Rhys had been walking for a while now.
The sky above had shifted from soft blue to the golden hue of morning, like sunlit stone. The warmth on his skin was pleasant, but it didn't make the walk any easier. His legs burned, the kind of slow, persistent burn that made his steps feel heavier than they should. Each one tugged against the weight on his belt, a bundle of cloth, tied tight, heavy with gold coins that clinked with every step.
That sound. It was starting to get on his nerves.
When the city finally came into view, he didn't feel relief. Just a quiet, tired sort of acknowledgment.
There it was.
Tall stone walls loomed in the distance, rising out of the ground like they'd been part of it all along. Each block looked ancient, solid and weathered, but unmoved by time. Twin gates stood between them, thick planks of wood braced in iron, half-open. The towers that flanked them cast long shadows that stretched across the road like arms reaching for something.
He squinted against the light. The place was massive. Bigger than he'd imagined. Somehow more real now that he was standing here.
A tide of people moved toward the gates, dragging him along with them.
Carts groaned under their loads. Hooves clopped. Voices collided mid-air, sharp, fast, unfamiliar. No one spoke a language he recognized. Not even close.
He tried to pick something out, a familiar rhythm, a shared syllable. Nothing stuck.
Just noise. Unreadable, shapeless noise.
Rhys drifted with the crowd, half-listening, half-watching. He scanned the faces as they passed, but no one looked familiar. Not that he expected them to.
His clothes were catching attention. Not because they were worn, but because they were far too nice.
A deep-blue tunic, lined with gold at the cuffs and collar. Boots that still caught the light. A belt that shimmered faintly under the sun. He looked like someone who'd lost his horse and wandered away from a castle.
Great.
At the gates, two guards stood like statues in bronze-colored armor. Spears upright, shoulders square.
Rhys slowed, watching the people ahead of him. A man in a faded coat stepped forward, pulled out a small silver coin, and handed it over. The guard bit it, casually, and nodded him through.
Rhys frowned.
"...So, payment to enter. That's a thing."
He reached the guards a moment later. One of them gave him a long look, head to toe, like he was trying to figure out which part didn't belong. The other leaned over, whispered something. A brow lifted.
"...Hi?" Rhys tried.
They responded. Calmly. In that same foreign tongue. Measured, but meaningless to him.
"Right. Yeah. I don't really... get what you're saying."
No response. Just steady stares.
He sighed and untied the bundle at his belt, fingers brushing over the coins inside. He hesitated a moment, just a flicker of doubt, then pulled one free and held it out.
A single gold coin. Bright. Heavy.
The guards froze. One of them reached out like he thought it might vanish, then turned it over in his hand, holding it up to the light.
The other leaned in. More whispers.
Rhys shifted on his feet. "Look, I just wanna get in. That enough?"
More glances. Then, finally, they stepped aside.
He walked past without another word. But he could feel it, their eyes on his back. And not just theirs. Other people in line were staring too. Whispering behind their hands.
It was... uncomfortable.
.
.
.
The noise inside the gates hit him like a wave.
Merchants shouted over each other, each trying to outdo the next. The words still meant nothing, but the rhythm was almost musical, fast, rising, falling. The air carried a jumble of smells, meat roasting over open flame, crushed herbs, sweet spices, and the hot, gritty scent of metal from nearby forges.
His stomach twisted.
He didn't think. Just followed the scent.
A bread stall caught his eye. The loaves were stacked high, still steaming. The man behind the counter said something fast and cheerful, but Rhys barely heard him.
He pointed. "Bread?"
The man repeated himself.
Rhys hesitated, then reached for a gold coin. Just one.
The man's eyes widened.
He stopped talking. Didn't ask questions. Didn't bargain.
Just started stacking bread into Rhys's arms. More than a few. Too many. Rhys had to hug them against his chest awkwardly to keep them from falling.
"...Thanks?" he offered, unsure if he was being generous or robbed.
A few nearby shoppers paused mid-step. A woman leaned in close to whisper to her companion.
Rhys adjusted the bread in his arms. Tried to ignore the weight of all the attention.
Then, something tugged at his sleeve.
He looked down.
Children.
Six of them. Thin. Dust on their cheeks. Clothes worn to the thread. But their eyes were bright. Curious. And their hands weren't empty.
Each one held something out.
A little toy, carved from wood. A string, looped and knotted. A button. A smooth pebble.
They spoke quickly, pointing to his bread, to the bundle at his side. One mimed lifting something heavy. A girl held out her pebble with both hands like it was a sacred offering.
He didn't understand the words.
He didn't need to.
Rhys let out a breath and smiled faintly. He shifted the bread to one arm, pulled the bundle off his belt, and handed out coins, one for each child.
Gasps. Laughter. The trinkets disappeared back into their pockets as fingers curled tight around the coins. One girl squealed and darted off into the crowd, dragging her brother with her.
More children arrived.
He gave until there was nothing left in his hand, then waved them off before the crowd swelled too large. They scattered, like birds, gold clutched tight.
Still, he noticed a man watching from the shadows of a doorway. Lean, arms crossed. His face unreadable.
Rhys moved on.
He bought more. Skewers dripping with fat. Pastries powdered with sugar. Fruit so bright it looked painted. A clay jug of something cool and sweet. Every time he paid, the merchant froze. Then shoved twice as much into his hands.
He didn't protest.
By the time he stopped, he was overloaded. Bread under one elbow, skewers balanced on the other, fruit in his arms. He settled on the edge of a stone fountain and began to eat.
Slowly, at first. Then faster.
Warm bread. Salty meat. Syrupy sweetness.
At some point, he stopped. Not because he wanted to, but because he was full. Painfully full.
He stared at the half-eaten pastry in his hand.
Yesterday, he'd died hungry.
Today... he couldn't finish what he'd been given.
He stood slowly. And felt it again.
The shift.
Not in the air. Not in the light. In the people.
Conversations dipped when he walked past. Eyes lingered. The way people moved around him had changed.
He felt... noticed.
Important.
Dangerous.
It was a little terrifying.
And a little exhilarating.
.
.
.
He followed a narrow street between leaning buildings. Midway through, he froze.
Three men. Two children. Struggling.
He recognized the faces. The boy with the pebble. The girl with the button.
"Hey! Stop!" he shouted.
The men turned. One laughed and spat something in his own language.
Rhys stepped forward. "I said stop!"
A fist met the boy's face. The girl was shoved aside. A coin ripped from her grip.
Rhys didn't think. He grabbed one of them by the shoulder.
The response was immediate.
A blow to his face. Another to his ribs.
The bundle tore loose. Coins spilled.
Plink. Plinkplinkplink.
Then chaos.
The men dove, clawing for gold. The children tried to resist, one was kicked aside.
A knee caught Rhys in the gut. He fell, breath stolen.
And something cracked.
He felt it, like a thread snapping inside him.
The pain dulled. His arms... burned.
Heat crawled over his skin, under it. Something surged.
Then—
Boom.
Gold burst from his hands.
It erupted.
Coins slammed into the men, knocked them backward. The alley flooded, shin-deep, waist-deep, chest-deep. They screamed. Thrashed. Sank.
Rhys pulled the children close, shielding them. The torrent slowed. Stopped.
Silence.
Just the gentle clink of settling coins.
People crowded the mouth of the alley. Whispering.
Then, the crowd parted.
A man stepped through.
Armor. Sword. A badge gleaming at his chest.
An adventurer. Others followed behind.
They moved past Rhys, hauling the thugs out from the gold. Coughing. Dazed. Alive.
The leader turned to Rhys. Said something firm. Direct.
Rhys didn't understand the words.
But he understood the look.
You're coming with us.
The man took his arm. Not harshly, but without room to argue.
The crowd watched as they walked through the market, to a stone building with thick doors and narrow windows.
And that's when it hit him.
This wasn't a thanks.
It was an interrogation.