Dawn after the barrier was different. The air tasted softer, touched with the scent of dew and distant wildflowers—so different from the smoke and ash that had filled Cael's lungs for days. The birds sang brighter, and for the first time since the fire, Cael and Aylin woke without dread squeezing their hearts. They sat together for a long time at the edge of the shimmering barrier, trading stories and guesses about their mother's hidden power, letting a fragile sense of safety settle over them.
But hunger and the urge to move on soon nudged them down the mountain. They picked their way along deer trails, the world opening wider with each step. Below spread a rolling valley: gold-green fields, neat dikes holding young rice and pale water, and roads winding away toward something vast and unknown.
By midday, the last trees let go. Fences appeared, marking rice paddies and vegetable plots. Smoke curled from sturdy farmhouses. People were everywhere—farmers bent over their rows, children chasing goats, women balancing baskets as they called to each other over cabbage and onions. The city, a gray smear on the horizon, loomed closer with every heartbeat.
Aylin squeezed Cael's hand as they walked. "So many people," she whispered, not quite afraid but so full of wonder that Cael felt it in his own chest.
He squeezed her hand back, trying to be steady for both of them. "It's different, isn't it? Not just us and the trees anymore."
As they walked the winding road, Cael's awareness sharpened. It was impossible not to notice the glances he drew—tall for his age, shoulders squared by work at the forge, and carrying a battered shield. His clothes were patched and stained, and his hands marked by scrapes and old burns. He wasn't the sort of stray these people were used to seeing.
He caught snatches of conversation:
"Looks like a smith's apprentice, not a beggar," a man muttered, watching him pass.
"Poor girl, but sharp-eyed," a woman whispered to her friend, noticing Aylin's bruised shins and battered doll.
Most people looked away quickly. Suffering wasn't unusual here—folks learned to keep their heads down.
As noon bells tolled in the city, the road swelled with travelers. Scholars in faded robes walked beside porters with heavy loads and children who darted in and out of the crowd on errands. The noise pressed in—a hundred conversations, the scrape of wheels on stone, the sharp calls of hawkers selling boiled eggs, sweet buns, and pickled vegetables.
The city itself rose before them—walls of gray stone, high and proud, broken by watchtowers and roofs that shimmered under the sun. Flags snapped on the battlements. Cael stopped and stared, Aylin's hand still in his, letting the sight press into his mind. He realized that whatever happened here, life kept moving—a thousand stories tangled together, hope and worry and simple routine woven into every stone.
As they moved closer, Cael's eyes missed nothing. He saw the magic that lived alongside the mundane. An old woman floated a basket of apples above her head with a flick of her fingers, her cultivation aura faint but unmistakable. Children laughed and chased spinning orbs of colored light conjured by a young man in a scholar's robe, his joy infectious as he guided them through the marketplace.
But Cael also saw what others might miss. The woman with magic apples wiped her brow and winced, massaging her hip. The young man who conjured orbs paused to cough, his shoulders slumping with tiredness when he thought no one was watching. A cultivator in fine clothes—sure of his power—still haggled over the price of bread, his face tight with worry. A fishmonger with a glowing talisman on his cart yelled himself hoarse but swept up the scales and guts himself when customers grew scarce.
In between, there were countless ordinary people—mud on their hems, hands rough from work, laughter easy, eyes wary. Some stopped for a moment to watch a cultivator's trick, then went back to their chores. Others barely looked up, focused on the aches in their backs, dinners to cook, bills to pay. Cael realized then that everyone, powerful or not, felt hunger. Everyone got tired. Even those with magic moved with the same weight as everyone else, pulled down by worry, hope, and the stubborn will to keep going.
Aylin's gaze was wide, drinking in everything. "Are they all… powerful?" she breathed, awe and a little fear in her voice.
Cael shook his head, a gentle crooked smile on his lips. "No. Most are just people. Some train, some get lucky. But everyone here gets hungry, gets tired. Nobody's as different as they seem, Aylin. Even the ones with magic still need to rest."
As they walked, Cael watched how people moved around cultivators. Some gave them a wide berth, respect or envy in their eyes. Others just ignored them, more interested in the price of beans. At one stall, a cultivator with glowing hands tried to fix a broken scale, but the merchant just sighed and asked him to move out of the way. The world, Cael realized, didn't belong to the powerful alone.
They passed two guards in lacquered armor at a busy crossroads. The guards' gazes lingered on Cael's height, the shield at his back. One nodded with a flicker of respect, the other softened when she saw Aylin's dirty face and her fierce, sparrow-bright gaze.
"Traveling from far?" one of the guards asked.
Cael just nodded, careful. "Jade Valley. Looking for work. Looking for a new home."
The guard grunted and waved them on. "Keep your shield close at the gate, boy. The city's busy today."
At last, the city gates came into full view—an arch of heavy stone, carved with curling symbols and watched by a dozen guards. Travelers waited in snaking lines: some with carts, some with children, some with livestock. Cultivators in fine robes and with badges on their arms moved through with quick nods, but most people waited, patient or sullen, until it was their turn.
Aylin pressed close, her voice a nervous whisper. "Do we tell them about the fire? About the mountain?"
Cael knelt so they could talk face-to-face, trying to make himself smaller for her sake. His voice was low and gentle. "We have to be careful, Aylin. We say we're from a village that was raided by bandits. Nothing about the barrier. Nothing about Mom's skills. Not everyone here is kind, no matter how they smile. There are secrets we have to keep—at least until we find someone we can trust."
Aylin bit her lip, stubborn and sad. She wanted so badly to say more, but she nodded. "Bandits. Not raiders. Not cultivators."
Cael squeezed her hand tight, pride and sadness mixing in his heart. "That's right. You'll remember."
They joined the slow-moving line, feeling the weight of their secret. As they edged forward, Cael caught snippets of city life:
"…the City Lord's decree—no fighting between families at the gate…"
"…last time Zheng and Wu almost came to blows—lucky the Lord keeps order…"
"…Han healers are charging double this month, can you believe it?"
"…Jiang merchants always get the best stalls. Must have friends in the right places…"
The siblings exchanged a glance. Already, Cael understood. This city was a maze of power and rules they'd have to learn fast. Family names mattered. Who you talked to, who you avoided, what you said—all of it could decide if you found help or trouble.
A cart rattled past, its driver muttering about "Han medics and their prices," as porters nearby gossiped about merchants' fortunes and the latest bad luck from the Wu family. The city's current ran deep beneath the surface—strong, subtle, always shifting. Cael knew better than to challenge it. For now, they'd have to swim quietly in its wake.
As they neared the arch, the crowd thickened. Cael felt the energy of a thousand lives swirling around them—hopes, losses, stories woven into every face.
He caught his own reflection in a puddle at the gate: tall, lean, eyes too old for a boy his age. The battered shield at his back looked almost out of place among the city's flash. But he felt the weight of it—his father's hand, his promise—grounding him.
The guards looked them over, eyes sliding from Cael's shield to Aylin's doll and back again.
For the first time, Cael realized something: the city, for all its size and noise, was made up of people no less fragile than he and Aylin. Some were strong, some clever, some desperate. But none of them were invincible. Not really. Not even the ones who wore magic on their sleeves.
He could do this. They both could.
At last, the gates yawned open and the line moved forward. Stories swirled in every voice, every gesture—a thousand lives, a thousand secrets. Cael and Aylin stepped through, hand in hand, hope and fear tangled in their chests, into the unknown.
Above them, the city's banners fluttered in a sudden breeze, bright against the gray stone. And for the first time, Cael looked at the world and thought—not of what he'd lost, but of what might be waiting, just ahead.