The gates opened to a world Sael had not expected.

  "I'll be bringing you to the administrative offices first," Vennor said as he led them through. "They'll handle the formal arrangements for your audience with His Majesty. Shouldn't take too long, given the circumstances."

  He gestured vaguely back toward the checkpoint, where guards were still dealing with the aftermath of the manticore incident.

  The streets beyond the gates teemed with activity despite the late hour. Lanterns hung from posts and building facades, casting warm pools of light that pushed back the darkness. Merchants still manned their stalls, calling out final prices for the day's remaining goods. The smell of grilled meat—or something approximating meat—wafted through the air, mingling with incense, smoke and the peculiar scent of desert flowers Sael couldn't name. Which, to be honest, was bothering him a little. What were those desert flowers named anyway? He'd have to ask later.

  Robin's ears swiveled constantly, tracking sounds from every direction. His tail swept low, the tip twitching occasionally as he took in the sights. Ilsa walked with her usual quiet composure and Orion seemed more relaxed, his gaze lingering on the various food stalls they passed.

  Was he perhaps hungry?

  The thought arrived with a small pang of guilt. It was true that they hadn't eaten since their departure from Orlys. Sael's own lack of need for sustenance made it easy to forget that others didn't share that particular convenience. He'd been so focused on reaching the capital, on the audience with the Dragon King, on the various complications that had arisen, that he hadn't considered something as basic as whether his companions had eaten.

  Perhaps he should treat them to something later. Yes, that seemed like a good plan.

  To their left, a crowd had gathered around a street performer. A man sat cross-legged on a woven mat, a wooden flute pressed to his lips. Before him, a serpent as thick as Sael's arm rose from a basket, swaying to the music. Its scales caught the lantern light, shimmering between gold and green. The crowd watched with rapt attention—no children, Sael noticed. Teenagers and adults, but no young children outside at this hour.

  "Is it always like this?" Sael asked.

  Vennor glanced back at him. "Hmm? Oh, you mean the activity?" He shook his head. "Not quite this lively, no. We're preparing for the fifth anniversary of the Dragon King's conquest. Ten days from now. The city gets... festive around this time."

  "I see."

  "Merchants come from all over the kingdom to set up for the celebration. Food vendors, entertainers, craftsmen." Vennor gestured toward a stall where a woman was arranging decorative banners painted with dragons. "His Majesty allows pretty much anyone to participate, so long as they follow the rules. No selling spoiled goods, no cheating customers, that sort of thing. Guards enforce it strictly during the festival period."

  They passed another food stall where something that looked disturbingly like scorpions the size of dinner plates sizzled on a grill. The vendor was turning them, their shells crackling in the heat.

  Robin's nose twitched. "Those smell better than they have any right to," he muttered.

  Orion made a considering noise. "I wonder what they taste like."

  "Like scorpion, I imagine," Ilsa said.

  "That's not helpful."

  Hmm. Perhaps they would appreciate some of that. Sael thought, cataloguing the stalls for later.

  Further down, another vendor had set up a large pot over a fire, something boiling inside that Sael couldn't quite identify from this distance. The steam rising from it carried a pungent, mineral smell.

  A group of guards stood near one of the grills, waiting for their order. Their conversation was loud and punctuated by laughter. One of them was in the middle of a story that involved dramatic hand gestures and what seemed to be an impression of someone else. His companions were grinning.

  It was, Sael had to admit, actually quite nice.

  He'd expected... something different. A kingdom ruled by a dragon, where assassins were apparently allowed to enter specifically so the king could deal with them personally, where shadows infiltrated during moments of chaos, that kingdom should have felt oppressive. Tense. Instead, it felt almost normal. People going about their lives, preparing for a celebration, enjoying the evening.

  Strange didn't quite cover it.

  They passed a tea house where patrons sat at outdoor tables, steam rising from clay cups. The lighting here was softer, provided by paper lanterns that cast everything in warm amber tones. Most of the patrons looked like they'd stopped in after a long day of work; tired but content, conversation flowing easily.

  A group of teenagers loitered near the entrance, talking amongst themselves with the particular brand of animated energy that only the young seemed to possess at this time of night.

  Five of them. Three boys, two girls. The tallest boy was gesturing wildly as he recounted some story, his hands painting pictures in the air. His companions laughed, one of the girls shoving him lightly in response to whatever he'd said. Sael observed them peripherally as his group drew closer.

  Then one of them moved.

  A boy, shorter than the storyteller but quicker. His hand came toward Sael with a speed that suggested practice. Perhaps even a skill—something to enhance dexterity or sleight of hand. Swift enough that most people wouldn't have noticed until it was too late. The motion was smooth, calculated, disguised within the casual movement of someone shifting their weight.

  But Sael's Perception was not that of most people.

  Time didn't actually slow. That would require manipulation of temporal forces beyond what passive observation could provide. But the effect felt similar: his mind processing information faster than the physical world moved, analyzing the trajectory of that approaching hand, the angle, the intent. The boy's fingers were already curling slightly, positioned to grab rather than greet. His eyes weren't on Sael's face but on his belt, where coin pouches typically hung.

  What was he doing exactly?

  Greeting seemed unlikely. You didn't approach a stranger from behind and to the side for a friendly handshake. You certainly didn't do it with that particular furtive quality to your movement, that calculated casualness designed to mask purpose.

  Pickpocketing, then?

  That was the obvious conclusion. The boy had seen an obvious traveler being escorted by a guard captain—someone who might have coin worth stealing—and decided to try his luck while his target was distracted by the sights and sounds of the street.

  But Sael decided to believe in the more charitable interpretation.

  Perhaps there was an entirely innocent explanation for why this teenager's hand was currently arcing through the air toward Sael's belt pouch with what appeared to be larcenous intent.

  He turned and caught the boy's hand in his own.

  "Hello," Sael said, looking directly into the teenager's eyes.

  The boy's face went through several expressions in rapid succession. Surprise, confusion, then outright panic.

  His eyes were wide. Very wide. As if he had not anticipated this outcome and was currently recalculating every decision that had led him to this moment. His mouth opened slightly, no sound emerging. The hand in Sael's grip twitched once, an aborted attempt to pull away that died the moment it began.

  Sael continued to hold his hand. Not tightly. Just firmly enough to make it clear that releasing it would be Sael's choice, not the boy's.

  The boy's friends had gone silent. The storyteller's animated gestures had frozen mid-motion. Everyone was staring, their laughter dying in their throats as they processed what was happening. One of the girls took a half-step forward, her expression shifting toward concern, but she didn't seem to know what to do.

  "Hello," Sael repeated, his tone pleasant.

  Movement to his left. One of the guards who'd been waiting at the food stall had noticed the commotion. He was walking over, his hand resting casually on his sword hilt—not threatening, just present. His expression was neutral, but his eyes had already taken in the scene.

  "Everything alright here?" the guard asked, directing the question at Sael but keeping the teenagers in his peripheral vision.

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  The boy's face had gone pale. The color draining so quickly that Sael wondered if he might faint. His friends looked similarly stricken. The girl who'd stepped forward had her hands clasped together, knuckles white.

  Vennor had stopped walking and turned back, taking in the situation with a glance. His expression gave nothing away.

  Sael looked at the boy.

  "No trouble at all," he said, keeping his voice light. He met the guard's gaze. "This young man was just greeting me. Weren't you?"

  He looked back at the boy, still holding his hand.

  The boy's throat worked. He swallowed once, twice, before managing to speak. "Yes," he said, the word coming out hoarse. "Yes, I was—I was greeting you. Sir. Just... just being friendly. To visitors."

  "Very hospitable," Sael said. He released the boy's hand.

  The boy snatched it back immediately, cradling it against his chest as if Sael had burned him. Which was unfair, really. Sael had been quite gentle.

  The guard's eyes moved between them, assessment clear in his gaze. After a long moment, he nodded slowly.

  "I see," he said. Then his attention shifted fully to the teenagers. "You lot. Time to head home. Now."

  "Yes sir," one of the boys mumbled.

  "You know the consequences of bad behavior in this city," the guard continued. "Especially during the festival preparations. His Majesty expects everyone to be on their best behavior. You understand what that means."

  "Yes sir," the boy Sael had caught said quickly. "We understand. We were just—we're going home now."

  "Good. I'll be having words with your parents tomorrow." The guard's gaze swept across all of them. "All of your parents. Don't make me come looking for you."

  Within moments, they'd melted into the evening crowd, gone as thoroughly as if they'd never been there. The guard watched them go, then turned back to Sael. "Sorry about that. Kids get excited during festival time, sometimes forget themselves."

  Vennor had walked back to join them. He exchanged a glance with the other guard but said nothing.

  They resumed walking, the crowd flowing around them as the street continued its evening commerce. The snake charmer's flute carried through the air. Someone laughed at one of the food stalls. The world moved on as if nothing had happened.

  But Sael found his attention caught on what the guard had said. Or rather, what he'd implied.

  "Those children," he said after they'd walked for a minute. "You know them?"

  The guard—still walking with them, apparently having decided to accompany Vennor—nodded. "Balik's boy, the one you grabbed. Known his family for three years now. Good people, mostly. The kid just..." He made a vague gesture. "Gets ideas sometimes. Thinks he's clever."

  "I see."

  "Thank you, by the way." The guard glanced at Sael. "For not saying anything. About what he was really doing."

  "I wasn't certain what he was doing."

  "Right. Well. If you had been certain, and you'd said so, and it was proven..." He trailed off, then shrugged. "Thirty lashes. That's the penalty for theft during the festival period. His Majesty is very clear about maintaining order."

  Thirty lashes.

  Sael let that information settle. A boy, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old. Thirty lashes for attempting to steal what would likely have been a few coins.

  "That seems excessive."

  "Keeps things peaceful," Vennor replied this time. "People know the rules. They know what happens if they break them. So they don't break them, and everyone gets along fine." He gestured at the street around them. "See? No fighting, no theft, no disorder. Everyone can enjoy the festival without worrying about criminals running wild."

  "What about smaller infractions?" Orion asked from behind them.

  The question came in Ashamsi, accented, the vowels flatter than they should be and the consonants harder, but competent enough. He and Ilsa had mentioned during the journey here that they both spoke the language reasonably well. Before the Dragon King's conquest, this kingdom had been a strategic partner to Orlys, trade flowing regularly between them.

  Ashamsi had been taught in schools here, a practical necessity for merchants and diplomats alike. Apparently some of that educational infrastructure had survived the transition of power.

  "Depends on the infraction." Vennor considered. "Public drunkenness, fifteen lashes. Vandalism, twenty. Assault, forty to fifty depending on severity. His Majesty posts the penalties publicly, updates them every year. No one can claim they didn't know."

  "I'll have a word with Balik tomorrow," the guard continued. "Make sure he knows his son's gotten himself noticed. Should be enough to keep the boy in line. Balik knows better than to let his kid jeopardize the family."

  "The family?" Sael asked.

  "If someone commits a serious crime—murder, treason, that kind of thing—their family can be held accountable too. Depends on the circumstances. His Majesty believes in maintaining order at every level. Family, community, kingdom. Everyone's responsible for everyone else."

  The tea house they'd passed earlier was still full of patrons, still warm and welcoming. The street performer still played his flute. The serpent still swayed. The crowd still watched, enchanted.

  Everything looked normal. Pleasant, even.

  But underneath...

  "How long has this system been in place?" Sael asked.

  "Since the conquest," Vennor answered. "Five years soon. Before that, things were... less structured. His Majesty established the code of law within the first month of taking the capital. Been enforced consistently ever since."

  "And people accept it?"

  Vennor was quiet for a moment. His eyes swept the street around them, taking in the pedestrians, the vendors, the other guards stationed at various points. When he spoke, his voice had dropped slightly.

  "People accept a lot of things when the alternative is chaos. The previous regime wasn't exactly gentle, either." He paused, then added with deliberate emphasis, "His Majesty brought stability. Yes, the rules are strict, but they're applied equally. Rich or poor, human or feytouched, everyone faces the same penalties for the same crimes."

  The other guard cleared his throat softly. "Might be wise to remember," he said, "that walls have ears in the capital. His Majesty has made it very clear that he values loyalty and... positive discourse about his governance."

  Vennor nodded. "Twenty lashes for speaking ill of the crown in public spaces. Forty if it's deemed seditious." He met Sael's eyes meaningfully. "Best to focus on His Majesty's accomplishments when you meet him. The peace he's brought. The order. The prosperity."

  "I see," Sael said quietly.

  The administrative offices came into view ahead, a larger building with guards stationed at the entrance. More lanterns here, brighter, casting fewer shadows.

  "We're almost there," Vennor said. "They'll get you processed quickly. Shouldn't take more than an hour."

  As they approached, one of the guards noticed Vennor and straightened slightly.

  "Captain," the man said, nodding in greeting.

  Vennor returned the nod. "Oris. Still pulling evening duty?"

  "Someone has to." The guard's eyes moved to Sael and his companions, curiosity clear in his expression.

  The other guard—a woman with her hair pulled back in a tight braid—was already looking at them with interest. Her gaze lingered on Robin's ears, then moved to Sael. "The messenger arrived about half an hour ago. We've been expecting you."

  "Good," Vennor said. He gestured toward Sael. "This is the envoy from the Merchant Association. His companions."

  The effect was immediate.

  Both guards straightened fully, hands coming up in crisp salutes.

  Sael frowned.

  That seemed... excessive? He was an envoy, yes, but surely that didn't warrant this level of formality. He'd been expecting basic professional courtesy, perhaps a respectful nod, the sort of treatment any official representative might receive. This felt like something else entirely.

  He glanced at Vennor, looking for some indication of what the appropriate response should be, but neither of them seemed to have expected this reaction.

  Sael looked to Ilsa. She'd grown up as a duke's daughter. Surely she'd encountered this sort of thing before, would know the proper protocol for—

  "His Majesty," one of the guards— Oris—said, addressing sael, "has requested that you be brought to him immediately upon your arrival at the palace."

  Sael felt his companions shift behind him.

  "Immediately?"

  He distinctly remembered Vennor mentioning an hour-long wait.

  "Yes, sir. The moment you arrived at the administrative offices, we were to escort you directly to the throne room." Malik paused, then added, "The Chancellor delivered the order personally after receiving your document."

  "I see." Sael kept his tone neutral. "May I ask why?"

  The man's expression didn't change. "I wasn't informed of His Majesty's reasoning, sir. Only that you were to be treated as an honored guest and brought before him without delay."

  An honored guest? Hmm.

  The Dragon King had 'sensed' him. That was the only explanation that made sense. Sael typically kept his mana core suppressed, the natural expansion of energy that came with possessing significant magical power held as tightly controlled as possible. It was habit more than necessity most of the time, a courtesy, really, so as not to make less powerful mages uncomfortable.

  But he'd used magic at the gate. Nothing particularly dramatic, but enough that an advanced mage paying attention might get a sense of his capabilities even through the suppression.

  The way a flame's heat could be felt even when you couldn't see the fire itself. And the Dragon King was apparently quite advanced indeed if he'd sensed that from however far away the palace was.

  "Very well," Sael said. He inclined his head slightly toward the guard. "Please, lead the way."

  Oris saluted again—briefly this time—then turned to his companion. "Inform the Captain of the Guard that we're escorting the envoy to the throne room. He'll want to adjust the evening patrols."

  The woman nodded and disappeared into the building.

  Oris gestured toward the plaza. "If you'll follow me, sir."

  Sael turned back to Vennor and the other guard. He should probably say something. These men had escorted them through the city, dealt with the paperwork, been professional throughout.

  "Thank you," he said to Vennor. "For your assistance."

  Vennor nodded, his expression still holding that odd tension from earlier. "Of course, sir."

  Sael looked to the other guard, realized he'd never actually gotten the man's name, and settled for a nod instead. The guard returned it, looking faintly relieved to be dismissed from whatever this situation had become.

  Then Sael and his companions followed Oris into the deeper streets of the capital.

  The walk to the palace took them through areas that grew progressively wider and more elaborate. The buildings here were taller, their facades decorated with intricate tilework and carved stonework. The crowds thinned. Fewer merchants, fewer pedestrians. More guards.

  The palace came into view gradually, revealing itself in stages as they rounded corners and crossed intersections. First the outer walls, pale stone that seemed to glow in the lantern light. Then the towers, rising above the walls like fingers reaching toward the sky. Finally, as they entered the main approach, the palace itself.

  It was large.

  That was Sael's first coherent thought. Large in a way that made the administrative building look modest. The gates stood open. More guards here, at least a dozen visible from the approach alone. They all straightened as Oris led the group forward, eyes tracking their movement.

  "The merchant association's envoy," Oris announced to the gate guards. "For immediate audience with His Majesty."

  One of the gate guards nodded and turned to call into the courtyard beyond. "Open the inner gates! Honored guest approaching!"

  The sound of heavy mechanisms engaging echoed across the courtyard. Chains rattled. Gears turned. The massive inner gates—these ones actually closed, unlike the outer set—began to swing open with ponderous inevitability. Beyond them, Sael could see more courtyard, more guards, more elaborate architecture leading deeper into the palace complex.

  "His Majesty awaits in the throne room," Oris said. He gestured forward. "This way, sir."

  Sael looked back at his companions, wondering whether he’d been a responsible adult in bringing them along after what he’d witnessed today about the kingdom. The dragon, for all he knew, might not take kindly to his request regarding Aldric.

  "Hmm."

  He was not, to be entirely honest, particularly excited about this.

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