As the group passed through Alta's towering archway, the world transformed around them.
The scattered shacks and muddy paths of the outer settlement— vanished, replaced by a polished order that seemed to hum with quiet purpose.
Stone buildings rose along the streets, their walls smooth and unyielding, their windows framed in gleaming iron and glass that caught the midday sun.
Some bore elegant balconies, draped with vibrant potted plants or silks that swayed gently in the breeze, while others displayed polished plaques—tailors, scribes, spice merchants—each name etched with pride.
The air shed the raw scent of woodsmoke and livestock, now woven with exotic oils, pungent spices, and the faint, briny tang of sea salt drifting from the distant port.
A soft breeze carried the echo of distant bells and the low hum of bartered conversations, punctuated by the sharp click of carriage wheels on polished cobblestones.
Polished carriages rolled past, their glossy-coated horses stepping high, hooves clicking crisply against the stones.
Some bore noble crests on lacquered doors, their intricate designs glinting like promises of power; others hid their occupants behind velvet curtains, drawn tight against prying eyes.
A coachman cracked his whip, his gaze sweeping over the pedestrians with indifference as he guided his carriage around a corner.
Ladies in flowing silk dresses strolled beneath embroidered parasols, their heels clicking lightly against the cobblestones.
Beside them walked gentlemen in crisp linen coats and tailored breeches, polished canes in hand and pocket watches glinting in the light.
Above their heads, dark-skinned attendants—some barefoot, some bearing brands on their arms—held ornate umbrellas to shield their masters from the sun.
Laya's gaze lingered for a moment—on the fine clothes, the quiet servitude, the way power moved without apology.
It was a scene she had passed a hundred times before, but today, with Archus nestled against her, it settled differently in her chest.
Not resentment—she had long buried that—but a weary clarity.
There were those who walked freely, and those who were allowed to walk beside them.
And some, like her, who walked on despite being watched.
To the right, a marble-fronted bathhouse exhaled warm mist, its fragrance curling into the air like a whispered secret.
Apothecaries flung open their doors, releasing bursts of herbal sharpness, while perfumeries sweetened the breeze with notes of jasmine and amber.
Behind glass windows, jewelers' gems sparkled under the watchful eyes of armed guards, their steel glinting with quiet menace.
A chapel spire pierced the skyline, its shadow stretching across a public garden where roses bloomed in orderly rows.
In the cobbled square below, children chased one another, their laughter a bright thread weaving through the city's hum.
Alta did not shout its wealth; it whispered it—in the gentle clink of fine china from a nearby teahouse, in the measured cadence of polished boots, in the faint trail of incense drifting from a temple doorway.
---
Rin's wings quivered as she glanced at the crowd, her discomfort a tight knot in her chest.
A finely dressed woman whispered behind a gloved hand, her eyes sharp with judgment.
A man with a neatly trimmed beard narrowed his gaze, then quickly looked away, as if caught staring at something forbidden.
Laya felt Rin's unease, a mirror to the tension she carried in her own heart—even though she hid it behind each steady step.
Stepping closer, Rin murmured, "They're staring again."
Laya gently brushed her fingers over the bridge of Rin's wings, a gesture soft as a mother's touch.
"It's always like this inside the walls," she said with a sigh, her voice heavy with the weight of countless such moments.
Rin lowered her head, folding her feathers in tighter, and tightened her grip on her satchel strap.
"We haven't done anything to deserve it."
Lyndis, a few steps ahead, slowed her pace. She turned, her deer-like antlers catching the sunlight in a faint gleam.
"It doesn't matter," she said softly. "They'll always find a reason, even if there isn't one."
A brief silence settled between them—one of understanding shared but unspoken. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, as if the city acknowledged their quiet resilience.
---
Archus, nestled in his mother's arms, drank in the world with wide, unblinking eyes.
The shift from the village's rough edges to Alta's pristine elegance unfolded before him—carriages gleaming, cobblestones shining, the air alive with scents and sounds he couldn't yet name.
He sensed a change in Laya's heartbeat—her warmth steady beneath him, but now tinged with alertness.
A spark of curiosity flickered in his gaze as his small fingers brushed the fabric of Laya's gown, feeling its fine weave.
He didn't understand the whispers or the glances, but he felt their weight pressing lightly against the shield of his mother's chest.
One day, he would know why.
And with that, the group moved deeper into the heart of Alta, their steps a quiet defiance against the city's watchful eyes.