The sky above Ryedale shone with the light of noon, sunlight bouncing off the stone walls that curved like a crescent around the city's southern entrance.
It was a beautiful city—graceful, tall, and orderly. But beneath that structure was a thin, taut string pulled tight with scrutiny and surveillance.
Damien felt it immediately.
They had dismounted some distance before the city's edge—Skylar and Aquila dismissed into the folds of spatial magic essence before the towering gates came into view. Luton remained, tucked like a decorative red scarf atop Damien's shoulder, its gelatinous body barely twitching as it observed everything.
As they approached the gate, the guards straightened. Not from surprise. Not from threat.
From recognition.
Damien handed over his Mercenary card without a word.
The guard, a mid-ranked officer with a thick beard and faded armor, accepted the card and scanned it carefully.
