The sun had climbed high over the horizon as Laya, Rin, and Lyndis set their sights on Alta, the bustling port city and beating heart of Philippos, a proud colony of the Kingdom of Leon.
The quiet wheat fields faded behind them, giving way to the stirring life of a village nestled just beyond Alta's towering walls.
The air carried the scent of fresh-baked bread, damp earth, and the faint tang of livestock, mingling with the morning breeze.
This settlement, a patchwork of thatched-roof homes and weathered wooden shacks, hummed with the labor of farmers, artisans, and workers—those whose coin or status barred them from the city's embrace.
Smoke curled from chimneys, thin and gray, as villagers moved with purpose: a woman drew water from a creaking well, her hands steady; a man led a mule laden with baskets; children darted between laundry lines and garden plots, their laughter a bright thread woven through the morning's hum.
Yet as Laya's group passed, a hush fell over the crowd.
Eyes turned, wary and sharp, lingering on the faint shimmer of Laya's golden wings and the soft flutter of Rin's brown ones.
A mother pulled her child behind a fence with a guarded gaze. A farmer paused, his hand tightening on his pitchfork, suspicion is etched into his weathered face. The tension was subtle but sharp, hanging in the air like a held breath.
Laya's heart quickened, but she kept her steps steady, Archus's warmth against her chest a quiet anchor.
The village yielded to the imposing shadow of Alta's walls—great slabs of gray stone stretching toward the sea, unyielding as the cliffs they mimicked.
At the city's threshold stood a massive wooden gate, its surface carved with Lions and Knights, their eyes seeming to watch the approaching travelers.
Guards in gleaming chainmail flanked the entrance, their spears glinting in the sunlight, their faces set in practiced vigilance.
A line of carriages and merchants queued before the gate, the air thick with the clatter of hooves and the murmur of voices.
A horse whinnied, its handler cursing softly as it pawed the earth, restless from the wait.
Vendors bartered in sharp whispers, coins flashing between hands.
Nearby, beastfolk labored in silence—some with furred ears, others with scaled skin—hauling crates or scrubbing stone steps.
Their coarse tunics hung heavy, and faint, unfamiliar markings glimmered on their arms, catching the light like secrets.
Barefoot children wove through the crowd, their giggles clashing with the quiet pleas of beggars slumped against the walls, hands outstretched in hope.
As Laya's group joined the line, a ripple of unease stirred the crowd. Whispers grew into murmurs, sharp and urgent.
A vendor's eyes darted toward Rin's wings, his lips curling in a frown.
Another clutched his wares closer, as if guarding them from unseen hands.
Sensing the shift, a young guard stepped forward, his helmet tucked under his arm.
His uneven haircut and shadowed eyes spoke of a long shift, but his gaze lingered too long on Laya's wings, then Rin's, a flicker of curiosity—or suspicion—passing over his face.
"Business?" the guard asked, his voice flat, almost bored.
"Drachenstein Mansion," Laya replied, her tone steady and clear, though her grip on Archus tightened, his small form a shield against the crowd's eyes.
A pause followed—brief, but noticeable.
Around them, the murmurs quieted. A few heads turned. The name hung in the air like a spell.
Lyndis stepped forward, her movements calm and deliberate. From her worn leather satchel, she produced a set of papers—then, with equal care, withdrew a slim metal case embossed with a sigil: a crowned dragon curled around a sword. The seal of House Drachenstein.
The younger guard's eyes flicked to it and widened slightly. He straightened unconsciously, his earlier boredom giving way to alertness. Even the older vendors, who moments ago had stared with suspicion, now shifted—some averted their eyes, others stole glances filled with wariness or something darker: envy.
One merchant muttered under his breath, "Of course. House Drachenstein."
The older guard approached then, chainmail softly clinking, his face still unreadable—but his voice had lost its edge. "Didn't see you for a few months?" he grunted, not with suspicion, but with the kind of caution one reserved for those connected to power.
Laya's posture remained poised, though her heart thudded in her chest. "Visited my mother at the Forests," she said evenly, her words a careful bridge over the guard's scrutiny.
"Hmph," the older guard grunted again, his eyes flicking between the papers and the group, settling on Archus, nestled against Laya's chest. "And the kid?"
"My son," Laya responded, her voice unwavering, though her fingers brushed the edge of Archus's blanket, a silent vow to protect him.
"His papers?" he asked, voice edged with suspicion. "Smuggling a child in, eh?"
Laya met his gaze without flinching. "He's just been born," she replied calmly. "We'll have him registered within the week."
The guard stared a moment longer, then scoffed faintly—amusement, warning, or both. "Hurry it up."
The younger guard, still holding the documents, now handed them back with a brisk nod. "Alright," he muttered, stepping aside. "Make way, people!" he called out, his tone firmer, almost eager to clear a path.
The crowd parted, reluctantly. A nobleman in fine robes embroidered with a hornbill insignia turned sharply away, his lips curled in disdain—not just at the winged servants, but perhaps at the name they carried.
Whispers resumed, sharper now, tinged not just with fear—but with resentment.
Yet Laya held her head high, her steps firm, Archus's warmth a steady pulse against her heart.