The road crested the final ridge just as dawn spilled gold over the horizon. Shithead reined in his horse, heart hammering, breath catching in his throat.
Below sprawled Westmarch.
It was larger than anything he had ever imagined, larger than he thought a city could be. Greystone would fit into one of its quarters, swallowed whole by its crowded streets and smoke-stained rooftops. A wall of stone circled the city, broken by high gates where banners rippled. Beyond those walls, towers and spires stabbed the sky, tiled roofs stretched in every direction, and smoke from a thousand chimneys curled into the morning air. Bells rang faintly, carrying up to the ridge like the voices of giants.
"Westmarch," Kaelen said, matter-of-fact, as though naming it made it no less overwhelming. "Stay close. Keep your eyes forward."
They descended toward the gates with the road growing busier around them. Traders in carts stacked with wool or barrels creaked past. A drove of pigs squealed as they were herded along. A group of pilgrims trudged barefoot, chanting prayers, their wooden sun disks clacking against their chests. Shithead kept his mare steady, feeling her press nervously against Kaelen's warhorse with so many bodies crowding the road.
The gates themselves were carved stone, taller than any building in Greystone, flanked by towers manned with guards in green and gold tabards — the colors of Westmarch. Their armor was mismatched, some steel, some boiled leather, but their eyes were sharp.
"Purpose of visit?" one guard barked as they reached the arch.
Kaelen drew himself upright in the saddle. "Ser Kaelen of the Silver Sun. Escorting an initiate."
The guard's gaze slid to Shithead. His brows lifted at the tusks, the broad shoulders. His lip curled faintly before he schooled it flat. "Initiate, eh?" He snorted but stepped back, motioning them through.
The city swallowed them whole.
The first street was a torrent. Merchants shouted from stalls, their voices competing in a dozen accents. Fishmongers waved fresh catch on hooks; spice sellers shook tins of crimson and gold powders that stung Shithead's nose with their sharpness; a clothier thrust bolts of dyed linen so bright they seemed to glow. A juggler tossed knives above the crowd, children shrieking with delight. Beggars sat at corners, palms outstretched. The stink of horse dung mingled with roasting meat, tar, and perfume until Shithead's head swam.
He had thought the harvest festivals of Greystone noisy. They were silence compared to this.
"Eyes forward," Kaelen repeated, his voice steady amid the chaos.
Shithead tried. But his gaze kept snatching at every detail. A woman in silks, her hair braided with coins. A pair of dwarves bent over a cartwheel, their beards woven with copper wire. A dog darting through legs, chased by boys shouting in three different dialects.
The street narrowed, then widened into a square. Here, an open market spread wide, with a fountain at its heart — a stone knight with sword raised, water spilling from the blade. Banners stretched overhead, strung between buildings. Vendors hawked skewers of sizzling meat, fresh-baked bread, candied fruit. Shithead's stomach growled loud enough to make him flush.
Kaelen steered him through. "You'll eat at the Chapterhouse."
They passed into narrower lanes, where sunlight barely reached between leaning upper stories. Washed clothes hung from windows like flags. Cats slunk along roofs, tails twitching. Here the city smelled of damp stone, rot, and human sweat. A boy darted close, reaching for Shithead's belt pouch, only to freeze as Kaelen's gaze pinned him like a blade. The boy bolted into shadow.
"Keep your hand on your coin," Kaelen said without turning his head.
Shithead's fingers closed protectively over Mira's pouch. He felt the lockpick inside, a reminder of her sly grin.
The streets climbed again, widening, brightening. Shops grew grander here — jewelers, moneylenders, scribes with neat rows of parchment. Guards patrolled in pairs, their armor shinier, their eyes sharper. A bell tolled the hour, and all at once, Shithead realized how much the city moved by its own rhythm, so much larger than the steady pulse of Greystone.
And then he saw it.
The Chapterhouse of the Silver Sun.
It did not dominate the skyline — taller spires rose elsewhere — but it commanded attention all the same. Its walls were white stone, clean and unmarred, rising in simple strength rather than gaudy height. The great doors of oak were banded with bronze, flanked by banners bearing the silver sun crest that rippled in the wind. Windows arched high, some filled with colored glass that gleamed in the light. A broad stair led up from the street, and on its steps stood acolytes in white tabards, sweeping, polishing, carrying water.
In the midst of Westmarch's noise and bustle, the Chapterhouse radiated calm.
Shithead's breath caught. His mare tossed her head, as though sensing his awe.
"This is where your road begins," Kaelen said. He dismounted with fluid ease, leading his warhorse to the base of the steps.
Shithead slid down clumsily, boots thudding against stone. His legs wobbled from days in the saddle, but he straightened, squaring his shoulders. The charm pressed into his wrist — five beads, five voices, five promises.
He followed Kaelen up the stairs. Each step seemed heavier, as though stone itself tested him. At the top, one of the acolytes pushed the great doors open. Light spilled out — gold and white, cool and steady.
Shithead crossed the threshold.
The city's chaos fell away behind him.