The rain stops without warning.
Not gradually — not the way storms usually fade — but as if the sky itself has been ordered to hold its breath. Droplets freeze mid-fall for a fraction of a second before vanishing into the night air, leaving the streets glossy and silent.
I stand there, stunned, my reflection wavering in the wet stone beneath my feet.
EG remains beside me.
He hasn't spoken, but I can feel the city responding to him — not fearfully, not obediently, but respectfully. The lights along the avenue brighten on their own. Windows illuminate one by one, as though an unseen audience has awakened.
This place knows him.
No — it recognizes him.
"EG…" My voice sounds smaller than I intend. "What did you just do?"
He turns his head slightly, golden eyes catching the ambient glow. "Nothing," he says calmly. "I simply arrived where I am acknowledged."
The words send a quiet tremor through me.
The square unfolds.
Where cracked pavement once lay, polished stone now stretches outward, engraved with faint sigils I somehow understand without ever having learned them. Tall iron gates rise at the far end of the street, opening slowly, revealing a private road lined with sculpted trees and soft, golden lights.
This isn't a public space.
It never was.
People appear at the edges of my vision — attendants, drivers, figures dressed in elegant dark coats. None of them speak. None of them stare.
They bow.
Not deeply. Not theatrically.
Just enough to acknowledge rank.
I inhale sharply. "They're bowing to you."
EG's gaze flickers to me. "To us," he corrects.
My heart skips. "Us?"
"You walked through the city and survived when it tested you," he says. "That alone places you beyond ordinary standing."
The gate fully opens.
A vehicle waits beyond it — understated, immaculate, the kind of luxury that doesn't need ornamentation to announce value. The door opens without a sound.
I hesitate.
Not from fear — from the weight of what stepping forward means.
"Once I cross that line," I say quietly, "nothing goes back to the way it was."
EG studies me for a long moment. Then he reaches out, fingers hovering near my wrist without touching.
"Nothing should," he replies.
I step forward.
The gate closes behind us with finality.
Inside the vehicle, the world feels distant — muted glass separating me from the city I thought I knew. The interior is warm, lit softly, every surface chosen with deliberate care.
"This place," I say, breaking the silence, "isn't just wealth."
"No," EG agrees. "It's legacy."
The vehicle begins to move.
"EG," I say, turning toward him. "Who are you really?"
He doesn't answer immediately.
Outside, the city gives way to elevated grounds — terraces overlooking glowing districts, water features reflecting constellations of light. An estate emerges ahead, vast and restrained, stone and glass balanced into something timeless.
Finally, he speaks.
"My family is one of the Founding Houses," he says. "Not public royalty. Not ceremonial. We exist above visibility. Our role is preservation — of balance, of order, of continuity."
I swallow. "So you're… nobility."
His lips curve faintly. "If you need a word for it."
"And me?" I ask softly.
The vehicle slows as it approaches the estate.
EG turns fully toward me now, expression unreadable but intent. "You are not House-born," he says. "You are City-born."
My pulse quickens.
"Before houses, before titles," he continues, "there were individuals chosen by the city itself. Rare. Powerful. Dangerous if unguarded."
My fingers curl into my coat. "That sounds like a myth."
He leans closer.
"The city opened its sealed streets to you," he says quietly. "It demanded truth from you. And when you answered, it did not reject you."
His hand lifts, brushing lightly over the pearl at my collarbone. The contact is brief, restrained — but it sends a shiver straight through me.
"You are one of the remembered," he murmurs. "Even if you forgot yourself."
The vehicle stops.
The door opens onto a grand entrance, attendants waiting at a respectful distance.
"This is where you'll stay," EG says.
"With you?" I ask.
"For now," he replies. "Until you decide what you wish to become."
I step out.
The estate is breathtaking — halls of polished stone, warm light spilling from towering windows, water flowing softly through sculpted channels. Everything feels deliberate, calm, powerful.
This place isn't meant to impress.
It's meant to endure.
Inside, EG leads me through the halls until we reach a balcony overlooking the city. From here, the lights stretch endlessly, the rain clouds thinning above.
He stops beside me.
"You don't belong beneath this city," he says. "And you don't belong above it either."
I turn to him. "Then where do I belong?"
His gaze holds mine — steady, intense, unflinching.
"Beside me," he says simply. "Until you learn how to stand on your own."
The words aren't a confession.
They're a promise.
And as the city glows beneath us, I realize something quietly terrifying:
This world isn't inviting me in.
It's preparing to crown me.