Kaizlan returned from his first trip to the town with scattered images in his mind—
children darting between alleyways,
merchants raising their voices over each other,
and the small girl no one seemed to notice.
The next morning, the courtyard smelled of damp earth and coal smoke.
Daryel was already waiting by the outer gate, leaning against the stone arch with his usual half-smile.
"You walk like someone carrying a kingdom on his shoulders," Daryel said.
"It's just the market."
"It's not just the market," Kaizlan replied.
They passed through the winding road until the gates of the town came into sight.
From afar, the place looked like a knot of grey stone and crooked roofs, hemmed in by walls older than both of them combined.
No guards challenged them; no eyes followed them.
It was as if they didn't exist.
Inside, the pace was relentless.
Vendors shouting prices.
Children chasing each other through puddles.
A man hauling sacks so large they nearly toppled him.
A woman waving a knife at a butcher over meat gone sour.
Kaizlan tried to take it all in.
He thought:
This is the same kingdom I live in… yet it feels like another world.
Near the market's edge, a group of boys were wrestling in the dirt.
They laughed without restraint, shoving one another until one slipped hard onto the ground.
They paused only long enough to make sure he could stand—
then burst into louder laughter.
Kaizlan smiled faintly.
Their freedom felt almost sharp.
Daryel broke the moment.
"Hungry?"
"Not really."
"Good. We couldn't afford much anyway."
They wandered away from the noise, toward a quieter street.
That's when Kaizlan saw her—
a girl, perhaps ten years old, sitting against a pillar in torn clothes and bare feet.
A tin cup rested beside her.
She wasn't begging. She wasn't looking at anyone.
She was simply… there.
People passed without a glance.
Carriages rolled by.
Guards strode past.
To all of them, she was invisible.
Something in Kaizlan shifted.
That night, back at the guesthouse, Kaizlan barely spoke.
In his small room, the candle's light flickered against the walls.
His coat still smelled faintly of smoke from the market.
He opened his worn notebook and wrote:
"There are more faces in this world than there are names to carry them.
And most are forgotten while they still breathe."
He closed the book.
It wasn't sadness he felt—
it was recognition.
And it was only the beginning.