After a brief exchange of letters with the Queen''s councillor, Aldric finally held official permission in his hands.


    If there were any Conjurers in the empire Aldric could stomach, the councillor was among the few. Eccentric, theatrical, the type to treat the world like a stage upon which he performed his own grand amusement. Men like him made Conjurers tolerable—if only because their ridiculousness outweighed their arrogance.


    Sitting in his chamber at the Anvil, Aldric chuckled as he read the last parchment aloud, savoring the absurdity of it:


    "Letters passing through the leaves,


    Like the touch of the sun reaching the mud and life,


    I''d love you throughout all the despair and hope."


    Aldric snorted. Poetry.


    Not just any poetry—love poetry.


    No doubt the councillor''s doing, spreading whispers of a tragic and forbidden romance between them, likely dictated to his scribes with a theatrical flourish. The thought alone made Aldric shake his head in amusement.


    "This will be fun…" he muttered under his breath, exhaling through his nose as his laughter faded. Carefully, he folded the parchment and placed it inside one of his trunks.


    But amusement aside, there was work to be done.


    Gottschalk, the original reevaluating officer, had been conveniently reassigned—sent north on a mission near the Hornet. With him occupied, the councillor had appointed Aldric as his replacement.


    And so, at last, the day arrived.


    The day he would step through the gates of House Ritch.


    —


    Aldric''s journey began at the Anvil, the knightly stronghold standing at the extreme southeast of the city. His wagon rolled along the old charred mud roads, paved with uneven stones placed for stability, the wheels creaking as they passed through the Axe of Gunth—the Old Market.


    The market had earned its name after its first shop, a weaponsmith, and over time, the district had expanded around it, forming the shape of an axe blade facing eastward.


    Seated in the back of the wagon, Aldric leaned against the white canopy, the cloth flapping gently with the breeze. His gaze followed the shrinking silhouette of the Anvil until it disappeared entirely behind the growing crowds.


    As they passed northwest, the Old Residential District came into view.


    Aldric watched as laborers, builders, and woodcarvers toiled under the morning light, their hands calloused, their backs bent from hours of relentless work. Children, no older than five or six, ran errands with hurried steps, balancing baskets of goods with the precision of those who had never been allowed to stumble.


    Women, dressed in plain linens, carried buckets of water from the wells, their conversations brief, measured, spoken between the tasks that never ceased. Near one of the timber workshops, a man sanded down a wooden beam, the rhythmic sound of his tools blending into the cacophony of city life.


    Here, no one stood idle.


    No one wasted time.


    Aldric gave a slight nod of acknowledgment—not to them directly, but to their labor, to the unspoken effort that built and sustained the city.


    The wagon took a sharp left, the road beneath shifting from old hardened mud to new cobblestone.


    To the north of the Old Market lay the Fish Eye Market, the circular trade hub that marked the city''s connection to the Capital.


    Between them, however, stood Evangel Academy.


    Aldric clicked his tongue at the sight of it.


    ''What a terrible decision.''


    The academy had been built as a capital-sponsored institution, designed to educate both nobles and commoners in the same halls. In theory, a place of learning. In reality?


    A disaster waiting to happen.


    Now, poor commoners would be criticized not just for their poverty, but for their literacy. They would be ridiculed for daring to rise above their station, for speaking in the same tongues as the nobility. The divide would grow, not shrink.


    They should have simply built a separate school for them—or none at all.


    Surrounded by towering timber walls, their outer layers darkened from years of exposure, Evangel loomed over the street like a fortified temple. At its center stood a great dome, carved with intricate patterns of devotion. And above it all, cast in the deepest iron, the figure of their faith—Mother.


    Her statue, sculpted in majestic grandeur, depicted her wielding a sword and shield, her face veiled by cascading waves of hair. A goddess of both protection and judgment, her presence was inescapable in the empire.


    The wagon took another sharp right, bringing the academy''s grand entrance into view.


    Outside, students of nobility descended from their lavish carriages, their elegant attire flowing like banners of wealth. Laughter and idle chatter filled the air as they stepped onto the academy grounds, their posture as poised as their status demanded.


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    Aldric barely spared them a glance.


    "This is not a school. It''s a banquet hall for noble brats to parade their wealth."


    His wagon slowed, caught in the traffic of morning arrivals.


    Finally, the road cleared, and they moved forward once more.


    —


    The wagon took a slight left, approaching the gated entrance to the noble residences.


    Aldric''s eyes narrowed slightly as he spotted the guards.


    They were clad in full armor, their chest plates engraved with a familiar sigil—a duck wearing a crown, flanked by a sword and shield.


    House Ritch.


    Among all the noble houses, the Ritch family still held power enough to keep their insignia stamped onto the very men guarding every other noble behind these walls.


    They were not the wealthiest, nor the most influential—but they were still standing.


    Aldric exhaled, leaning back slightly as the wagon slowed once more.


    The guards stepped forward for inspection.


    Their eyes, trained and practiced, moved over the carriages and passengers with silent efficiency.


    Aldric tilted his head, watching them work.


    The House of Ritch, it seemed, still knew how to play the game.


    The Gates of House Ritch


    The guards had been stationed for him.


    Aldric could tell immediately—the deliberate formation, the weight in their stance, the subtle shift in their eyes. This wasn''t routine security. This was intimidation. A silent reminder of authority.


    It would have worked on some Conjurers, perhaps—the ones who flinched at the clink of steel, who had spent their days wrapped in robes rather than armor. But Aldric?


    He merely smirked.


    If anything, the guards should have been grateful that he was here and not Gottschalk. Otherwise, some of them would already be dead.


    The inspection was swift. Documents checked, permission granted.


    And then, the gates opened, allowing them passage into the noble district.


    —


    The Two Sides of Strig


    Aldric chuckled as the contrast hit him immediately.


    It was like stepping into another world.


    Gone was the hardened clay of the Old Residential District. Gone were the hastily built wooden houses, the endless toil, the sweat that clung to the air.


    Here, the cobblestone paths gleamed, untouched by mud or grime. The drainage system was pristine, no acrid stench lingering in the alleys. People walked without urgency, their movements slow, measured, deliberate—yet despite their ease, Aldric saw no joy in them.


    Their conversations sounded poised, refined, the carefully curated dialect of the aristocracy.


    And yet, when stripped down—when one translated their words into the tongue of the common folk—it all sounded the same.


    "How many harlots I have slept with!"


    "The gold is worth more than my father—"


    "I do not care for her happiness."


    Aldric''s fingers drummed idly against his knee. Perhaps he was reading too much into it.


    Perhaps.


    But unlike the workers of the Old Residential District—who had earned Aldric''s respect—the nobles here evoked only pity.


    They lived in comfort, yet their lives were hollow. They spoke with grace, yet their words meant nothing.


    —


    The Estate of House Ritch


    The wagon continued forward until Aldric saw it.


    The Ritch mansion.


    Unlike the wealthy townhouses of the other nobles, confined behind gilded steel gates and decorative gardens, the Ritch estate was something else entirely.


    It stood alone in the vast clearing, a fortress among houses, its outer walls built of heavy cobblestone, its size imposing enough to dwarf the neighboring estates.


    Aldric exhaled sharply.


    This was not the home of a noble seeking prestige.


    This was the home of a noble seeking survival.


    The estate grounds stretched wide, its front garden alone large enough to house at least ten noble manors.


    To the right, a small exclusive market catered solely to the nobility—nothing like the Fish Eye or the Axe of Gunth, where merchants fought for space and trade was dictated by supply and demand. Here, everything was tailored to convenience, each shop carefully selected to provide only what was in fashion.


    The wagon took a left, following the cobblestone road along the estate''s outer railings.


    Aldric glanced at the garden, eyes trailing over the manicured trees and flowerbeds, where male and female workers toiled under the watchful gaze of armed guards.


    Former soldiers.


    Aldric could tell from the way they walked—the subtle weight in their steps, the awareness in their movements. These were not simple estate guards. These were men who had seen battle, who had spent years on the field.


    His gaze flicked up to the railings—painted black steel, their points tipped in gold.


    A fortress, indeed.


    The wagon rolled to a stop before the grand entrance, where a guardhouse stood—a place for rotating shifts, built into the mansion''s outer wall.


    —


    Aldric stepped down, rolling his shoulders before stretching to the side, a sharp crack echoing from his spine. He groaned, repeating the motion in the opposite direction, shaking out the stiffness from the journey.


    He turned to the wagon driver, resting a hand on his hip.


    "I''ll tell them to let you in and offer you food," Aldric said. "Rest here. It shouldn''t take long."


    The driver grunted, shifting in his seat. "That''s what you said two weeks ago when we went to the Sleeping Woods."


    Aldric grinned, offering a careless shrug.


    The guards gathered at the gates, some already resting their hands on the hilts of their weapons.


    "Name your business."


    The speaker was a bulky, bald-headed brute, his expression carved into a permanent scowl.


    Aldric reached into his coat, retrieving the parchment and holding it up.


    The bald one barely spared it a glance before jerking his chin toward his left.


    "Pass it to him."


    Aldric followed his gesture, gaze shifting downward to a smaller man standing nearby.


    ''An amusing pair,'' Aldric thought dryly, handing over the parchment.


    The smaller man, his hair growing wild down the back of his neck, took the letter in silence, scanning its contents.


    Then, without a word, he bowed.


    The bald brute hesitated, then followed suit.


    "We welcome you, Sir Aldric."


    The other guards, who had gathered idly near the gate, stiffened.


    Some of their eyes widened, barely concealing their shock. Others jerked backward, their previous ease vanishing entirely.


    And then—like rats scrambling from an open trap—they dispersed.


    The crowd thinned instantly, guards returning to their posts, their previous amusement long gone.


    Aldric tilted his head slightly. ''Ah. So that''s how it is.''


    He turned to the small guard, offering an easy smile.


    "Mind if you let my friend stay here with you?" Aldric motioned toward the wagon driver. "He''s not accustomed to noble customs, and I''d rather not have him picking a fight with anyone."


    The small guard moved with a jerkiness that reminded Aldric of a puppet, bowing once more.


    "As you say, Sir Aldric."


    Aldric dipped his head slightly in response.


    "You have my gratitude, friend."


    With that, he turned, stepping through the open gates of House Ritch.