As soon as the beggar steps out of the alleyway, the air is thick with shouting, yelling, and frantic cries. The once orderly queue is now a writhing mess.

  One man grabs another by the collar. “You bastard! You swapped your number!”

  The beggar watches for a moment, then moves forward, unfazed. No one notices him. They're too busy bickering, pushing, and scrambling to find their original numbers, eyes darting wildly between hands and the ground.

  At the front, where the nobles once stood in dignified silence, chaos reigns. A lesser-dressed man holds up a slip. “Look! I have number ten! That’s my spot!”

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  “Guards! Guards!” someone shrieks. “Thieves! Do something!”

  The guards exchange glances, shaking their heads.

  “The magistrates were clear,” one finally says. “You enter with the number in your hand. Now stay in line. We’ll call them in order.”

  Some nobles turn red with rage. Others are too stunned to speak.

  “Alright, they’re calling you lot in,” another guard announces. “Get ready.”

  One by one, names are called. From the back of the queue, a cheer erupts as an unlikely candidate steps forward, clutching a low-numbered slip. The nobles watch in horror. A few go pale. One even faints.

  Then—

  “Number forty-nine.”

  Without hesitation, the beggar steps forward and walks into the building.