A hush fell over the cobbled avenue of the Royal District as the massive gates creaked on iron hinges. A cluster of silk‑robed nobles paused mid‑stride, their jeweled fans and embroidered mantles abandoned as they turned toward the disturbance.
Jett stood alone before the guards, boots planted firm on the gray stone. His dark hair fluttered in the breeze, and he regarded the armored sentries with a slow, condescending tilt of his chin.
So eager to challenge a stranger, he mused, the thought as cool as frost on dawn's first light. They have no idea who I am—or what I can do.
One particularly haughty noble, a marquess draped in violet and silver, stepped forward. "Who dares block the Sovereign's gate?" he demanded, voice sharp enough to cut through the murmurs behind him.
Jett merely arched an eyebrow, his lips curving into a lazy smirk. He shifted his weight, the sound of his boots echoing like a promise of violence.
