The outer walls of Lorenfell rose higher with every step, swallowing the horizon until stone and sky were all Trin could see.
Up close, the city felt less like a single place and more like several layered on top of each other. The outer wall was thick, pale stone stained by weather and smoke, its gate flanked by two tall towers. Banner‑strips bearing Vaelion's stag crest stirred in the breeze above, the fabric catching late-afternoon light.
The road funneled them toward the main gate in a steady stream of people.
Merchants with creaking wagons. Farmers with carts of produce. A pair of traveling performers in bright, slightly frayed clothes. A small company of soldiers marching the opposite direction, armor clinking in unison. All of them merged into a line that trickled toward the shadowed archway.
"Stay together," Garran said over his shoulder. "They'll have questions."
"About the dragon?" Lysa asked.
"About everything," Garran said. "That's the capital's favorite pastime."
As they neared the gate, the guards at the arch's mouth became more distinct: heavier armor, polished helms, spears held at a sharper angle than the town watchers they were used to. A wooden desk had been set up just inside the arch, papers stacked in a precarious tower, an officer seated behind it with a quill in hand and a weariness in his eyes that suggested he'd been repeating the same questions all day.
When it was their turn, Garran stepped forward, motioning the others to stay just behind.
"Freewardens of Arlindale," he said. "Under contract to bring a dragon report to Lorenfell. We were told to present this on arrival."
He handed over a sealed letter, bearing Mereth's mark and the wax impression of the Freewarden crest.
The officer broke the seal, scanned the contents, and straightened slightly. His gaze flicked to the group, then back to the letter.
"A dragon," he said, in a tone that tried for nonchalance and landed somewhere closer to strained. "You're sure?"
"Yes," Garran said. "And we're not the sort to walk all this way as a joke."
The officer pursed his lips, then lifted a hand and snapped his fingers. A younger guard—a runner by his lighter gear—trotted over.
"Take word to the Arcanum liaison and the castle steward," the officer said. "Tell them the Freewarden delegation has arrived with the requested report."
The runner nodded sharply and sprinted off through a side passage, boots slapping on stone.
The officer returned his attention to Garran. "You'll need to be inspected before entry," he said. "Standard procedure. Weapons peace‑bound while you're within the inner districts unless under direct order."
"Understood," Garran replied.
They were led aside to a small inspection area under the arch's shadow. A pair of guards checked their packs with methodical thoroughness, hands moving through clothing, tools, and supplies. Trin endured the process calmly, answering questions about his tools with simple, plausible explanations. Naera's new staff, now part of her everyday gear, drew a longer look; the carved grooves and balanced weight marked it as better work than most. But when she said, "Gift from a craftsman—nothing enchanted, just well-made," and it passed a cursory mage‑sense from a watchful guard without flaring, they moved on.
Weapons were tagged and bound with thin cords—bright red, easily cut in an emergency, but a visible indicator of any unnecessary escalation.
By the time the inspection was finished, the runner had returned, slightly out of breath.
"You're to be housed near the Arcanum compound," he said, addressing Garran but glancing at Naera's ink marks and staff with interest. "And close to the castle's outer ward. The council wants you on hand first thing."
"Of course they do," Lysa muttered.
They were escorted through the gate and into the city proper.
Lorenfell unfolded around them in layers.
The outer district near the wall was a press of narrow streets, shops, workshops, and tightly packed houses. Laundry fluttered overhead like improvised banners. The air smelled of bread, sweat, horses, and a hundred cooking fires.
As they moved inward, the streets widened, the buildings grew taller and more uniform. Decorative stonework appeared: carved beasts on lintels, reliefs depicting battles and coronations, small shrines tucked into wall niches.
Eventually, the press of common dwellings gave way to more ordered structures. Ahead, a cluster of white‑stone buildings rose behind a low enclosing wall, their roofs capped with slate, their windows framed by carved sigils.
Naera's breath caught. One hand tightened around the smooth wood of her staff. "The Arcanum," she murmured.
To their right and further back, higher still, the castle complex dominated the view—a series of interconnected keeps and towers atop a raised foundation, banners snapping in the breeze.
Their escort led them to a guest house nestled between the Arcanum's side wall and a smaller administrative building tied to the castle's business. It was not lavish, but it was solid: two stories, shuttered windows, a wide doorway.
Inside, they were shown to a common hall with a long table and several doors leading to small rooms.
"Your lodging," the escort said. "Food will be brought here, or you can eat in the attached dining room with staff. The council expects you tomorrow at second bell of the morning in the north chamber of the Arcanum's main hall. Don't be late."
Garran gave a short nod. "We'll be there."
Once the guard left, there was a brief, collective exhale.
"Well," Lysa said, dropping her pack with a thump near one of the doors, "this is nicer than half the inns we've stayed in, and no one has tried to stab us in the last hour. I'm calling it a win."
"Small victories," Garran agreed.
Trin chose a room without comment—a narrow bed, a chest, a basin. He set his pack down but didn't fully unpack. Naera, standing in the hall with her staff planted lightly beside her, watched him for a heartbeat, then disappeared into her own room.
By the time he returned to the common hall, a supper had been laid out: roasted meat, a thick vegetable stew studded with herbs, fresh bread, a wedge of cheese, and pitchers of watered wine and ale.
Lysa let out a low whistle. "Now *this* is why I tolerate cities," she said, grabbing a plate. "They may be loud and nosy, but they feed you."
They sat together at the table.
The food was good—better than anything Trin had eaten since arriving in Vaelion. The meat was tender, the stew rich and layered with spice, the bread still warm from baking. Trin ate steadily, allowing himself to appreciate the simple pleasure of well-prepared food.
Conversation flowed easily.
"So," Lysa said around a mouthful of bread, "who wants to guess how many councilors will try to talk over each other tomorrow?"
"Seven," Garran said immediately.
"Too specific," Naera countered, fingers idly tracing the path‑marks on her staff where it leaned against the table. "I'm going with 'all of them, simultaneously.'"
"They'll be worse than Arcanum review boards," Naera said. "At least in Loren's halls, the debates usually pretend to stay on topic for the first hour."
"You have more faith in scholars than I do," Lysa replied.
Garran sipped his ale. "There will be the cautious ones," he said, ticking off on his fingers. "The ones who don't want to believe anything that upsets their maps. The ambitious ones, who will see 'dragon' and think 'weapon' or 'opportunity.' And the frightened ones, who will want to throw soldiers at the mountain until something breaks."
"Which they will assume isn't *them*," Trin said.
"Exactly," Garran replied. "Our job is to drop enough cold water on all of them that they stop dreaming and start listening."
"Your job," Lysa said. "My job is to draw a very scary picture of the cave mouth and make them realize their walls will look very small if the dragon decides to walk."
Naera smiled faintly, thumb resting on one of the carved grooves. "My job is to answer their questions about magical signatures without telling them more than they can handle."
"And mine," Trin said, "is apparently to look very calm and say as little as possible."
Lysa pointed a piece of bread at him. "Your job is also to not tell them you can't be killed by arrows. That feels like a detail we don't lead with."
"I had no intention of it," he said.
They laughed, the tension easing for a while.
For that evening, they allowed themselves to be just a small company in a big city, sharing a good meal and trading jabs about bureaucrats they hadn't yet met.
When the plates were empty and the pitchers drained, weariness from four days of travel began to press in.
"I'm for my bed," Garran said, stretching until his back popped. "Tomorrow, we argue with people who own nicer chairs than us. I'd like to be able to sit in mine without falling asleep."
"Seconded," Lysa said. "If I snore, it's because I'm dreaming of not having to stab anything for once."
Naera rose more slowly, her staff in hand. The wood seemed to settle naturally into her grip, the faint echo of Althera's blessing humming quietly beneath the surface. "I'll sleep," she said. "If my head lets me."
"It will," Trin said quietly.
She gave him a brief, grateful look and disappeared into one of the small rooms, the soft tap of her staff marking her steps.
Garran and Lysa followed.
Trin lingered.
The guest house grew quiet as doors closed, the muffled sounds of settling bodies and creaking beds fading into stillness. Outside, however, the city was very much awake.
He stepped out into the night.
Lorenfell under darkness was a different creature than the one they'd approached under sun.
Lanterns burned along the main streets and at intersections, casting circles of light on the cobbles. People still moved through them—servants carrying baskets, late-working artisans, patrols in the king's colors, a pair of cloaked figures arguing softly in a doorway.
From somewhere nearby drifted the sound of music—a fiddle and a drum, lively and slightly off-key. Further away, laughter burst from an unseen tavern. The faint tang of smoke, spice, and river water hung in the air.
Trin walked without a fixed plan, staying within the safer arteries of the inner district. He did not stray toward the rougher quarters; there would be time, perhaps, to see those later.
He passed the outer wall of the Arcanum compound, glimpsing through its gate a courtyard lit by steady, cool mage‑lights. Figures in robes crossed between buildings, their conversations low and intense. Sigils carved into stone glowed faintly along the walls.
He paused for a moment, watching.
This was another center of power—different from the castle, but no less potentially dangerous. The people inside were those who tried to understand the world's threads by pulling on them, sometimes too hard.
Naera had walked there once as student, questioning and doubting. Now she walked the roads outside with a goddess's blessing humming quietly under her skin and a staff in her hand tuned to that new sight.
He moved on.
The castle loomed a few streets away, lit by torches and enchanted lamps, its highest towers pricked with light like distant stars. Guards paced the walls with a disciplined regularity.
Trin tilted his head back, studying the structure.
So many decisions had been made inside those stones. So many would be made tomorrow, with their report as catalyst.
"Another council," he murmured to himself. "Another room where people will decide how big a story they want to hear."
He watched for a while longer, then turned back toward the guest house.
On the way, he passed a small square where a handful of vendors still operated even at this hour: a man roasting something on skewers, a woman selling slices of a syrup‑soaked cake, a child hawking cheap trinkets that glittered dully in lantern light.
Voices overlapped—complaints about prices, gossip about noble scandals, muttered curses at stubborn mule‑carts.
Lorenfell was alive in its own messy, layered way.
Trin breathed it in.
This world had grown its own patterns. Its own rhythms. Its own noise.
Tomorrow, he would step into a room where those rhythms brushed against his past more directly than they had yet. For now, he let the city be what it was: a living place, oblivious to the fact that a tired creator and a quietly blessed mage with a new staff had slipped into its veins.
He returned to the guest house, the murmur of the city trailing behind him like a distant tide, and went inside to rest before the council's questions began.