Morning came in shades of pale gold, spilling through the narrow shutters of the small room Riva had arranged for him. Caleb rose early, not out of restlessness, but with a plan. Today was the day he would try to step into a world that had no reason to let him in.
He set out the fabrics he'd bought from the market two days before — bolts of deep crimson, soft grey, and a strip of pale blue that caught the light like water. The colors were not common in this part of the city; he'd chosen them after overhearing traders talk about an eastern land whose envoys wore layered tunics and long sashes. If he couldn't pass for a noble, perhaps he could pass for a foreigner of rank — someone worth curiosity rather than dismissal.
The tailor's work was his own, and it showed. The stitching wasn't perfect, the cut a touch uneven, but the silhouette was convincing. A long outer robe with wide sleeves, a fitted underlayer, and a sash knotted at the side. The pale blue trim ran along the collar and cuffs, giving the outfit a precise, deliberate shape.
When he tried it on, the mirror — warped and spotted though it was — showed someone else. Not the boy in rough wool, not the stranger with dust on his boots. This was a man who might be greeted with a bow before being questioned.
He added the last touch: the board. Folded neatly, wrapped in a piece of dark cloth so it could pass as any sort of formal gift. To the untrained eye, it might be a writing case, a map roll, or a presentation from a far-off court.
Outside, the streets were just beginning to fill. Market women setting up stalls. A fishmonger's boy carrying two silver-scaled carp strung on a rod. The scent of baking bread drifted from an open bakery door, chased by the sharper tang of horse manure as a cart rattled past.
Caleb walked with measured steps, eyes forward. The key to passing was confidence — not arrogance, not defiance, just a steady calm, as if every street was meant for him.
The city shifted around him as he climbed toward the higher rings. The mud-packed lanes gave way to cleaner, firmer stone. Houses grew taller, windows larger, their shutters painted in deep greens and reds. Signs above shopfronts grew more ornate, carved instead of painted, some even inlaid with small metal fittings that caught the morning light.
By the time he reached the mid-tier market district, the noise had changed. Less shouting, more conversation. The air smelled faintly of perfume, of polished wood, of parchment ink. Street performers played lutes and flutes for small clusters of listeners; a boy in a bright vest sent a trained hawk wheeling into the sky.
And then there were the small touches that told him he was approaching wealth — a fountain with clear, flowing water, guarded by a single, yawning soldier; laundry lines that held silks instead of rough linen; doors with engraved panels rather than bare planks.
At the edge of the artisan ring, he saw them again: the messengers. The same breed of sharp-eyed boys and young men he'd watched days ago, carrying packages wrapped in fine cloth, moving in and out of shops without so much as a pause. He noted the route of two of them — one heading toward a marble archway in the distance.
That archway, even from here, shimmered faintly. It wasn't the heat; the air there seemed denser, like sunlight on water.
Magic.
Caleb slowed, as if admiring a shopfront, but his eyes were on that arch. Beyond it, he knew, lay the noble quarter — and the manor of Lord Denval.
He breathed out once, adjusting the fold of his robe. He had his disguise. He had his gift. All that remained was to step forward.
The closer Caleb drew to the arch, the more deliberate the world became.
Guards in white armor stood at either side, their helms crested with thin plumes that swayed in the breeze. Their posture wasn't lazy — it was the sort of ease born from knowing they could handle anything that came near. The metal on their spears was polished to a mirror finish, catching the morning sun in blinding flashes.
Beyond them, through the arch, the street curved upward toward a sweep of buildings so large and precise they seemed painted rather than built. Marble columns, high windows framed in gold trim, banners of deep blue stitched with a silver crest — a falcon with wings outspread.
But there was something strange about the air itself.
Caleb slowed just enough to notice it.
The colors beyond the arch were sharper, the light just a little warmer, the lines of the buildings impossibly crisp. It was beautiful — but too beautiful. His mind, trained from years of staring at game boards, caught the imbalance. The symmetry was perfect where it shouldn't be. The shadows fell at the same angle, no matter the building's position.
Illusion.
Not the wild, fiery magic sung about in taverns, but something quiet, controlled, woven into the very air. It made the noble quarter look flawless, untouchable — the sort of place where outsiders like him didn't belong.
And yet, the trick also had a flaw: once he'd seen the repetition in the shadows, he couldn't unsee it. A banner's fold froze in the same curve no matter how the wind blew. A man's cloak swayed with a rhythm that didn't quite match the pace of his steps.
The magic was there to impress, not to deceive. Which meant it could be walked through.
Caleb adjusted his grip on the wrapped board under his arm.
The first guard's eyes flicked over him — taking in the unusual robe, the pale blue trim, the confident stride. The second guard tilted his head, as if measuring whether Caleb was worth the trouble of stopping.
Neither moved.
And then, he was under the arch.
The illusion wrapped around him like warm water, smoothing the edges of the world. For a heartbeat, it was disorienting — the light brighter, the air sweeter, even the distant sound of a fountain more melodic. But the sensation faded quickly, replaced by the weight of quiet wealth.
Here, the cobblestones shone. The shopfronts were not shops at all, but salons, galleries, tea houses with doors carved from single slabs of rare wood. People walked slower, not because they were idle, but because they could afford to be.
And every single one of them, Caleb thought, could afford the finest game board this city had ever seen.
Caleb let himself drift with the current of the street.
Not too fast — never too fast. In a place like this, speed looked like urgency, and urgency drew eyes.
The noble quarter was quieter than the city below, but not silent. The clatter of hooves came muffled by the fine iron shoes of sleek carriage horses. Conversation floated on the air in measured tones, each word weighed before it was spoken. Even the footsteps seemed lighter, as though the cobblestones would be offended by too much pressure.
Caleb noticed patterns.
The same older servant in green-laced livery walked between three buildings in a loop, each time carrying a small, lacquered case. Two guards at a marble doorway spoke in low, steady voices, scanning the street with the lazy precision of men who didn't expect trouble but were trained to end it instantly.
Every few minutes, a carriage stopped before a gallery or salon, the passengers descending in a slow ripple of fabric and scent. Silk. Perfume. Gemstones that caught the sun like frozen sparks.
Caleb's eyes kept returning to the same detail — the packages.
They were wrapped not in cloth, but in fine parchment sealed with wax. Every package bore a crest or emblem, a mark of ownership. These were the hands that delivered to nobles — and more importantly, took things away again.
If he wanted Lord Denval to see the game, it didn't need to come from Caleb. It just needed to arrive in the right hands, bearing the right crest.
A plan began to take shape, but he didn't rush it.
Instead, he let his gaze wander upward.
The buildings here weren't just taller — they were older. Not worn, but aged like fine wine, their stone darkened in places by time, their carvings smoothed but not erased. In niches above the street, marble figures watched silently — kings, warriors, saints, and creatures with wings folded in solemn patience.
The illusion magic hummed faintly now, like a chord at the edge of hearing. The banners still moved in perfect rhythm. The light still fell with impossible symmetry. But here, in the upper ring, the enchantment was less about impressing strangers and more about preserving the quarter's dignity. It was as if the magic itself was proud.
Caleb breathed in, tasting the faint sweetness of some unseen flower.
This was the battlefield.
Not the dusty roads he'd walked before, not the crowded markets. Here, wars were won with presentation, timing, and subtlety.
And if he played it right, the next move would be his.