A heavy brass sign, bolted firmly to the city's main gate, gleamed under the golden afternoon sun.
The name etched in elegant, flowing script: Vespera.
The polished metal caught the light so intensely it seemed to radiate a warm, golden welcome to anyone approaching.
Inside, the air was a rich tapestry of scents.
Freshly baked bread mingling with the sweet, heady aroma of jasmine blooming from stone balconies.
The streets hummed with a melody of life.
Brightly colored stalls lined the cobblestone paths, where fruit vendors called out in rhythmic, melodic voices.
Their crates overflowing with sun-ripened produce.
The silver rhythmic clinking of copperware from a nearby smithy blended perfectly with the distant sound of neighbors sharing a loud, hearty laugh.
"Catch me if you can!" a young boy's voice rang out, high and clear.
A little girl in a fluttering blue dress darted through the crowd with effortless grace.
Weaving between baskets and passersby.
Behind her, a small pack of children scrambled, their faces flushed with the pure, breathless joy of the chase.
Every face in the crowd wore a relaxed, easy smile.
Citizens greeted one another with polite nods and warm inquiries.
Their conversations lingering in the air like a soft hum.
Shopkeepers stood proudly at their doorsteps, leaning against the wooden frames as they showcased their wares with unhurried ease.
Near the central fountain, a group of elders sat on stone benches.
Their shoulders shaking with quiet amusement as they traded old stories.
In this moment, Vespera felt like a living, breathing poem.
A place where worry had no name, and the entire city was bathed in an endless, golden celebration of peace.
The laughter of the elders near the fountain had barely faded when a man emerged from the heart of the crowd.
There was a distinct rhythm to his stride—measured, disciplined, and heavy.
He wore a coat of stiff, dark-tan leather with silver patches glinting on his shoulders.
Reminiscent of a high-ranking guard or a sentinel.
The rhythmic click of his boots against the cobblestones commanded a space of its own.
As he moved, the vibrant chaos of the alleyways shifted into a respectful hum.
Whether it was the fruit vendor or the merchant polishing his copper, anyone who caught sight of him paused.
They offered deep, sincere nods; some bowed their heads in silent reverence.
While others stepped aside to clear his path with instinctive grace.
His face didn't carry the weight of a scowl, but it bore an unmistakable aura of authority that demanded notice.
Suddenly, the little girl in the blue dress collided straight into the man's knees.
Before she could tumble, his large, calloused hands caught her mid-air with effortless precision.
He lifted her high, holding her firmly yet gently.
A flicker of protective warmth softened his stern features.
"Cease the mischief, little one," he said, his voice a calm, resonant baritone.
"Can't you see how crowded it is today? You'll catch a bruise if you keep this up."
The girl didn't shrink away; instead, she rested a small hand on his sturdy shoulder with familiar ease.
Setting her back down, he gestured toward the open town square.
With a faint, reassuring smile, he added, "Go on, take your games to the meadow."
"Do not risk the crowd—there is much work to be done here yet."
At his word, the children chirped their agreement and scrambled toward the open fields.
The man stood tall, watching their retreating figures until they vanished into the distance.
His sharp eyes sweeping over the city one more time with a watchful, silent intensity.
The man was still watching the children fade when a synchronized thud of heavy boots echoed from the far end of the alley.
As the sound drew nearer, the crowd instinctively parted, creating a wide, silent corridor.
A group of about ten men marched toward him.
But their presence was starkly different from the quiet authority of the first man.
While the first man's coat was simple and understated, these guards were clad in rigid, imposing gear.
They wore thick, slate-gray leather tunics reinforced with iron ribbing.
Heavy leather belts cinched their waists, adorned with brass chains that clinked rhythmically with every disciplined stride.
Their faces were partially obscured by high, stiff collars and low-brimmed caps.
Lending them an air of shadowed mystery.
Unlike the calm elegance of the first man's movement, these newcomers marched with a sharp, militaristic edge.
Their uniforms were pristine and stiff, as if prepared for a specific, imminent task.
As they came to a halt behind him, the hierarchy was undeniable.
He stood among them like a seasoned commander, while they were the cold, sharp blades waiting for his word.
As they fell into formation behind him, the atmosphere of the market sharpened.
The citizens no longer looked on with just respect.
A flicker of hesitation and awe now traced their eyes.
Ignoring the heavy presence of the guards behind him, Kelen stepped toward the central fountain.
As his shadow stretched across the elders, the laughter died down.
An old man with a flowing white beard leaned on his cane, squinting up at him with a warm, weathered smile.
"Ah, Kelen, my boy!" he chirped, his eyes crinkling with genuine affection.
"What brings you out in this scorching sun with all these 'iron-clad' lads?"
"If the city is running short on supplies or if there's anything specific you need, you only have to ask us old folk."
"There isn't a thing in Vespera's market we can't find for you."
The other elders nodded in agreement, looking at Kelen as if he were still the young boy who used to kick dust in these very streets.
A ghost of a smile flickered on Kelen's lips, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
He glanced back at the stoic, masked expressions of his guards before turning back to the group.
"No, no, Grandfather... thank you," Kelen replied, his voice dropping into a lower, more serious register.
"Supplies are plenty. We are merely here to visit the smiths."
"We came to inspect the weapons... and to see if their edge is sharp enough."
The word 'weapons' hung in the air like a sudden chill.
Amidst the vibrant chatter of the marketplace, it sounded out of place—sharp and jarring.
The elders' smiles faltered for a fraction of a second, but Kelen didn't look away.
In his eyes, that 'mask' was visible—a truth he was protecting, even from those who had watched him grow.