The day after the banquet, the estate felt emptier.
The great hall was quiet, its long tables stripped of silverware, the echo of footsteps replacing the clink of goblets and the hum of conversation.
Kaizlan found himself standing at the edge of the outer gate, watching the snow fall in slow, slanted lines.
Beside him, Daryel stamped his boots against the cold.
"You're thinking again," Daryel said.
"Dangerous habit."
"Just wondering what's beyond those streets."
"Streets are streets. Mud, noise, people trying to take your coin."
Kaizlan smiled faintly.
"Maybe I want to see it for myself."
They slipped out past the lower courtyard, avoiding the guards who would have asked questions.
The city beyond the noble quarter was a different world—narrower streets, walls patched with mismatched stone, the air thick with smoke from damp wood.
Merchants called out half-heartedly from behind carts.
Children darted between wagons, their laughter carrying above the clatter of hooves.
Kaizlan paused near a corner where two men were arguing over a crate.
One accused the other of cheating on the weight; the other swore it was the market's fault.
Their voices rose until a guard walked past, and then—just like that—both fell silent.
Farther on, in a quiet lane, they found a small workshop.
The door was open, and inside a man was repairing a wheel with slow, careful movements.
He looked up only once, eyes flicking over them without expression, before returning to his work.
Daryel muttered,
"They don't care who we are."
"No," Kaizlan said softly.
"They don't."
By the time they returned to the estate, the sun was low and the air heavy with frost.
Kaizlan kept thinking about the faces he'd seen—some tired, some suspicious, most indifferent.
No one had asked his name.
No one had cared.
That night, he wrote in his notebook:
"The world beyond the walls does not bow.
It does not even look up."
The day after the banquet, the estate felt emptier.
The great hall was quiet, its long tables stripped of silverware, the echo of footsteps replacing the clink of goblets and the hum of conversation.
Kaizlan found himself standing at the edge of the outer gate, watching the snow fall in slow, slanted lines.
Beside him, Daryel stamped his boots against the cold.
"You're thinking again," Daryel said.
"Dangerous habit."
"Just wondering what's beyond those streets."
"Streets are streets. Mud, noise, people trying to take your coin."
Kaizlan smiled faintly.
"Maybe I want to see it for myself."
They slipped out past the lower courtyard, avoiding the guards who would have asked questions.
The city beyond the noble quarter was a different world—narrower streets, walls patched with mismatched stone, the air thick with smoke from damp wood.
Merchants called out half-heartedly from behind carts.
Children darted between wagons, their laughter carrying above the clatter of hooves.
Kaizlan paused near a corner where two men were arguing over a crate.
One accused the other of cheating on the weight; the other swore it was the market's fault.
Their voices rose until a guard walked past, and then—just like that—both fell silent.
Farther on, in a quiet lane, they found a small workshop.
The door was open, and inside a man was repairing a wheel with slow, careful movements.
He looked up only once, eyes flicking over them without expression, before returning to his work.
Daryel muttered,
"They don't care who we are."
"No," Kaizlan said softly.
"They don't."
By the time they returned to the estate, the sun was low and the air heavy with frost.
Kaizlan kept thinking about the faces he'd seen—some tired, some suspicious, most indifferent.
No one had asked his name.
No one had cared.
That night, he wrote in his notebook:
"The world beyond the walls does not bow.
It does not even look up."