The heavy wagon rolled deeper into Long-Quan, and the city unfolded around them like a fever dream carved in stone and gold.
Soren leaned his shoulder against the window frame, his golden eyes tracing the towering skyline. Massive statues rose above the rooftops—brutal monuments to violence treated as holy. Gladiators frozen in eternal triumph. Some were carved with swords raised high, their stone muscles straining with victory. Others held heavy shields to their chests, their faces locked in battle cries that had been silent for centuries. The stone had been heavily weathered by wind and rain, but the figures still radiated absolute power—men who had bled in the dirt of the Arena and emerged as gods to the people below.
Soren watched them pass, a parade of dead champions. The late afternoon sun caught their jagged stone faces, and for a fleeting moment, they almost looked alive.
"Lord Soren." Jole's rough voice cut through the rumble of the wheels. "We are deep inside the city now. I will need several hours to stable the horses and thoroughly clean the wagon. The outer roads have caked the axles with mud."
Soren did not turn from the window. "Fine. Take care of the carriage, Jole. We will find you at the inn."
He stepped down from the wagon, his spotless white boots meeting the stone street. Mother Lisa followed, her sharp eyes immediately scanning the crowded boulevard with the tactical precision of a war general. Nora slipped out silently behind her, her dark shadows pulled tight against her skin, a faint, beautiful violet hue shimmering at the edges of her darkness. Homid came last, nearly tripping over his heavy tool bag as he jumped down, his head swiveling in every direction.
"Finally!" Homid threw his arms wide, his loud voice echoing off the high walls. "I am here! I am going to see all of it—the fighting pits, the iron forges, the gambling halls! I want to see how they build their weapons! I want to see—"
A small sound interrupted him. A child's voice. Bright, sharp, and entirely unafraid.
"Do you want to play a game, mister?"
Homid looked down. A boy stood at his elbow—perhaps ten years old, thin as a reed, dressed in patched but perfectly clean clothes. His dark eyes were quick and calculating. He held something small and pale in his cupped fingers.
Homid puffed out his chest, his annoyance instantly dissolving into arrogance. "Do not play games with me, boy. I am the smartest engineer from Kohrnes. Old women ask me how to become immortal. Young men beg to be my apprentices."
Soren smiled faintly but said nothing. Mother Lisa rolled her eyes toward the sky and muttered something about idiots.
The street boy was utterly unfazed. He tilted his head and flashed a gap-toothed grin. "Uncle, if I lose, I will give you three silver coins. But if you lose... you give me three."
Homid's eyebrows shot up. "Three silver? For a child's game?" He crouched down, bringing himself to the boy's level. "What kind of game?"
"Easy." The boy opened his palm. A small, smooth white pebble rested in the center. "I put this stone in my hands. If you can guess where it is three times... I give you the silver. But every time you guess wrong... you pay me."
Homid stared at the stone, a slow, highly confident grin spreading across his face. "Fine. Start. But do not cry to your mother when you lose your money."
The boy held his hands out. He clapped them together once, twice—and then began to roll them. The stone moved from right to left, left to right. Then, the pace quickened. The boy's hands blurred, the white pebble becoming a ghost between his fingers, appearing and vanishing in fractions of a second.
Homid watched with narrowed eyes. He is an engineer, he thought. He understands the mechanical truth of objects in motion.
The boy's hands snapped shut. He held them out. "Which hand, Uncle?"
Homid smirked. He had seen it clearly. "Right. Open your right hand."
The boy opened both hands. The stone sat perfectly in his left.
Homid's jaw went entirely slack. "What? No! I am sure I saw it in the right hand!"
The boy said nothing. He simply extended his empty palm, waiting. Homid grumbled, digging into his pouch, and pressed three silver coins into the small hand. The boy pocketed them smoothly.
"Again?" the boy asked.
Homid's pride flared. He would not let a street brat humiliate him. "Go. Faster this time. I am ready."
The boy's hands moved again—much faster now. The stone became a pale streak of white that seemed to exist in three places at once. Homid leaned in, his eyes straining, his breath held tight.
The hands stopped. "Which hand?"
Homid hesitated. He had lost track. His engineering mind raced through the probabilities. The boy switched last time. He won't switch again. Or is that the trap?
"Right," Homid said, his voice cracking slightly. "Right hand."
Both hands opened. The stone sat in the left.
Homid's eyes flew wide. "How?! How do you—" He aggressively slapped three more silver coins into the boy's palm.
From the edge of the street, Soren and Mother Lisa watched in silence. Lisa's arms were crossed in pure amusement. Soren's golden eyes tracked the boy's hands with calm, analytical precision.
"Be fast, boy," Lisa called out dryly. "Do not lose all your money to a child before we even secure a room."
Homid did not turn around. His pride was a raging bonfire now. "Again," he demanded.
The boy's hands blurred. Faster than before. The stone was practically invisible—a mere rumor of white against the skin. Homid's eyes darted frantically.
The hands stopped.
"Left," Homid whispered, his voice hollow with dread. "Show me the left."
Both hands opened. The stone was in the right.
Homid stared at the small pebble as if it had personally stabbed him in the back. Nine silver coins. He had just lost nine silver to a child who had probably been running this scam since before he could walk.
"What the hell..." Homid whispered, his face crumbling. "How do you make me look so dumb three times?"
The boy pocketed the final silver and gave Homid a patient, almost pitying look. "I do not make you dumb, Uncle. You do that to yourself."
Homid opened his mouth to shout, but Soren stepped forward, placing a calm, heavy hand on the engineer's shoulder.
"Peace, Homid. Do not be angry at the boy. He simply did what he does best." Soren looked down at the child, who was already scanning the crowded street for his next mark. "Never gamble with the people of this city, Homid. Even the children here can outplay a noble. This boy's skill is not luck—it is a crafted weapon. He has practiced this trick for years, the exact same way you practice your Iron Art. He is an artist of the stone, just as you are an artist of the machine."
Homid looked at Soren, his face collapsing into utter exhaustion. "But I lost my money. Nine silver. I was going to buy new clothes. Now I have nothing."
Mother Lisa stepped forward and delivered a crisp, ringing slap to the back of Homid's head.
"Ow!"
"Do not cry like a beaten dog," Lisa snapped. "We are going to the market. I will buy the supplies we need for the road, and I will buy you your clothes. You work for the Sun Family now. You will look like it."
Homid rubbed his head, looking at her with the watery gratitude of a rescued puppy. "I... thank you, Mother Lisa."
"Do not thank me," she said, already marching toward the merchant stalls. "You are a brat. Now move your feet."
Homid scrambled after her, his heavy tool bag bouncing against his back.
Soren turned to Nora. Her deep purple eyes watched the crowd, her shadows shifting restlessly.
"Well," Soren said quietly, offering her a small smile. "What should we do while they shop?"
Before Nora could answer, a smooth voice called out across the square.
"Lord Soren of the Sun Family!"
A young man approached, flanked by two elite soldiers in pristine scale armor. He was dressed in incredibly fine dark silk, his hair pulled back tightly, a wide and heavily practiced smile stretched across his face. He moved with the oily confidence of a man trained to make rich guests feel important.
"I am Young Jio," he announced, bowing deeply. "It is my absolute honor to welcome you to Long-Quan. Lord Cheng Lio has instructed me to personally attend to your every need."
Soren returned the smile with perfect, terrifying warmth. "Lord Cheng Lio is remarkably fast with his hospitality. Please, convey my deepest thanks. I would love to wash the road off myself. I have heard this city possesses the finest hot baths in all the surrounding provinces."
Young Jio's smile widened. "You have heard correctly, my lord. Please, follow me. The private baths have already been prepared."
The Mother of the House
Meanwhile, at the bustling silk market, Mother Lisa stood before a row of high-end clothing stalls. Her sharp eyes moved across the hanging fabrics like a hawk scanning a field for mice. Homid hovered nervously behind her, still dazed from his financial ruin.
A shopkeeper in black merchant robes stepped forward, his grin eager and predatory. "Ah, Madam! Come! See our finest wares! The most luxurious fabrics in all of Long-Quan!"
Lisa completely ignored his pitch, reaching out to select a tunic of dark, sturdy wool—practical, durable, and perfectly boring.
"This one," she said, holding it up to the light. "What is the price?"
The shopkeeper clasped his hands together tightly. "Six silver, Madam. It is a special cut for nobility, you see. It possesses the finest stitching—the true mark of an intelligent gentleman."
Mother Lisa held the tunic at arm's length, inspecting the seams with the cold, clinical detachment of a woman who had spent forty years managing a ducal estate. "Do not sweeten your poison for me. Six silver is highway robbery. I can see the stitching is cheap factory work. Two silver."
The shopkeeper's mouth dropped open in practiced offense. "Madam! Are you joking? It is six silver, not two! I would starve!"
Mother Lisa's eyes narrowed into slits. "It is two silver. Or I walk to the next stall and you get nothing."
The shopkeeper's desperation flickered behind his smile. He leaned in conspiratorially. "Why don't we play a game, Madam? A friendly wager to settle the price. I will place three identical tunics on the counter. If you can identify which one you were just holding... you may have it for free. But if you lose..." His grin sharpened into a blade. "You pay ten silver. Do you agree, kind lady?"
Homid grabbed Mother Lisa's arm, his voice dropping to a panicked whisper. "Mother! No! You know these people always cheat! If we play, you will lose ten silver!"
Lisa shook him off like a wet dog. "Shut your mouth, boy. You have breathed forty years less air than I have. I have beaten better games than this in my sleep." She turned back to the shopkeeper and nodded once. "Fine. Show me your little game."
The shopkeeper signaled to his assistant, who immediately raised a heavy canvas cloth to block Lisa's view. There was a brief moment of rapid shuffling, the rustle of heavy fabric, and then the cloth dropped.
Three identical black tunics lay folded perfectly on the wooden counter.
"Well, Madam?" The shopkeeper's grin was triumphant. "Which one was yours?"
Mother Lisa did not look at the tunics. She did not touch them. She simply leaned forward over the counter and inhaled sharply through her nose.
"No," she said.
The shopkeeper blinked. "What do you mean, no?"
"The tunic you first handed me," Lisa said, her voice entirely flat and unimpressed. "It smelled of cheap jasmine. The merchant who sold it to you must have stored it near scented oils to hide the factory dust. None of these three carry that scent. Your sleight of hand is clever, but you are incredibly sloppy. Now give me the real tunic."
The shopkeeper's face went completely pale, and then flushed bright red. His oily, predatory smile cracked into something thoroughly defeated. Without another word, he reached beneath the wooden counter and produced the original tunic—the one that still carried the faint, sweet trace of jasmine.
Homid's mouth fell completely open.
Mother Lisa snatched the tunic, folded it aggressively, and shoved it hard into Homid's chest. "Shut your mouth and put this on. You look like a dying fish."
Homid fumbled with the dark fabric, staring at her in absolute awe. "Mother Lisa... how did you—"
"I said shut your mouth."