The lower districts held nothing particularly noteworthy at first glance. Right after he got back to his manor, Kirias had headed out immediately to scout them. He wasn't the refined scholar now; he moved through the streets as Flyn, the Nix.
In this form, he blended perfectly into the background of the soot-stained alleys and crowded marketplaces. The lower district was a labyrinth of crumbling brick and narrow passages that smelled of stagnant water and cheap coal.
He noted the locations of the heavy iron sewer grates, the height of the interconnected rooftops, and the various choke points where the narrow streets met the main thoroughfares.
He spent hours walking the perimeter of the docks and the warehouse district. He looked for the gaps in the city's structure—the places where the underworld thrived. He marked the entrances to low-end gambling dens and the back-alley brokers, ensuring that if he ever needed to disappear or purchase a soul, he knew exactly where to turn.
As he skirted the edge of the docks, the atmosphere shifted. It wasn't just the usual grime of labor; there was nervous energy in the air.
He passed a group of laborers huddled near a stack of crates, their voices low but sharp with excitement.
"They say the procession is only days away," one whispered, his eyes darting around. "The Saintess... they say she can heal even the blight."
"It doesn't matter for the likes of us," another hissed back, though he leaned in closer. "The Church doesn't look at the dirt. But if she passes the main gate, I'm going to be there. Just to see the light they talk about."
Further down, near a flickering mana-lamp, an old woman was sat on a crate, surrounded by a few wide-eyed children. Her voice was raspy, spinning a tale that made Flyn pause for a fraction of a second.
"...they were beings capable of impressing gods and demons alike," she murmured, her gnarled hands trembling as she gestured toward the darkened sky. "They were the Humans. Beings of smooth skin, much like the elves, yet they were those who burned the brightest while living the shortest of lives. They once walked alongside our ancestors, carving their legacy into the very bones of the world... but one day, they simply disappeared."
The children leaned in, breathless, but Flyn didn't linger. He pulled his collar higher and melted back into the flow of the crowd. To the desperate souls in the gutter, the "Human" myth was a common story, a haunting legend of a race so ambitious they had burned themselves out of existence. It was a tale that, like all great legends, was both true and false at the same time.
By the time the sun began to set below the horizon, he had a clear mental image of how to move from the slums to the upper district without ever stepping into the light of a main road.
He returned to the upper district, shedding the skin of Flyn to become Caldris once more.
He had gathered a significant amount of information in a single day, bridging the gap between the refined politics of the nobility and the desperate rumors of the slums. It was a productive start, but it had also narrowed his window of opportunity. With only three days left before the Saintess arrived, he had to be careful with his time.
He mapped out a plan. He would need to investigate the high district's archives. He had noticed a large library earlier, a stone structure that looked like it held more than just poetry and ledger books. If he was lucky, he would be able to find more precise details of how people used magic and how the Church operated.
He stepped back inside his manor, the silence of the empty halls greeting him. It was only then, as the adrenaline of the day began to fade, that he realized a glaring oversight in his planning: he had completely forgotten to buy food.
He had only moved in that morning, and in his rush to establish his presence and scout the city, he hadn't thought to stock the pantry. The kitchen was still as bare as it was that morning.
While he could've easily got something in the common room back at the inn, he had no such service at his place. He smoothed out his robes, adjusted his hood, and headed back out into the upper district.
The restaurants here were a far cry from the soot-stained stalls of the docks. He chose a place with a modest stone exterior, tucked away from the main road. Inside, the air was warm and smelled of expensive herbs and slow-roasted meats. The lighting was dim, provided by soft mana-crystals that didn't strain the eyes.
He found a small table in a corner, far from the other patrons. A waiter approached, hesitant at first because of the hood and his elven looks, but the quality of Kirias's clothing and his calm demeanor were enough to secure service without a fuss.
As he waited for his meal, he watched the other diners. They were mostly mid-tier nobles and wealthy merchants, people who spoke in hushed tones about trade routes and the rising price of minerals.
He ate quickly, the meal—a well-seasoned poultry dish—filled the void left by a day of constant movement. Even while eating, his mind was busy. He was already visualizing the furnace at the Iron Scale Guild and the specific heat required to replicate the patterns he had seen in the elven pendant.
He paid and stood up to leave, making his way back toward the manor. As he walked through the quiet, mana-lit streets, he mentally chided himself for the string of oversights he had made.
For a man who prided himself on his brilliance, today had been uncharacteristically messy. From forgetting a basic necessity like food to accidentally tethering himself to the one person he needed to avoid—it was a series of blunders. The Saintess hadn't even arrived in the city yet, and he had already managed to secure a front-row seat to her arrival.
He wondered, half humorously, if the portal to Kallithra had addled his brain along the way or something.