They turned inward, eyes drawn to the heart of the Stronghold where towers speared the sky.

Something old and hungry pulsed beneath these streets, beyond illusions and the polite veneers of civility. The quiet that followed the discovery of the boy’s plight pressed on them, laden with unspoken questions. Far ahead, beyond the city’s concentric circles, darker trials waited, coiled like serpents ready to strike at the unwary. As they walked on, the wind whispered an unsettling truth: something had to be done.

Their boots scuffed against the uneven cobblestones, sending thin flakes of old snow spiraling into crooked gutters. Without the illusion’s soothing hush, the Common Circle revealed its raw edges: sagging doorframes, shutters hanging on a single hinge, and footprints etched deep into grime. Behind dirt-streaked windows, eyes gleamed with silent curiosity. A trembling hand hovered at a pane’s edge before vanishing into shadow. Jace’s ears caught the faint rasp of coughing, the hushed whispers scurrying away like frightened mice. His chest tightened.

“How can anyone live like this?” he murmured, his voice low, as if afraid the city’s wounds might hear him. "Where are their parents? Their king?"

"The city has no king," Alice replied softly, her tone threaded with restraint. "Not since the fall. It’s ruled by a Regent—a man named Koren Klaventaire. A commoner, chosen precisely for his lack of allegiance to any kingdom. He’s held power since the Stronghold was reclaimed from the Dark One and the Tower was taken back."

The group exchanged uneasy glances.

Jace shook his head. “He’s not doing a very good job. Does he even know people are starving under his rule?”

No one answered. The weight of the silence followed them deeper.

A few strides farther, the world shifted again. The air began to warm—not with the touch of sunlight but with a crafted comfort that brushed away the lingering chill. Jace’s anger mingled with confusion as he noticed the source: crystals perched atop wrought-iron posts, casting ruby gleams across polished cobblestones. The snow beneath their feet melted into shallow rivulets, trickling along the street. The scent of spice and fresh bread teased their senses, and distant laughter drifted like wind chimes through the Merchant Circle.

Dex broke ahead, his nose leading him to a stall where pastries were stacked precariously high and skewered meats sizzled over an open flame. The cart owner, a rotund man with a wild, wiry beard and a missing front tooth, was busy yelling at a pigeon perched on the edge of his canopy.

“You freeloading sack of feathers!” he bellowed, waving a ladle like it was a broadsword. “Go steal from someone who can afford it! I’m running a business here!” The pigeon cocked its head, unimpressed, and flapped lazily to a nearby rooftop. The man grumbled under his breath, muttering something about birds needing to learn respect, then turned with a dramatic flourish, his apron stained with grease and flour.

The cart owner spotted them and immediately sprang into action, his booming voice carrying the energy of a seasoned showman. “Ah, customers! Step right up! Today’s special: satisfaction on a stick and bliss wrapped in pastry. Finest cuisine in these parts, I promise!” He gestured grandly, as if unveiling a royal feast, his apron flapping with the movement.

“You seem to have plenty of food here. And all the carts I see around are overflowing. I got the impression there might be some shortage,” Ell said, probing.

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The man froze for a split second, his smile tightening. Straightening his apron, he adjusted his tone, adopting an air of practiced politeness. “Well, yes,” he said, glancing sideways. “Food has been a bit on the scarce side, and the farms, well, they ain't what they used to be, that's true enough.” His tone grew overly bright, though a flicker of worry lingered in his eyes. “But of course, you needn’t worry, m’lord. We reserve only the best for distinguished visitors such as yourselves.”

Dex’s amused grin widened. “Oh, no nobility here,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “Just Travelers from Mount Olympus.”

The man’s shoulders slumped in visible relief, his formal demeanor evaporating like steam off a hot skewer. “Ah, Travelers! Thank the gods,” he said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Can’t be too careful these days. Mistaking a noble for a Traveler? Might as well dig me own grave and lie down in it.” He chuckled, the sound deep and warm, like a fire crackling on a cold night.

“What is happening with the farms?” Ell pressed.

“Well, not really something that would interest you, I’m sure,” the man replied, his eyes darting around nervously.

“Oh, it definitely does,” Dex leaned in with a smile.

The man froze for a split second, his smile tightening. He adjusted his tone, adopting an air of practiced politeness. “It really isn't something to worry about,” he said, looking around to see if anyone was listening to their conversation.

Jace could tell the man wanted to speak, but something held him back. The tension in his posture, the way his gaze flickered as if searching for an unseen threat—it was clear. Jace searched his eyes, and in that moment, a faint shimmer sparked in his vision. A gossamer thread of light drifted from the man’s lips, faint stitches of ethereal lines weaving together with each word he spoke, the threads stretching outward and dissolving into the void like smoke dissipating in a breeze.

“I really can't say,” the man murmured, his voice tight with unspoken words. And Jace knew he meant it.

Dex glanced at Jace, catching the faint shake of his head. Reading the cue, Dex turned back to the man with a grin that masked his unease. “Well, I’m famished. What’s the damage for this so-called satisfaction and bliss?”

The man noticeably relaxed, a pressure removed from his shoulders.

“Five coppers for a skewer, seven for a pastry. Ten for both,” the man rattled off, his tone suddenly all business. “And before you start whining, food’s scarce. Fields ain’t what they used to be, but we make do.”

“Ten it is,” Dex said with a sigh, fishing out the coins. He handed them over with a mock salute.

The cart owner’s grin returned, revealing a missing tooth that somehow added to his roguish charm. “Oh, it will be,” he said confidently. “Best food this side of the Merchant Circle. You’ll see.”

Dex bit into a skewer under the cart owner’s watchful eye, his face betraying nothing—at first. The moment the charred flavor hit his tongue, his expression wavered, lips twitching into a grimace that he hastily reshaped into a strained smile.

“Mmm, absolutely delicious,” Dex said, nodding vigorously. The cart owner beamed, clearly pleased, as he turned his attention elsewhere.

Dex leaned toward the others and muttered under his breath, “Tastes like burnt disappointment,” forcing the bite down with a grim determination.

The cart owner smiled, utterly unrepentant. “Told you it’s the finest. Crops might be cursed, but not the cook.”

As the words left his mouth, he stiffened, his expression shifting from casual indifference to stark realization. His face paled, as if he’d said something he shouldn’t have. Then, in an unnerving instant, his features went blank, like a puppet with its strings momentarily cut. Moments later, a practiced smile slid back into place, bright and cheerful, as though nothing had happened.

The group exchanged glances, but didn't press it further. Something told them it wouldn't be a very good idea for the man's health.