The road from the Slum hills stretched endlessly before me, cracked stones and mud underfoot, my bag scraping raw against my shoulder. The sun was low, a dull orange smear across the horizon, and every step made my legs ache. Yet each step felt different than the last - the Slums behinde me, the open road ahead. The air smelled cleaner, heavier with stone and coal, tinged faintly with bread and sweat from distant markets.
Freedom... it feels strange.
No light, not easy.
But it is freedom, I thought, gripping the strap of my bag. My thought's, usually so chaotic, were quiet.
Observant.
I noticed the birds wheeling overhead, the distant clang of bell, the smell of crushed grass and wet dirt after the morning dew. Every sound, every detail reminded me that I was no longer trapped, and yet - alive in the open road, the weight of freedom pressed heavy on my chest.
As the city walls rose in the distance, jagged and tall, smoke spiraling from the chimneys, I felt both awe and fear. Towers stabbed the sky, blue and gold banners snapping violently in the wind. The hum of the city reached me before i passed through the gates: merchants shouting, carts clattering, guards barking orders. I felt small, insignificant, yet strangely... awake.
The gates were guarded. A tall man in dull, polished armor rested his hand on a long sowrd. Eyes sharp and calculating as they scanned me from the head to toe.
"No identification?" His voice was sharp.
I shook my head. "I... I don't have any. Just passing through."
He motioned to a long, winding line.
"Queue there. Registration first. Then entry."
I joined the line. It moved slowly, inch by inch. Around me, I watched the people: mother's shooting fussy children, men whispering trade secrets, merchants balancing ledgers and heavy sacks. Some glanced nervously at the guards, others tried to appear calm. Every twitch, glance, and subtle movement, I memorized.
By the time I reached the desk, the sun had dipped lower, turning the stone walls to shades of orange gray. The clerk barely looked at me, scribbled my name in a ledger and handed me a slip.
"Temporary license" he muttered.
"Bar on West Alley. Starts tomorrow. They feed you and pay you."
( West alley )
The alley reeked of wet wood, stale beer, and human sweat. The bar itself was narrow, dark, tables scarred from decades of spilled drinks. The moment I stepped inside, a familiar weight pressed on my chest: the stench of despair, cheap alcohol and smoke.
I hate theses place's. They reminde me of everything I've escaped... and yet here I am.
Patrons leaned in, whispering, laughing, shouting. I kept my gaze low, moving carefully. Every step on the sticky floor reminded me of my vulnerability here.
I adapted quickly.
Fill mugs.
Clean spills.
Anticipate fights.
Observe.
Every gasture, glance and whisper was a lesson.
The smell of beer and sweat stirred old memories - blood, laughter over things i didn't understand, fear mingeld with something I almost recognized. I wanted to close my eyes, run, vanish.
Days blurred together. I memorized face's, voice's, gestures. Learned which tables erputed into arguments, wich patrons were harmless, wich were trouble. I memorized streets, alleys, escape routes, back entrances. I listened to rumors, half-truths, stories, whispers sticking to walls and floors like dust.
One man muttered quietly about a missing noble.
A woman whispered about a merchant's daughter gone for days. Her voice trembled with fear. I memorized expression, reactions, and subtle hints about the world I had just entered.
The City has layers. Every smile, every glance, every word in a thread. Pull the wrong one and you unravel yourself.
Nights offered little rest. Sleep brought no relief. Figures I did not know, yet somehow recognized, appeared in dreams.
Laughter, my own and not my own, echoed. Shadows twisted with impossible intent. I tried to bury them under routine, to forget. But they presisted.
One fog-heavy night, curling low around my feet, I wandered into a narrow alley. Then I saw it, a body slumped against the wall, pale under a dim lantern, blood pooling around it.
I froze. My stomach churned. My mind raced.
Did I really see this?
Then five figures emerged from the fog.
Calm, deliberate, observing. They did not rush. They did not flinch. They measured.
"You" a voice said, rough and old. "What did you do?"
"I... I didn't..." My voice faltered.
"Then why are you here?"
I said nothing. Their eyes cut into me, calculating, sharp.
Their names were unknown.
They were neither law nor crime.
Something in between.
Ghosts moving through a city that ignored them.
"We see you" said the man.
The following days blurred, work, streets, observation. The Five shadows did not interfere directly but remained present. Shadows flitted past, corners held silent watchers. Testing, observing, waiting.
By the end of the week, it was clear, they had noticed me.
Not friendship.
Not trust.
Observation.
And in a city like this, observation is the first step toward power... or peril.
Above the bar, I lay awake each night. Exhausted yet alert. The pulse of the city below, clinking mugs, distant laughter, occasional footsteps. Thoughts of the alley, the body, the shadows haunted me.