The afternoon sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the walled city. The bustling market square, once alive with vibrant energy, had begun to wind down, though it remained a cacophony of noises. The shouts of merchants calling out their final sales mingled with the creak of wooden carts being loaded. The occasional neigh of a horse or the metallic rattle of a passing caravan added to the symphony of activity. Beneath it all lingered subtler elements: the smell of spiced meats roasting on open fires, mingling with the earthy tang of fresh produce and the sharper, metallic scent of iron tools on display.

  Zyren adjusted the hood of his cloak as he made his way down the narrow street, his hand brushing over the fabric. It was soft yet sturdy, its deep green colour faded slightly with time. His adoptive father had given it to him when he was younger, saying it was owned by his mother—a subtle way to help him feel like he belonged among the forest elves.

  Now, though, the cloak seemed to serve a different purpose. The words of the hooded stranger rang in his mind:

  "—not what it seems—Keep your cloak high."

  The advice had hit a nerve. Growing up as a dark elf in a forest elf community had been an unrelenting lesson in mistrust. His adoptive family's love had always shielded him, but it hadn't stopped the whispers, the wary glances, or the subtle shunning from others. Here, in this city of humans, the unease felt familiar. The stares were different, but they still felt sharp.

  Zyren pulled his cloak tighter around himself and walked through the thinning crowd, his thoughts drifting back to all the times he was referred to as an elf. From the troubadour to the Dravarnik, now all seemed to be drawn closer by his race. Here, in this walled human city, the stares were different but no less palpable. Should he hide his face? The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he had to admit the wisdom in the hooded figure's advice. This city might welcome trade, but it clearly didn't extend the same warmth to its visitors.

  The scents of cooking spices drifted from a food cart, where a stout dwarven man bellowed over the sizzling of meat. "You won't find better roast boar anywhere in the city! Fresh from the fire, one silver a plate!"

  The energy in the market was infectious, but something about the scene unsettled Zyren. The urgency felt misplaced, as if the merchants were driven not just by a desire to sell but by a need to finish quickly. Caravans were being packed up at a brisk pace, their drivers urging tired oxen forward toward the gates.

  A rag-and-bone cart creaked by, and he stepped aside, nearly colliding with a halfling woman waving silk scarves. “Soft as dawn clouds!” she trilled. “Last chance today!” The pitch rang too eager—everyone wanted business finished before sunset.

  As the market began to shrink around him, Zyren decided to head toward the town centre. Rising above the maze of streets was a towering statue visible from nearly every corner of the city. Its outstretched arms seemed to beckon him closer, and he figured it might be a good place to start exploring.

  The town square was vast, its stone pavement immaculate and its design precise. In the centre stood the statue—a monumental figure of a human male, carved in exquisite detail. The man's open arms seemed to embrace smaller statues surrounding him, each representing a different race. Tomtes, Dwarves, Halflings, and others all stood in carefully arranged positions at his feet, as though the monument were proclaiming humanity's benevolence toward all. Nearby a Kobold stood looking at the statue with reverence.

  Zyren frowned. The craftsmanship was undeniable, but something about the statue felt... off. The monument's message felt too deliberate. The humans here weren't simply hosts—they were rulers, and this city was their domain.

  Shaking off his unease, Zyren's attention was caught by the sight of a passing caravan escorted by guards. Their goods tightly sealed, their faces unreadable as they guided their wagons toward a fortified section of the city. Zyren watched them disappear through a tall gate that was flanked by additional guards, its iron doors closing behind them with a heavy clang. What were they transporting? And why was it hidden?

  His gaze swept across the square, taking in the full layout of Regismere for the first time. The city wasn't simply walled on its exterior—it was divided, sectioned off like a puzzle box, each compartment sealed from the others.

  At one of the edges of the square, there was a low wall with a wide gate marking the boundary between the city proper and the agricultural lands beyond. Only two guards stood there, their posture relaxed compared to those at the main gate. Through the gate, Zyren could see fields where humans worked the land, their figures blurred by the dimming light. They wore simple clothes, patched but clean, moving with the steady rhythm of those accustomed to physical labour. Caravans passed freely through this gate, some laden with produce, others empty and returning from deliveries. The scene looked almost free of supervision. Almost.

  On the opposite side of the square, however, was a much taller, sturdier wall. This one was heavily fortified, with guards patrolling its top and stationed at the iron doors below. Their armour gleamed in the fading light, polished to perfection, and their movements were precise, disciplined. Through the open gate, Zyren caught glimpses of elegant buildings with ornate facades, clean cobblestone streets, and humans in fine clothing walking with unhurried grace. The caravan approached this gate, its cargo hidden beneath tightly secured tarps. The guards inspected it thoroughly before allowing it to pass, closing the heavy doors immediately afterward.

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  It was impossible to see much beyond this inner wall—only the tops of buildings that hinted at something more elaborate behind the barrier. The contrast between this section and the rest of the city was striking—a physical manifestation of hierarchy carved in stone.

  Curiosity tugged at him, pulling him toward the fortified wall. As he approached, one of the guards stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

  "Move along," the guard ordered, his tone firm but not hostile. "There's no need to get closer."

  Zyren hesitated, then raised his hands in a placating gesture and stepped back. He didn't want to provoke a confrontation, especially being at such a disadvantage. But the guard's abruptness only deepened his curiosity. What was so important—or so dangerous—that it had to be hidden behind those walls?

  Turning away, Zyren wandered back toward the streets, trying to make sense of what he'd seen. The dwindling market had quieted significantly as the sun dipped lower, the caravans departing at the same steady rhythm as the fading light. The streets, once bustling with traders and shoppers, were now nearly deserted. The stillness was unsettling, broken only by the occasional clink of armoured boots as guards patrolled the main thoroughfares.

  As he walked, two guards approached him from behind, their boots clicking sharply against the stone. The sound sent a jolt of anxiety through him, reminding him of the swift efficiency with which the guards had subdued the Gnari at the city gate.

  "Hey!" one called out. "Time to call it a day."

  Zyren turned, confused but careful to keep his expression neutral. "What do you mean?"

  "Visitors shouldn't linger in the streets after dark," the guard said, his tone curt. "Back to the inn."

  The command left little room for argument. Zyren nodded, glancing around for the nearest inn. One of the guards pointed down the street.

  "There. Keep moving."

  The interaction was strange. The guards weren't aggressive, but their authority was absolute. Zyren got the impression they didn't care about explanations or protests—they simply wanted the streets cleared. As he walked toward the inn, he noticed how eerily quiet Regismere had become. Only patrols of guards moved through the streets now, their presence a constant reminder of the city's tight control.

  When he entered the inn, warm light greeted him, along with the smell of ale and roasted meat. A gruff voice called out from a corner table.

  "Getting in late, aren't we?"

  Zyren turned to see a dwarf sitting alone, a half-empty mug of ale in hand. He waved Zyren over. "Come, sit! I don't like drinking alone, and my companions—weaklings—already turned in."

  Zyren hesitated but sat across from him. The dwarf seemed harmless enough, and his cheerful demeanour was a welcome change from the guards' cold authority.

  "So, what brings you to this lovely city?" the dwarf asked, gesturing for the innkeeper to bring another ale.

  "Just visiting," Zyren replied cautiously.

  The dwarf chuckled and leaned forward as he did so, his voice dropped to a low whisper, his eyes darting around the room as though afraid of being overheard. "A traveller, eh? Well, let me tell you something, lad—this place isn't what it seems."

  Zyren frowned. "What do you mean?"

  The dwarf took a long swig of ale before continuing, his tone hushed. "Oh, they've got it looking nice, don't they? All that trade, all that wealth. But the real city's behind those walls." He gestured vaguely in the direction of the sturdier inner wall. "That's where the humans keep their secrets. The rest of us? We're just here to fill their coffers."

  "What's behind the walls?" Zyren asked, leaning closer.

  The dwarf shrugged, his expression grim. "Couldn't tell you. None of us are allowed back there, and the guards won't answer questions. But whatever it is, it's important enough to keep hidden."

  He glanced over his shoulder, his voice dropping even lower. "Be careful here, lad. The guards don't like outsiders asking questions—"

  After a while, the dwarf excused himself, heading upstairs to his room. Zyren checked in with the innkeeper, handed over his token, and received his key and the token back, only now it mentioned one night.

  Lying in bed, Zyren tried to piece everything together—the hooded figure's warning, the guards' behaviour, the mysterious inner walls, the dwarf's cryptic comments. The city's perfect order now seemed less like efficiency and more like a facade, a carefully maintained illusion hiding something darker beneath.

  The vulnerability he'd felt upon surrendering his weapons at the gate now seemed even more acute. In a city where control was absolute and dissent was swiftly punished, being unarmed felt like being exposed to the elements without shelter.

  As sleep finally claimed him, his last thought was of the walls—not just the physical barriers dividing the city, but the invisible ones separating those who ruled from those who served, those who belonged from those who merely visited.

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