CHAPTER 434: FIRST STEPS IN THE CAPITAL

First Steps in the Capital

The cart rolled steadily on the cobblestone road, its every wheel bumping against uneven stones with a beat that synchronized with the slow pulse of the coming night. The sun loomed low, spilling molten gold and deep amber on the horizon, painting the world in hues that were virtually unreal. Through thin slits in the wooden rails, Leon and his friends glimpsed the city spreading out before them. Vellore lay across the land like a living tapestry—high walls shining dimly in the fading light, towers reaching the heavens, and rooftops smoothed bright enough to capture the sun’s dying kiss. Shadows stretched long and pointed, cloaking the streets in a dance of light and shadow.

Leon pushed his hands against the coarse wood, leaning forward against the gap, his hood pulled low enough to conceal the planes of his face. The gentle wind pulled at his cloak, and with it the distant hum of the city. His friends huddled beside him, quiet but attentive, their heads slightly bent, but their eyes taking in every movement of life outside the cart. Soldiers marched along the ramparts, armor reflecting the fading light, lion sigils shining like small suns with each meticulous step. Every motion was kept under control, calibrated—so sternly disciplined that it made the lively tumult below look nigh on untamed by contrast.

As the cart rode over the final stretch of jagged stones, the city lay open before them. Merchants hurried down the streets, their stalls laden with things from far-off places—spices in baskets of reeds, cloth colored in dazzling hues, and fine trinkets of silver and gold that teased merrily in the sun’s last rays. The scent of roasting meat wafted through the air, mingling with the heat of newly baked bread, tugging at senses even from inside the cart. Children ran in and out of the legs of the crowd, their laughter echoing and blending with the shrill yips of tiny dogs rolling and leaping at their feet. It was an orchestra of life—unkempt, disordered, exhilarating.

Leon’s eyes stayed on it all, not just seeing but absorbing—the money, the vitality, the unbridled beat of the city. He could sense it under his hands on the wood, in the distant humming of the cart, in the pungent smell of the streets rising up to them. The city was awake, drawing breath in the dying day’s golden light, and he felt the excitement curl tighter in his chest, a blend of wanting and something heavier, something that thrummed slow in his veins.

Leon’s friends shifted uncomfortably under the brunt of their cloaks, their respirations light as their gazes drank in the spectacle spread out before them. Wealth, bounty, and detail shone within every nook, laid out with an almost unapologetic arrogance. One notion pushed itself keenly into Leon’s head, tucked away in the guise of his lowered hood. What the fuck... How can a king’s citizens possess this much?

Before the idea could coalesce, a voice honey-smooth and layered with humor glided into his perception, soft but impossible to miss. "Never in a capital city, have you, Mister Leon?"

Leon yanked his attention to the speaker. Zetch stood next to him, relaxed stance, tilted head, red eyes serene but piercing as they took in the city spreading out endlessly below them. There was an unspoken command to the manner in which he took it all in, a gravity behind his easy interest that caused Leon’s heart to race.

"I. what do you mean?" Leon asked, the words tumbling out on a mix of real puzzlement and wariness, brow knitted under his hood.

Zetch’s lips curled into a secret smile, subdued, but weighed down by one who had witnessed far too much. "You see all this richness, all this organization... and you imagine, maybe, the kingdom is rich, yes? That its people live comfortable lives in a benevolent hand?"

There was a tension underlying Leon’s friends, a delicate tension that had them brushing the hilts of hidden weapons under their cloaks in an habitual, reflex motion. Zetch’s quick eyes spotted the action at once. His scarlet eyes flashed over each of them, weighing, judging—but he did not shift, did not make a word, allowed the silence to hang there like a razor in the air.

Leon’s hand crept upward gently, sweeping against the closest friend’s arm. Hold. Not yet. His body was tense, wound tightly with anticipation, but he willed himself to relax, calm.

Zetch shook his head barely, a low chuckle escaping his lips, a touch light but laced with something lethal. "Unwind. I can read it in your faces. The shock. The amazement. You imagine the kingdom to be all that you see, but that’s merely the top view, Mister Leon. Merely the golden veneer."

Leon’s eyes snapped into a thin, nervous line. "And. the rest?"

Zetch’s hand rose, the motion fluid but calculated, pointing Leon’s eyes to the end of a thin alley parallel to the central avenue. Walls were black and uneven, hewn broadly from rock, the type that absorbed light instead of reflecting it. A handful of people moved through the darkness, faces concealed beneath hooded cloaks and scarves, clothes sewn together from tattered fabrics, mismatched and frayed. The contrast was sudden, near-brutal—the silence and darkness of the alleyway set against the gilded pomp of the main street. Leon’s chest constricted a little; what he saw resonated with a raw, unspoken truth in him, something that no dazzling palace or merchant stall could conceal.

"Then," Zetch spoke, voice soft but laced with a subtle amusement, "is the reality of the kingdom. The darkness hidden beneath the gold. Observe it, if you wish to see it all." His words hung, a breath against the gentle clattering of the cart wheels. No lecture, no scolding—only the soft pressure of observation, the sort that required consideration rather than compliance.

The cart continued, creeping through the streets as day yielded to night. Light gave way to the soft violet of evening, tracing the cobblestones and rooftops with a sad, ethereal radiance. The city around them breathed out its daily pulse. Merchants were collapsing canvas awnings, stowing goods into crates with practiced fingers. Lanterns flickered into light, casting golden, warm halos across the rough streets. Horse-drawn carts rattled by, filled with merchandise headed for the docks or secretive warehouses, the drivers’ cries ringing softly on the cooling air. In the cart, travelers whispered to each other, voices hushed, some straining to see a final moment of the city’s hectic center, their curiosity laced with something akin to awe or fear.

Finally, the cart braked, wheels clattering over irregular stones until it came to a halt in front of a small stone platform where other carts were parked. Individuals hurried along—boarding, alighting, leading animals, carrying baggage—an efficient humbug that only the city could create. Some voices were raised in soft dispute with drivers about fares or timing, while fingers pointed at waiting carts or concealed packages.

Now," the driver’s voice broke through the gentle din, crisp and authoritative but with no roughness, "Everybody. Step very carefully, and recall— from here on now capital rules apply to everybody.