The slope down to Minato was not a quiet road.
Nathan led the horse at a walk and let the crowd form around him — not by choice but by simple density, the path down to the town's gate pulling everyone in the same direction the way a river pulled everything toward its mouth. Merchants with laden carts, their wheels grinding in the road's worn tracks. Men traveling alone with the specific posture of people who had learned not to invite conversation. Women in groups moving with the practiced awareness of people who knew exactly what the road contained and had decided to move through it in numbers.
Most of them looked like they had reasons not to want to be recognized.
Nathan fit the category well enough that he should not have drawn attention.
He drew it anyway.
