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  The road from the keep to the city sloped gently downward, paved with thick-cut stones worn smooth by years of travel. The land between was open and well-kept, neither wild nor truly tamed. No trees were permitted to grow close to the walls of either the keep or the city, leaving a clear stretch of land where the sunlight fell unhindered. Small vegetable gardens dotted the space near the road, neatly fenced with wooden stakes and rope to keep out stray animals. Some belonged to the castle’s staff, others to the city’s poorer families who tended them with careful hands, growing onions, cabbages, and hardy greens to supplement what they could afford.

  Crestport spread wide and solid beneath the midday sky. Its walls, built from the same gray mountain stone as the keep, encircled the city in a broad hug, sturdy but not looming. Where the keep’s towers reached for the sky like the teeth of a great beast, the city’s fortifications were lower, more practical, lined with watchtowers spaced evenly along their length. From this distance, the city within was a sea of rooftops—steeply pitched against winter snow, some covered in slate, others in thick wooden shingles. Narrow chimneys jutted up between them, thin ribbons of smoke curling into the air from the thousands of hearths below.

  The main road bustled with movement. Pushcarts trundled past, their wooden wheels clattering against the stone, laden with sacks of flour, barrels of ale, and bundles of firewood. Mule-drawn wagons rolled by in the opposite direction, carrying fresh-cut timber and crates of fish from the harbor. One large wagon, drawn by a pair of heavy horses, creaked under the weight of its cargo—sacks stacked high with something heavy and dense, likely grain from the inland farming villages.

  Katalin and Laszlo walked at an easy pace, stepping aside as needed to let carts pass.

  Laszlo was quiet for a moment, then glanced at Katalin. “So, that bard,” he said. “Lucien the Lyrical.”

  Katalin grinned. “You liked him?”

  Laszlo shrugged. “I don’t know. He was… different than I expected.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

  “I thought bards just sang songs and told jokes in taverns.” He looked thoughtful. “That was a real story. A lesson.”

  Katalin nodded. “That’s what they do. Some of their stories are silly, but many are meant to teach.” She kicked a loose stone, watching it skip ahead on the road. “I liked that one, but I don’t think I ever really thought about it before.”

  Laszlo gave her a sideways glance. “About not using all your mana?”

  She nodded. “I mean, I knew that much, but…” She hesitated, frowning. “I didn’t know warriors had to worry about it too.”

  Laszlo’s expression shifted, and there was something like pride in his voice when he answered. “Of course we do. I train with my father’s house guards and the sons of the other nobles. We have to be able to fight past exhaustion.”

  Katalin glanced at him. He spoke of it like a fact—like something he expected of himself.

  “I think I understand the warning better now,” she said slowly. “But I’ll ask my mother.”

  Laszlo just nodded, as if that was the most natural thing in the world.

  The conversation carried them down the last stretch of road, and as they neared the city gates, the noise of Crestport grew louder—voices calling, carts creaking, livestock bleating as they were herded toward the market. Just before the walls, a large, flat field opened up to the side of the road, where a group of men were shouting and chasing after a small ball with wooden sticks.

  Katalin brightened. “Shinty,” she said, grabbing Laszlo’s sleeve and tugging him toward the field.

  The game was fast and chaotic, played on the open grass with no set boundaries. The men were of varying ages, some young and lean, others older and thick-built from years of labor. Sweat gleamed on their faces, their tunics damp and dirt-streaked, but they moved with practiced ease, swinging their sticks low to intercept the ball, racing to outmaneuver their opponents.

  Spectators crowded around the edges, laughing and calling out encouragement. A few young boys in patched shirts chased after an extra ball near the sidelines, swiping at it with sticks much too large for them.

  Katalin nudged a young woman near the front of the crowd. “Who’s playing?”

  The woman turned, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Tailors’ guild against the brewers,” she said, then nodded toward the field with a grin. “That’s my Roger there in the orange top.”

  A woman beside her laughed. “Oy, you wish he was your Roger.”

  The first one smirked. “He will be. He just don’t know it yet.” The two of them dissolved into laughter.

  Katalin grinned, but Laszlo was watching the game, his brow furrowed in thought.

  “It’s like folk football,” he said after a moment. “But faster. More skill, less tackling. It looks much safer.”

  Katalin snorted. “Safer? Have you seen how they swing those sticks?”

  Laszlo nodded. “Fair enough.”

  They lingered a bit longer, Katalin pointing out the rules and the best players, Laszlo absorbing it all with quiet interest. But after a few minutes of watching again, he frowned slightly.

  “It’s hard to see what’s happening up close,” he admitted. “It was better watching from up high.”

  Katalin sighed. “It would be great if they had a tower close by to watch from.” She tilted her head. “Oh well. It’ll be better when we’re older and tall enough to see.”

  She turned, nodding toward the road. “Come on.”

  Laszlo followed without protest as they left the Shinty field and returned to the road. Ahead, the wide stone gates of Stonehaven loomed, flanked by thick walls that stretched in both directions. Just outside, two lines of people and carts wound their way forward—one for wagons and pack animals, the other for pedestrians.

  Katalin and Laszlo joined the pedestrian queue, moving steadily forward. The cart line was slower, with each wagon stopping as guards checked goods and questioned the drivers. The air buzzed with the chatter of merchants, the occasional bray of a donkey, and the groan of wooden wheels rolling over the stone.

  Their wait wasn’t long. They stepped up to the guard stationed at the pedestrian entrance. He was a grizzled man in a mail hauberk, his surcoat bearing the crest of Stonehaven—a silver tower on a blue field. He gave them a cursory look before asking, “Who are you, and what’s your business in the city?”

  Katalin answered easily. “I’m Katalin, smith’s daughter, and this is Lord Laszlo Velmora.”

  The moment the words left her mouth, the guard’s posture shifted. His gaze snapped to Laszlo, eyes widening slightly before he straightened to full attention. “My lord.” He inclined his head respectfully. “Welcome to Crestport. Do you need anything? Would you like an escort?”

  Laszlo gave a polite nod. “Thank you. No, we’re fine.”

  The guard hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Of course, sir.” He stepped aside, lifting a hand to wave them through.

  As they passed under the high archway and into the city, Laszlo exhaled, glancing around. The street ahead bustled with movement—vendors hawking wares, servants carrying baskets, messengers darting between buildings. He shook his head slightly.

  “I know this isn’t Westguard,” he muttered, “but it’s much too easy to get into the city.”

  Then, as if shaking off the thought, he turned to Katalin with a shrug. “What are we seeing first?”

  As they stepped past the gate and into the bustling streets of Crestport, Katalin gestured ahead. “I guess we should take a quick look at the market so you can compare. It’s straight ahead.” She pointed down the wide road before them. “This is Tradersgate we just came through, and this is Stonehaven Street. It leads straight to the market square and the port beyond. If we went around to the front of the city, that would be Kingsgate, and we’d be on Starcrest Street. The only thing interesting that way is the main guard barracks. And if you want to see where the rich merchants live, you’d go a short way and turn onto Kingsway.” She gave a half-smirk. “But all their houses are walled, so you can’t really see anything. I got to visit a few before my father left, when he came to do one job or another. Mostly working on their bathrooms.”

  Laszlo frowned. “Don’t they have smiths here in the city?”

  Katalin straightened a little, her smile widening. “Oh, yes. There are eight master smiths in Crestport, and I don’t even know how many apprentices and journeymen. But if they can, everyone asks for my father.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  As they walked toward the market square, Katalin pointed out the streets and alleys they passed. “This is Millstone Alley,” she said, nodding toward a narrow lane where sacks of flour and grain were stacked outside a low stone building. “That’s where the city’s bakers get their flour. And over there—Tanner Road. You can smell that one before you see it, even though most of the curing is done outside the city.”

  Laszlo wrinkled his nose as they passed, catching a whiff of the acrid scent.

  Near the gates, the buildings were larger, more structured. Several inns stood in a row, their wooden signs swaying slightly in the breeze. Katalin gestured to them as they passed. “Father says these inns are good,” she said. “Used by merchants and farmers who come to Crestport on business or to see your uncle. Not too expensive, comfortable, and safe.”

  Laszlo glanced toward the nearest one, The Copper Tankard, where a few men were unloading crates from a wagon. “They all have stables?”

  Katalin nodded. “Most people coming from the villages bring their own carts and animals. See the fenced yards?” She pointed to the spaces beside each inn. In some, wagons stood loaded and covered, ready for travel. Others held tired-looking horses, their reins looped over posts as their owners went inside to eat or rest.

  Laszlo’s gaze landed on a group of men standing near several carts, watching the road with wary eyes. “Those aren’t city guards,” he noted.

  “They’re not,” Katalin agreed. “Merchants have their own guards. Father says city guards will try to catch thieves but they won’t guard your stuff.”

  Laszlo hummed in understanding, his expression thoughtful as they continued.

  As they walked deeper into the city, the streets became narrower, branching into districts dedicated to different trades. Katalin named them as they passed. “Smith’s Row. Brewer’s Lane. Tanner Road—you smelled that one.” She grinned. “Jeweler’s Street is just ahead, and further down is Glass Alley.”

  Laszlo’s gaze flicked from sign to sign, taking it all in. “Everything’s so… organized.”

  Katalin laughed. “Sort of. It makes it easier to find things, most craftsmen live right above or behind their shops. The streets look neat, but the alleys behind them are a maze.”

  They soon reached the market square, where the bustle of the city reached its peak. The crowd pressed in around them—merchants calling out their wares, children darting between stalls, the scent of fresh bread, roasting meat, and exotic spices thick in the air.

  Laszlo turned in a slow circle. Katalin smiled at his expression. “See? There’s more variety here, and more people. But the market in the keep has the better food. And most of the business in the city is done in the shops, not here.”

  Laszlo looked around, his gaze hopeful. “Are you hungry again?”

  Katalin laughed. “No, we should wait for the feast.”

  As they walked through the bustling market, Laszlo glanced around at the food stalls, the scent of roasting meat and spiced bread thick in the air. “Are you sure you’re not hungry?”

  Katalin shook her head. “Trust me. The feast is worth waiting for.” Then, with sudden excitement, she grabbed his sleeve. “I want to show you something you can’t get in the keep.”

  She led him past a row of vendors selling bolts of fabric, carved wooden trinkets, and jewelry, stopping at a narrow wooden stand stacked high with books. The bookseller’s stall was wedged between a spice merchant and a glassblower’s display, the scent of parchment mingling with exotic spices.

  Laszlo’s face lit up the moment he saw the books.

  Katalin grinned. “A fellow bookworm.”

  Laszlo ran his fingers along the spines of a few well-worn tomes before pausing. “Why is there no bookseller in the keep?”

  “Gregor Ivanyr is the only bookseller in the whole city,” Katalin explained. “He says he doesn’t feel comfortable around the keep’s guards.”

  Laszlo’s fingers stilled over a book as he eyed the bookseller with suspicion. “Why don’t the guards trust him?”

  Katalin shrugged. “He’s Kervician. He says he hates Kervic and left as soon as he could, but...” She let the thought trail off.

  “Plus, he says it’s too much trouble to haul a bunch of heavy books to the keep when hardly anyone buys them. Aunt Teo is his only good customer there, and she just gives him a list of what she wants.”

  Gregor, a thin man with wire-rimmed spectacles and ink-stained fingers, looked up from where he had been adjusting a stack of books and smiled at Katalin. “Ah, my young scholar returns,” he greeted, brushing his hands off on his apron. “And you’ve brought a friend.”

  Katalin nodded. “This is Laszlo.”

  Gregor gave Laszlo a respectful nod. “Welcome, my lord. Do you have any special interests?”

  Laszlo kept his expression neutral. “We’re just looking.”

  Gregor gave a knowing nod and stepped back, allowing them to browse.

  Katalin grabbed a book and turned it over in her hands. “Look,” she said, reading off the title with mock grandeur. “A Thorough Examination of the Migratory Patterns of Lesser Cloud Dragons During the Second Age of the Silver Moon.”

  Laszlo smirked. “The title is longer than the book.”

  Katalin set it back down. “If I were a rich noble, I’d have a Cloud Dragon for a pet.”

  Laszlo barely glanced up as he reached for another book. “Or the Cloud Dragon would have you for a pet. Or a snack.”

  Katalin gave a short laugh and continued browsing. A moment later, Laszlo moved a few books aside and picked up a thick tome. “Look at this one,” he said, tilting the cover for her to see. “The Gifted Smiths' Definitive Guide to Plants and Their Uses.”

  Katalin’s interest sparked immediately. She joined him, and together they set the book on top of a stack to flip through the pages.

  She read aloud, “On the Proper Methodology for the Extraction and Integration of Botanical Properties into Metallurgical Compositions Through Mana-Based Transmutation. By Master Thaddeus Wordsworth III, Advanced Practitioner of Botanical Metallurgy. Royal Academy of Enhanced Smithing. Fifteenth Edition, Revised and Expanded.”

  Laszlo blinked. “I’ve never heard of this. You use plants for smithing?”

  Katalin shook her head. “I’ve never heard of it either.” She flipped a few pages, scanning the text. “You can use nightsbane to make a dagger poisonous. Or calendula in a healer’s staff. But look at these instructions.”

  Laszlo squinted at the dense text. “Achieve the necessary state of mana-cognitive resonance... What does that mean?”

  Katalin put on an earnest, serious face. “Well, obviously...” She slowly read, “This is most efficiently accomplished through dual-focal mediation wherein one’s mana simultaneously interfaces with both components in question.”

  They exchanged looks.

  Then both burst into laughter.

  Katalin shook her head, still chuckling. “I have no idea what that means. But I’ll ask Papa.”

  While she continued flipping through the book, Laszlo resumed scanning the shelves, reading titles aloud.

  “On the Proper Care and Maintenance of Enchanted Weaponry as Practiced by the Knight-Mages of the Celestial Order.”

  “Lessons from the Blade: A Study of Famous Duels and Their Outcomes. This one actually sounds good.”

  “Traditional Healing Methods of the Mountain Druids: Volume 15 of 20, with Annotations.” He made a face. “Who reads twenty volumes of anything?”

  Then he stopped, reaching into the stack and pulling out a book. “Oh. Here’s one I read.” He dusted off the cover and held it up. “Reflections on the Weight of the World.”

  That caught Katalin’s attention. She closed the smithing book and turned toward him. “I read that one too!”

  Laszlo blinked in surprise. “You did? I only read it because my tutors made me. They spent weeks asking me questions about it.”

  Katalin groaned. “Well, to be honest, I try to read it sometimes. Aunt Teo gave it to me as a gift. She says it’s her favorite book ever. Maybe you can explain it to me so I can talk to her about it like I actually understood.”

  Laszlo shook his head. “I don’t think you want me to explain it. I’m not even sure I really understand it.” He flipped through the pages. “Every time I thought I understood something, my tutor asked another question that made me doubt everything.”

  Katalin smirked. “Like what?”

  Laszlo sighed and read aloud. “Does the world exist as it is, or only as we perceive it?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like that.”

  “Neither do I!” Laszlo huffed. “If you punch someone, they don’t just imagine it hurts.”

  Katalin chuckled. “Depends on how hard you hit them.”

  Laszlo grinned and went on. “Or how about this one—Magic is not an external force—it is the unseen thread that binds all matter together.”

  Katalin tilted her head. “I think that sounds nice. I like that part.”

  Laszlo frowned. “Then why do some people have it and others don’t? And do bugs have mana? Not the giant magical bugs, the normal little ones. Or what about rocks?”

  Katalin snorted. “You should ask a mage.”

  “I did,” Laszlo said. “He just smiled at me and said, ‘It’s complicated.’” He shoved the book back into the stack. “Philosophy is annoying.”

  Katalin smirked and patted his arm. “Don’t worry, maybe in twenty years we’ll understand it.”

  Laszlo gave her a flat look. “I doubt it.”

  Katalin gave Gregor a friendly wave. “Come on,” she said to Laszlo, already stepping away. “Let’s see the boats.” And with that, she moved on, weaving back into the bustling market.

  Laszlo sighed but nodded, following her as they made their way toward the port side of the market. The air shifted as they passed fishmongers, thick with the scent of lake fish and fresh water. Gulls circled overhead, their cries blending with the din of bargaining fishermen and dockworkers.”

  Katalin glanced at the row of inns lining this part of the city. The signs were more faded, the wood more worn, and the men loitering outside were rougher than the ones near the gates.

  “Father says this area isn’t safe at night,” she murmured.

  Laszlo took in the hard faces of the sailors, the sharp-eyed merchants, and the way some people tucked their purses deeper into their coats. “I believe him.”

  “They walked past the fish stalls, deeper into the port-side market where the crowds grew rougher and the voices louder.” This end of the square was more colorful, the traders wearing bright, embroidered clothing and selling wares that stood apart from the everyday goods of the city. Some peddled fine rugs and woven tapestries, others displayed carved wooden trinkets, painted masks, and beads in every shade imaginable. The scents of saffron, cinnamon, and roasting nuts drifted through the air, mingling with the ever-present smell of the sea.

  Laszlo’s gaze landed on a row of cloth-draped tents, their vibrant reds, blues, and golds standing out against the sturdy wooden stalls around them. He nodded toward them. “What are those?”

  Katalin followed his gaze, then grinned. “Those are the Freefolk—nomadic traders,” she said. “They travel wherever they please, setting up temporary camps. Before Count Cedric conquered this land, it was held by different warrior clans. They say the Freefolk are the ones those clans took it from.”

  Laszlo studied the tents for a moment. “Uncle Alaric allows them?”

  She nodded. “He gives them open travel on all his lands. They hear things, pass messages between villages. They help spread word of all that happens in the realm.” She grinned. “Most people call them Alaric’s spies, but I like them. Or most of them.”

  “What do they sell?”

  “Their own crafts.” She gestured to one stall, where a man in loose, billowing sleeves displayed silver bangles and filigree earrings. “Jewelry, cloth, carved things. And wine. Mother likes their wine.”

  As they walked, Katalin pointed to a tent with its entrance drawn open. An older woman sat in a wicker chair, her snow-white hair covered in a deep red scarf, while a younger girl lounged beside her, idly braiding strands of her dark curls.

  Laszlo tilted his head. “What about them?”

  Katalin’s grin widened. “Fortune tellers.”

  “Fortune tellers?” Laszlo repeated, skeptical.

  She nodded. “People ask them about all kinds of things. When to fish, when to plant, how to get Rebecca to stop mooning over Karl. Important things like that.”

  Laszlo gave a quiet laugh. “And what have they told you?”

  Katalin shrugged. “Nothing. My father says it’s a silly waste of coin.”

  Laszlo grinned. “Come on then.” He started toward the tent, and Katalin hesitated only a second before following.

  As they approached, Laszlo stopped in front of the old woman. “Is this where we can have our fortunes told?”

  The older woman’s gaze swept over them, lingering a fraction longer on Laszlo before Katalin held up a hand. “Hold on.” She turned to the woman. “How much?”

  The old woman smiled, slow and knowing. “A silver each.”

  Katalin scoffed. “That’s robbery. I know for a fact you usually charge two coppers.”

  The woman chuckled. “Fine. Two coppers each. But for three, I will look deeper.”

  Before Katalin could argue, Laszlo reached for his pouch. “Three each will be fine.”

  Crestport is a strange place will be posted on Tuesday, April 8