The next morning, Kaizlan was awake before a knock came at his door.
He put on a simple gray coat and fastened his sword — though he didn't expect he'd need it.
He glanced at himself in the mirror for a moment, then stepped outside.
In the courtyard of the guest estate, his escort was already waiting — a man in his forties named Fallon.
An expert on the capital. A long, quiet history in military service.
Fallon spoke in an even tone:
"You asked for a tour of the city, didn't you?"
Kaizlan nodded.
Fallon replied,
"Then let's begin where everyone does… the market."
⸻
They walked through narrow stone alleys,
the smell of coal thick in the air,
voices echoing from every corner:
vendors, beggars, couriers, guards, carts—
noise filling the gaps between walls.
Asteir was alive—
but it didn't welcome everyone.
As they moved through the crowd, Fallon said,
"In this city, you see everything… but no one sees you."
Kaizlan asked,
"Don't they know who I am?"
Fallon answered simply,
"They know you're a noble… but they don't know if that matters."
Then added,
"In Asteir, what goes unsaid… carries more weight than what's spoken."
⸻
At the central market, Kaizlan paused beside a humble bread vendor.
A line of poor children waited, clutching copper coins.
Their faces were pale, but their eyes sharp.
One boy—no older than eight—dropped his coin without noticing.
Another child snatched it up and slipped it into his sleeve.
Kaizlan stepped forward instinctively, but Fallon placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Don't."
– "He stole from him."
– "The boy knows. He chose not to speak."
– "Why?"
– "Because he's too weak to claim what was taken from him."
Kaizlan stood frozen.
He didn't know what to say.
⸻
They kept walking.
They entered a district known as The Alley of Silence,
where small workshops and modest factories crowded the narrow streets.
Most of the workers were former slaves or servants—
men and women with bodies worn thin by labor.
Kaizlan saw a woman scrubbing the stone floor in silence.
Her hand was wrapped in cloth.
Her face, bruised.
He asked quietly,
"Who did this to her?"
Fallon replied,
"Maybe her husband. Maybe her master. Maybe life itself."
– "And no one stops it?"
– "There are laws, yes… but they're only enforced when those above find it useful to enforce them."
Kaizlan said nothing.
What he saw wasn't new because no one had told him before—
but because he had never believed it until now.
⸻
On the way back, they passed a tall stone wall.
An old mural still lingered on its surface—
faded, but not yet forgotten.
A man in a black cloak, placing a flower on the chest of a lifeless body.
Kaizlan asked,
"What's this painting?"
Fallon answered slowly, not turning to look,
"They say it's the mark of the faceless killer… the Elegant Man."
– "A killer?"
– "So they say. No one's seen his face. No name ever confirmed.
Whenever he kills, he leaves a black rose on the chest."
Kaizlan stared at the painted rose.
He didn't know why,
but a quiet shiver crept down his spine.
⸻
When he returned to his quarters, he sat alone in the inner courtyard.
He wasn't just thinking about what he had seen—
but about the things he didn't know how to face.
He whispered to himself,
"If they all live like this…
then where is the justice I read about in books?"
No one answered.
But the city did—
in its silence.
The more it said nothing,
the louder the noise grew inside him.