Lucian walked without choosing where to go.
The capital stretched endlessly in every direction—lanes fanning out from the citadel like spokes, some lined with shopfronts selling powdered glass charms, others choked with smoke-belching forges. Overhead, the skeletal remains of old war balloons sagged between spires, their tattered silk whispering when the wind caught it.
No one noticed him.
That was the strangest part.
No brief nods of recognition, no wary glances from merchants who remembered what he'd been. No quiet rumors trailing in his wake. He was a face in the flow—one more coat in the river of moving people.
The absence of weight on his shoulder felt wrong. No satchel tugging at him. No Grimoire whispering in his mind. His hand kept straying there out of habit, finding nothing but empty fabric.
When he'd been traveling—answering summons, seeking glyphs, standing in the spaces no one else dared to—he had been pulled forward by necessity. There had always been a "next."
