall of sound that pressed against his ears. Voices. Wheels. Bells. The distant clang of metal on metal.
Then the smell. Smoke and something sweet and something rotting, all at once.
Then the light, or the lack of it. The buildings rose high on either side, blocking the sky. The streets were shadowed even at this hour.
Andrew stopped just inside the gate. People moved around him, past him, through him. No one looked. No one stopped.
He had four Stachs in his pocket. A job waiting somewhere on Merrow Street. A debt to a man whose name he barely knew.
On his back, stitched into the fabric of his tunic, was a cross he did not understand.
Rygard did not welcome him. But he was here now.
He started walking.
[End of Chapter 1]