Criston's streets buzzed with the noise of a port city at midday. Vendors shouted from stalls stacked with fruit and crates of silk, while fishermen argued over their hauls, nets dripping seawater onto the stones.
The Church patrols moved through it all in tight formation, armour bright beneath the summer sun, their attention fixed on the crowds rather than the road ahead.
Gabriel navigated the press with care. His hood stayed low, keeping the faint red glow of his eyes hidden, and the sword at his hip rested softly against his leg with each step. The weight of it was a reminder of how little margin he had left.
He carried no map, only the captain's rough directions. "Follow the inland trade road. Avoid the main checkpoints. Reach Bridgedon in three days if nothing goes wrong."
Adaranthe lay beyond that, another hard day's travel deeper into Vaelmir. Supplies came first. His remaining coins would not last long.
