After signing a few manifests with the dockmaster, Alaric turned toward the end of the pier where a squad of men awaited him. They wore green and red kaftans beneath plate cuirasses engraved with crescent moon and star, their turbans bound with brass pins that glinted in the light.

  At their head stood a tall man in a black b?rk hat, his mustache neat and posture as rigid as a parade banner. He stepped forward and bowed.

  “Master Van Aerden,” he said, voice thick with accent. “We are sent to collect you.”

  Alaric glanced past him toward the waiting carriage — lacquered wood, gilded trim, a small plume fluttering on the roof. He sighed softly. “I actually prefer riding a horse to being boxed inside that thing.”

  The officer blinked. “We… could bring you a horse, sir.”

  “I’ll take a walk instead.”

  “But sir, we are ordered to escort you,” the man replied, uncertain.

  Alaric smiled faintly. “By the time your men return with horses, I will likely have reached the palace.”

  The officer hesitated, caught between duty and logic. “But sir…”

  “You can escort me and my secretary on foot,” Alaric said evenly, adjusting his gloves. “Or you can return to the palace with an empty carriage. Your choice.”

  A long pause. Then the officer gave a resigned nod. “Very well, sir. We will escort you by foot.”

  “Good.” Alaric stepped past him, the sound of his boots crisp against the dock planks. “I want to see the city more personally anyway.”

  As they left the harbor behind, the air changed—salt fading into spice, the distant murmur of gulls giving way to the rhythm of a city at work. Steam hissed from pipes beneath the cobbles, carrying the scent of hot iron and boiled pitch. The skyline shimmered with smoke and sunlight, domes and towers catching gold where the haze thinned.

  The road to the palace wound through the living artery of the Twin City, and Alaric walked at its center beneath a canopy of banners and tented awnings. On either side marched the Sultan’s royal guards, their burnished armor clicking with hidden joints, the gold trim polished so bright it caught fire beneath the morning sun.

  The streets throbbed with activity. Porters strained under crates stamped with foreign seals; camels and steam-carts jostled for space on the cobbles. Merchants shouted over one another, their hands flailing in desperate arithmetic—copper against silver, silk against salt. The air was thick with the smells of oil, incense, spice, and perfume; a thousand aromas of survival and ambition mingled until they became one scent: commerce.

  Children darted between stalls with baskets of dates, stray dogs chased after scraps, and a pair of street performers juggled knives to the rhythm of a hand drum. A preacher perch on a wooden crate shouted verses of repentance beside a gambling table, while a snake charmer swayed to the flute, the serpent mirroring his every move.

  Alaric took it all in—the rhythm of trade and toil. The city still beats, he thought, even as her empire weakens. There was beauty in its noise and decay alike—each transaction a heartbeat, each shout an echo of something older than empire.

  But as they passed through the bazaar arcades, he noticed the rot made visible—figures huddled in alleys, hollow-eyed men with outstretched palms, mothers clutching silent children beside guttered lamps. Beggars at every corner, where once there had only been hawkers.

  Mila’s gaze flicked over them without slowing. “There are more of them than last year,” she said quietly.

  Alaric’s gloved hands clasped behind his back. “Yes. I wonder what’s happening.”

  “Should we ask one of the guards, sir?”

  “Mila, they’re royal guards. They never left the palace; they wouldn’t know the price of bread even if you asked them.”

  One of the soldiers frowned faintly but said nothing. Alaric smiled thinly—he had not meant it cruelly, only true.

  They turned into a narrower street, where the walls leaned close and banners of foreign guilds fluttered above shopfronts. He watched as a shopkeeper swept dust from his doorstep, careful not to meet the beggars’ eyes.

  Then a child in tattered clothing approached them.

  “Can you spare a copper, mister?” she begged, voice trembling.

  The Sultan’s men moved to block her path. “Move away, child! This is the Sultan’s guest!” one barked.

  But Alaric laid a gloved hand on the man’s shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said evenly. “I wish to speak with her.”

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  The guards hesitated. Their captain met Alaric’s eyes, then gave a curt nod. They stepped aside, forming a loose circle around them.

  “Child,” Alaric began softly, “where are your parents?”

  “My mother’s sick, mister. She’s hungry and can’t get up.” Her eyes glistened.

  “I see. Does the inside of her mouth look swollen?”

  The girl blinked. “Yes, sir! How did you know? Are you a doctor? Is she going to be all right?”

  “I’m not a doctor, but your mother has scurvy.”

  “Scu… scu…” she tried to repeat the word.

  “Your mother needs some fruits,” Alaric said simply.

  He scanned the street and spotted a small fruit stall beneath a torn awning. Extending his hand to the girl, he said, “Come, child. Let’s cure your mother.”

  Her face brightened instantly. “Thank you, mister! May the gods watch over you.”

  “Oh, I believe they wouldn’t,” Alaric chuckled, half amused. Then his tone softened. “Tell me—why are there so many homeless this year?”

  “They’re refugees, mister. Like me and my mother.”

  “Refugees?” His brow arched. “From what?”

  “There’s a plague of locusts down south… and war in Maser.”

  “An infestation, child,” Alaric corrected gently.

  The girl frowned. “Infes…?”

  “Locusts aren’t a plague,” he said, gaze drifting toward the hazy skyline. “They’re an infestation. A plague is a disease. An infestation is animals.”

  “Does it matter, sir?” Mila asked quietly.

  “To a farmer, perhaps not,” Alaric murmured. “But words define how people act. Call it a plague, and they’ll pray. Call it an infestation, and they’ll organize. Even then you should get a doctor if there is a plague”

  When Alaric approached the fruit stall, the merchant—seeing him flanked by royal guards—quickly dusted his robe and swept the clutter from his counter.

  “Salam, noble one! Welcome to my humble stall,” he said, bowing low.

  “Salam,” Alaric replied, eyes tracing the fruit piled unevenly before him. “How much for a dozen of your oranges?”

  The merchant hesitated. “It… depends on weight, my lord, but perhaps eighty coppers.”

  Alaric arched a brow. “Eighty? It’s not because I’m surrounded by royal guards, is it?” His tone was half jest, half warning.

  “I wouldn’t dare, noble one,” the man said quickly. “It’s the market price—these days a pound of oranges goes for thirteen coppers.”

  Alaric flicked a silver coin toward him. The merchant caught it midair, startled but steady.

  “Keep the change,” Alaric said. “But pick the best ones for me—else the guards will be the ones doing the talking.”

  “Thank you, noble one! May the gods bless you,” the merchant said, bowing deeper now as he nervously packed the finest oranges into a wicker basket, hands moving fast but careful.

  “I doubt that,” Alaric smiled.

  After the merchant handed over the basket, Alaric crossed the street toward a small bakery, its sign faded by years of heat and smoke.

  “Business going well, baker?” Alaric asked as he stepped inside.

  The man didn’t look up. “If not getting bankrupt is going well… then yes, it’s going well,” he muttered, counting loaves on the counter.

  “Look at the man when you speak to him, baker,” the captain of the guards barked.

  The baker turned sharply, annoyance flashing for an instant—then he saw the royal crests on their armor. His posture straightened at once. “Oh, I—uhm—how can I help you? I mean... Salam.”

  “Salam,” Alaric chuckled. “How much for a loaf of bread?”

  “Eight coppers, sir.”

  “Eight?” Alaric raised an eyebrow. “That’s more than double the usual price.”

  “It can’t be helped,” the baker said, voice low. “Price of grain keeps rising. Some bakers even hoard flour to resell it.”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  “I’m an honest man, sir. I don’t like such practice.”

  “A good man, then.” Alaric’s tone softened. “I’ll take four loaves. But I don’t have coppers on me at the moment—how about we make a deal?”

  “A… deal?”

  “Yes. You’ll go with my secretary to collect the payment I owe you, along with a permit to purchase grain and flour in my trading company at the normal rate.”

  The baker blinked. “N-normal rate?”

  “Yes,” Alaric said smoothly, “before the price surge. But under one condition—you’ll sell your bread at that same fair price and bake a portion for the refugees.”

  The baker stared at him, eyes wide. “T-thank you, sir. Then… the bread is free. Please, take it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure, my lord. You’ve given more than these loaves are worth.” The baker bowed, quickly wrapping the bread in paper.

  “Very well then. But I’m not a lord just for your information.” Alaric smiled, taking the bundle.

  “Very generous, sir,” Mila said as they stepped away from the bakery.

  “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with helping people in need,” Alaric replied lightly. “Besides, I’ve just gained monopoly over grain—albeit a temporary one.”

  “Sir?”

  “Soon people will flock to this bakery. They’ll ask where he gets his grain and flour. Then the other bakers will follow—straight to my company.”

  Mila allowed herself the faintest smile. “Cunning as usual, sir.”

  “Oh, what are good intentions without power… and a bit of profit?”

  She nodded. “Then I’ll make the arrangements—grain, flour, and green produce as trade priority until prices stabilize. Is that correct, sir?”

  Alaric smiled. “Hmm, look who’s learning from me.”

  He handed her the wicker basket. “Before that, take this and accompany the girl to her mother. I’ll meet the Sultan myself.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Alaric turned. “Girl,” he called. The child ran toward him. “This lady will take you to your mother. Make sure both of you eat the bread and the oranges.”

  “Thank you, mister,” the girl said, hugging him tightly.

  Alaric brushed a hand over her hair. “Can you read?”

  “I can’t. But my mother can.”

  “Mila, when you’re in the office, tell the staff to employ the girl and her mother once she recovers—and make sure she learns to read.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, thank you, mister!” The girl hugged him again, tighter this time. “What’s your name, mister?”

  “Alaric Van Aerden,” he said with a faint smile. “And you?”

  “My name is Ishtar.”

  “Then be a good girl, Ishtar. Learn to read and eat more fruits and vegetables.”

  “I will, Mr. Aerden.”

  “Good girl,” Alaric said as he pinched her nose.

  Then as the baker shuttered his stall for the day, Mila departed with the girl in tow, the basket of oranges and a bag of breads balanced in her arm. Alaric watched them for a moment before turning toward the palace road. The royal guards closed ranks around him once more, their armor glinting beneath the noon sun.

  The noise of the bazaar faded behind them—replaced by the steady march of boots on marble and the distant hiss of steam rising from the city’s gilded heart. He breathed in, eyes on the gilded spires above. Commerce, poverty, ambition, he thought. All parts of the same engine. And with a faint smile that none of the guards could read, he walked on.