It wasn't long until he reached the town square at sundown. Lucian stepped into the street, and the first thing that struck him was how alive it all felt—even in its final breath. He had never been here, so everything looked vivid and new to him.
The market was winding down, but the energy still clung to the air like the scent of spiced smoke. Wooden stalls lined both sides of the stone road, their awnings sagging with exhaustion as merchants packed away crates of dried fruit, trinkets, and half-sold charms. A few still lingered, shouting out last-minute bargains with the desperation of someone hoping to shave off one more coin before the night truly settled.
He moved cautiously through the thinning crowd, trying not to look too much like someone who didn't belong. Which, of course, he absolutely failed. Lucian may not have known, but his perfect porcelain face and storm grey eyes screamed nobility. As such, he received gazes of awe, suspicion and - to his surprise - jealousy.
How amusing.
Cloaks fluttered around him as travelers made their way toward the caravan service at the far end of the market. The town of Drea was what was spoken off on most of their tongues—he'd overheard the name enough times already, murmured like a destination promised to offer more than this place ever could. Home. Some walked in groups, others alone, but all with the same goal: get out before the lamps go out and the roads turn mean.
Lucian tilted his head, taking it all in. Timber-framed buildings leaned over the street like crooked elders, casting long, uneven shadows in the soft glow of hanging lanterns. Above them, stone towers pierced the fading sky, their silhouettes sharp against the twilight. Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimed once—deep, heavy. Probably the curfew warning.
He passed a young woman locking down her potion stall, humming to herself as faint light shimmered off vials now hidden beneath a heavy cloth. Beside her, a man tossed salt onto a circle etched in the ground, whispering something under his breath. Protective ward, Lucian guessed. Not uncommon in these parts, he guessed. He felt like a stranger in a land he had lived his whole life.
He adjusted the weight of the sack at his back and kept walking.
This place had a pulse—a strange, layered rhythm of fading magic, tired ambition, and half-buried danger. And Lucian could feel it. The way the air seemed thicker near certain alleyways. The way people moved just a little faster when passing locked doors. The way everyone spoke about Drea with the kind of hope that only existed when running from something else. Then it came into view.
The caravan post sat near the edge of the market district, where the cobbled road spilled into a wider, dirt-packed clearing flanked by wooden fencing and torch-bearing posts. Six wagons—large, canvas-covered and reinforced with iron bands—stood in a staggered line, their oxen snorting steam into the cooling air. Merchants bustled about, loading crates, pulling down signs, and arguing over space, while guards with dull breastplates and sharper tongues barked orders and waved ledgers.
Lucian kept to the edge as he approached, the approaching night wind tugging gently at his cloak. His gaze scanned over the organized chaos until he caught the thread of raised voices. It came from near the sixth wagon—the last one in line, where space was clearly tight and patience even tighter.
An annoyed girl stood there, clutching a wooden box half her size, red in the face and fire in her tone. She looked to be maybe a year or two older than him, though her presence filled the space like someone twice her age. Dark brown hair, wild and wind-bitten, framed her heart-shaped face, and her hazel eyes flared gold in the torchlight like sparks catching dry leaves. Dirt smeared one cheek, and her simple dirt brown sack dress patched at the elbows—but she was indeed pretty.
"How is it double the price tonight?" she snapped in a harsh country accent, glaring up at the bored-looking guard in charge of the sixth wagon. Her voice was hoarse from the market, but it didn't lack edge. "We barely made enough to eat today, let alone—"
"You want space or not?" the guard interrupted, scratching at his unshaven jaw. "Rates went up after sunset. Not my fault you two couldn't sell those wooden spoons or whatever."
"We carve them by hand," the older man beside her—likely her grandfather—said, voice quiet but strained. His back was bent, and he held a smaller bundle wrapped in burlap. "We just need room for a box and a seat. Please."
The guard clicked his tongue, then let his gaze fall back to the girl. Too long. Too low.
"You could work something else out," he muttered, stepping closer, hand halfway toward her chest. "Maybe we come to an... arrangement."
Lucian moved before he realized it.
His hand closed around the guard's wrist like iron. Not rough—but with enough force to stop a lustful hand.
"Keep your hands to yourself," Lucian said softly, his voice calm but colder than the mountain air behind them.
The guard turned sharply—and paused. Lucian stood tall, chin tilted just slightly, cloak falling open just enough to show the subtle silver trim of his undershirt, the polished leather of his boots, the perfectly straight line of his posture and those stormy eyes. He hadn't been outside the manor in six years, but the noble blood didn't need warming up. It settled around him like a mantle. Even the torchlight seemed to dim for a second.
The girl's eyes widened, a flush rising to her cheeks not from the cold.
The guard yanked his hand back, gritting his teeth. "Tch. Another puffed-up little lordling playing hero."
He turned, muttering, "I'll be keeping my eye on you, boy."
Lucian ignored him. Instead, he stepped forward, pulled a few coins from his pouch, and handed them directly to the grandfather. "For the fare," he said. "Get on the wagon before they charge you for air."
The old man blinked, stunned. "But—"
"It's fine." Lucian gave him a half-smile. "Consider it a... quiet appreciation. For standing your ground."
The girl looked at him as if he had just stepped out of one of those bard's tales, her expression a mix of disbelief, gratitude—and something else that made Lucian feel suddenly conscious of the wind tugging at his hair. Cute.
She hesitated. "You...you're re not from around here, are you?"
He almost giggled. Where's the girl who was about to chew a guard about caravan fares?
"No," Lucian said, smirking. "But I hear Drea's nice this time of year."