Before the caravan set off again, the spoils from the earlier skirmish were finally divided. The guards laid out their haul on a blanket—pouches of coins, a few dented pieces of armor, and an assortment of weapons scavenged from the fallen bandits. Eleres scanned the spread without much interest in the gold. What caught his eye was a dagger lying near the edge, its blackened steel blade narrow and wickedly sharp, the hilt wrapped in worn leather that fit perfectly into his grip. He tested the edge with his thumb—razor keen. The weight was balanced, the kind of weapon that could slip between armor plates as easily as cutting through cloth. Without a word, he sheathed it, the leather belt securing it snugly at his side. For a necromancer, death was always close—but a good blade could ensure it arrived on his terms.
When the caravan crested the final ridge, the morning mist began to dissolve, and the view suddenly widened—a town nestled in a broad valley lay before them, bathed in the golden light of the afternoon sun.
This place was nothing like the previous Hollow. The air no longer reeked of blood and damp earth; instead, it was laced with the scent of freshly baked bread, the warm tang of coal smoke, and the faint perfume of flowers drifting from riverside gardens. As the wind brushed past, the fragrances mingled and shifted, making it almost possible to forget the exhaustion and dangers of the journey.
The road beneath their wheels had changed as well. The old, rutted dirt path had given way to neat gray cobblestones, each strike of the horses' hooves ringing out with a crisp, rhythmic sound. From somewhere farther within the city, the clear tone of a bell joined in, weaving together with the cadence of hooves into a melody both tranquil and alive. Buildings of stone and timber framed the streets, their walls painted in gentle colors—cream, pale blue, brick red—that reflected the sunlight in warm hues. Every window gleamed with clean glass, and flower boxes on the sills overflowed with blooms that swayed lightly in the breeze, as if greeting the passersby.
Beneath bright awnings, shops stood shoulder to shoulder: the clang of hammer on anvil rang from the blacksmith's forge; the bakery's doorway displayed golden loaves and steaming meat pies, their aroma pulling pedestrians to pause. Outside a corner teahouse, a few elderly men played chess while onlookers occasionally applauded. Street vendors wove through the crowd, calling out prices for candied fruits, spices, spools of dyed thread, or rolled parchments. Some pushed carts laden with glass bottles of every shade, sunlight refracting through them to scatter shards of color across the cobblestones.
Farther ahead, at the end of the main street, a tall, imposing silhouette rose in the sunlight—the Academy gates. Twin towers flanked the entrance, climbing into the clouds, while the massive iron doors were inlaid with ancient runes, watching every visitor with silent gravity. The weight of its presence came not only from its size, but from a quiet, invisible pressure that made one instinctively hold their breath.
Eleres sat atop the wagon, letting his gaze sweep over it all. The brightness and bustle here stood in stark contrast to Gray Hollow, the battlefields, and the desolate wilds he had passed through. Here, no one knew his name. No one whispered about the blood he had spilled or the lives he had taken. To them, he was just another traveler—another shadow passing through the crowd.
When the caravan crossed the market square, they stopped. At its center stood a statue of a scholar holding a staff, his expression solemn, as if embodying both wisdom and guardianship. Nearby, fountains trickled over carved stone basins, while children chased one another at the water's edge. Laughter mingled with the soft flutter of pigeons taking flight, weaving a rhythm entirely different from the road.
Cedric drew his reins to a halt, swung down from the saddle, and said, "We'll part ways here for now. The entrance examination is in three days—meet me at the Academy gates before sunrise."
Eleres simply inclined his head. "Understood."
After a brief farewell, he stepped away from the caravan, letting the current of the crowd carry him. For the first time in weeks, he walked streets unburdened by the weight of armor, without the constant edge of a blade ready to take his life. The streets wound and curved, narrowing into shaded alleys before opening into quiet courtyards or ivy-clad plazas. He passed a glassmaker's workshop, where the glow of the furnace danced within half-finished bottles, and a bookstore whose shelves spilled onto the street, the scent of old paper and ink tempting him to linger before he moved on.
He paused briefly at a small street stall where a young woman sold roasted chestnuts. She smiled, offering one as a sample. The warmth of the shell seeped into his palm before he handed it back with a polite shake of the head. A group of children darted past, chasing a leather ball between the legs of startled shoppers, their laughter echoing down the lane. An old beggar sat against a sunlit wall, plucking a worn lute, the notes drifting lazily into the afternoon air. These were simple things—fragments of life untouched by war—and for a fleeting moment, he almost believed he could belong here.
Yet even in such a peaceful and prosperous place, his vigilance never truly faded. Every approaching footstep, every glint of metal at a stranger's belt, was noted and filed away. The Academy might be his next step forward—but it would not be a safe one. And he would be ready.
Just then, another thought crossed his mind—he still carried a longsword taken from a fallen bandit, an unwieldy thing for someone who preferred precision over brute strength. Paired with the dagger he had claimed at dawn, it seemed wasteful to let it gather dust. Spotting the anvil sign of a blacksmith's shop down a side street, he decided to see if he could trade the sword for a weapon more in line with his style—something shorter, faster, and as silent as the shadows he often moved in.