Chapter 3

  Entering springvale

  You take a step toward the gates, already imagining the safety—or at least the answers—that might wait beyond. But before you can close the distance, the creak of heavy wheels and the snort of horses pulls your attention to the road.

  A wagon lumbers into view from the direction of the forest path you left behind. Its frame is massive, the wood dark with age and grime, iron bars running across its sides to form a cage. Inside… your stomach tightens.

  At least a dozen demi-humans are crammed together—maybe more, twenty or so at a glance—each wearing the same look of exhaustion and defeat. A wolf-eared man with a bloodied lip stares at the ground. A fox-tailed girl clutches a younger one to her chest, her own wrists raw from shackles. Further back, a pair of rabbit-eared boys sit shoulder to shoulder, their clothes hanging in filthy tatters.

  They are all ragged, beaten, and silent. The smell of unwashed bodies and dried blood drifts on the air as the wagon passes you, the horses’ hooves kicking up dust.

  Some of them look at you, eyes dull and hopeless. Others don’t even raise their heads.

  A man riding on the driver’s bench spits into the dirt and flicks the reins, muttering something to the armored guard seated beside him. The wagon trundles past, the sound of the wheels fading toward the city gates ahead.

  You freeze where you stand, the weight of the scene pressing against your chest.

  Your mind races to find some explanation. Criminals? Maybe. Back on Earth, wagons with cages were for prisoners—dangerous ones. But… something doesn’t fit. There are too many of them, too many women and children. Their injuries aren’t uniform, like soldiers would give in a fight—they’re messy, desperate. And those clothes… criminals usually weren’t dressed in rags so thin they barely held together.

  Your eyes track the wagon until it’s nearly to the gate, the sight of the fox-tailed girl clutching the younger one burned into your mind. A guard stationed by the gate glances at the wagon, but doesn’t stop it. No questions. No hesitation. Just a small, almost bored nod to the driver before waving them through.

  A knot twists in your stomach. Whatever that was… it wasn’t right. But you’re in a strange land, with no allies, no knowledge of the rules here.

  Speaking up might do more harm than good.

  … you can’t shake the image from your mind.

  You force your legs to move, each step toward the gates feeling heavier than the last. The wagon is gone now, swallowed by the city streets beyond, but the image clings stubbornly to the corners of your mind—ragged ears, bruised faces, eyes that had long stopped expecting help.

  The guards barely glance at you as you pass under the archway. One’s eyes flick to your clothes, lingering for a moment, but he says nothing—just rests his hand on the hilt of his sword and watches you go. The air changes immediately as you step inside: the scent of baked bread, the hum of conversation, the distant sound of a blacksmith’s hammer ringing against metal.

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  Springvale is alive. Stalls line the streets, selling fruits in colors you’ve never seen, bolts of fabric that shimmer strangely in the light, and trinkets carved from bone and crystal. People move in a steady rhythm—humans, elves, stocky bearded dwarves, even a few demi-humans walking freely… though you notice their eyes flick nervously to every guard they pass.

  Still, beneath the bustle, that unease lingers. Whatever you saw outside the gates… it wasn’t normal. Or maybe it was, and that’s the part that makes your stomach turn.

  You’re still scanning the crowd, caught between curiosity and unease, when a voice cuts through the noise—smooth, practiced, and just loud enough to be heard over the market chatter.

  You look… lost, friend."

  You turn to see a man leaning casually against a market stall’s post. His clothes are finer than most—dark blue tunic, leather gloves, boots polished enough to catch the sun. There’s an easy smile on his face, but his eyes… his eyes are sharp, appraising, as if weighing your worth in coin.

  "First time in Springvale?" he asks, pushing off the post and strolling closer. He moves like a man who knows these streets, each step confident but unhurried. "You’ve got that look.

  Lunas The one people get when they’re trying to figure out which way’s up in a place like this."*

  His gaze flicks over you—your strange clothes, your watch, the pocket knife you’d unconsciously clipped to your belt.

  "

  Tell you what," he says, voice lowering slightly. I know the city. I know where to find a warm meal, a safe bed… and things you won’t find in the open market. You look like someone who could use a guide. For a price, of course."

  He smiles again, but there’s something behind it—something you can’t quite read. An opportunity… or a trap.

  The man tilts his head slightly, as if deciding whether to lower the mask he’s wearing in this conversation.

  Name’s Jack," he says, offering a gloved hand. I work for the city police here in Springvale. We’re… sort of a sub-guard unit. The official guards handle the gates, taxes, noble business. We handle the streets—keeping the peace, breaking up trouble before it gets too loud."

  He studies your face for a moment longer before adding, "And making sure newcomers like yourself don’t end up on the wrong side of things."

  The first name that comes to your mind slips out before you can think twice.

  Lux, you say, shaking his hand.

  Lux Jack repeats, as if testing the shape of it in his mouth. Alright.

  Then here’s my advice, lux—you keep your head down, you don’t go asking questions in the wrong alleys, and maybe this city will treat you kindly."

  There’s a faint smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes"Or… maybe you and I can come to an arrangement that keeps you more than just safe."

  You furrow your brow, the question slipping out before you can second-guess it.

  "If I wasn’t supposed to see something,. you ask, "why have it happen in broad daylight?"

  Jack’s smirk deepens, but there’s no humor in it—more like he’s amused at how naive the question sounds to him. "Because, lux," he says, "the easiest way to hide something… is to make it so common that no one thinks twice about it.

  Do it in the shadows, and people whisper. Do it in the open, and it becomes part of the scenery."

  He takes a slow step closer, his tone turning almost conversational again.

  Most folks here don’t even look twice anymore. The ones that do? They learn quick when to keep their mouths shut."

  For just a second, his eyes hold yours, as if he’s silently asking whether you’re one of those people… or the other kind.