A few days later, we entered the capital.
And immediately, I knew—The stage had changed. The guards recognized us as the merchant from the north, the moment our carriage slowed. Armor clinked, spears struck stone, and they bowed low, respectfully, eyes carefully lowered. People buzzed around us, whispers trailing like loose ribbons—merchant caravans, nobles passing, street criers yelling nonsense about miracle tonics and divine blessings.
Capital energy. Fake smiles. Real knives.
A few hours later, we slipped into the black market district, and the world rotted again.
Filth clung to everything. The air was thick with grease, smoke, sweat, and desperation. Beggars lined the alleys like shadows with hands. Vendors shouted over one another, hawking illegal relics, cursed charms, half-dead beasts in cages, and potions that would either cure your cold or melt your organs.
