A shadow, deep and ominous flickered at the edge of his vision before it disappeared again.
Reid was sure he had seen the face of man buried inside it.
"What?" Tarron asked, glancing at him.
"Nothing," Reid replied, noting that the boy was awfully observant. Just a little slow on comprehending.
The elk narrowed its eyes. He stared at Tarron's pack with an ominous look. Reid raised his brows, giving the elk a look that warned it to not mess with the parcel.
At the front, a guard stepped forward, visor lowered, voice flat. "Ten coins. Each."
Tarron looked like he wanted to say something but stopped short. The guard had clearly asked the last person for five coins. He was charging them double.
Reid wondered how deep Tarron's pocket was.
Silently Tarron paid first, pulling the sum from his belt pouch without hesitation. The coins disappeared into a box without being counted.
The guard turned to Reid.
Taron fished out another ten coins and handed them over. Reid eyed the elk, who had now leapt silently down to land beside the chest, standing protectively as the gold was moving.
"Don't try biting him," Reid murmured to the elk. "We need to get through."
The elk sniffed at the guard's sleeves, disdain curling its snout, but refrained from mischief. With a flick of its tiny tail, it hopped up onto Reid's saddle again.
"Move on," the guard grunted, and just like that, they were through.
Inside, Aldor opened up like a theatre stage. The streets were smooth, cobbled with white stone. Every building gleamed, their windows glazed and painted in rich hues. Couriers rushed through the crowds on foot. Carriages pulled by black-coated horses veered around corners. Flags flew from rooftops, each marked with sigils of noble houses.
It was a city arranged not by purpose, but by pride.
"Stick to the left lanes," Taron said. "Those are for our rank. Right side's only for the higher tiers."
Reid eyed the division. A literal iron rail split the road in two. Left lane had the foot traffic, the carts, the smells of meat and dung. Right lane had polished wheels, lacquered shoes, and silence.
Even the guards patrolled differently. On the left, they stomped. On the right, they strolled.
"Lovely place," Reid muttered.
"Ranks mean everything here," Taron said. "Even the inns. Some won't let you through the door unless you're at least a Xaldes."
Reid snorted. "Remind me to fake a rank crest."
"You wouldn't be the first."
Reid steered his horse along the edge, watching the elk twitch its ears with each new smell and sound.
Despite everything—the gold, the gates, the guards—the creature never stopped looking over its shoulder.
"Leave that to me." Reid asked quietly, thinking of the shadow in their pursuit.
The elk didn't answer. But its eyes said everything.
Reid lowered his voice, almost thoughtful. "We'll part ways with it soon. If the dark critter is sane enough to know his own good."
The elk turned to him, eyes wide, tail coiling like a question mark.
"I mean the shadow," he clarified. "Not you."
It blinked once.
Then vanished again.
Once inside, Aldor was a Maze.
The streets were lined with shops displaying luxurious goods. Inns catered exclusively to higher tiers, their entrances guarded to prevent the lower ranks from entering. Market squares were segregated, each designated for a specific rank.
The contrast within ranks only became more apparent as they travelled. Being a Sadis, Reid found their path restricted, forcing them to take longer routes to avoid areas off-limits to their rank. The city's layout was a labyrinth of privilege, where one's status dictated not just social standing but also physical movement.
Gold-trimmed signs were posted at intersections, quietly dictating where each class could walk. Markets with tiled streets and perfumed air bore crests denoting access—Xaldes only, Marchios and above, Closed to Sadis. Reid had never seen this many barriers before. Aldor wore its hierarchy openly, like embroidery on its skin.
Wide boulevards stretched out, gleaming with imported stone, but as they neared one, a patrolman standing at its entrance narrowed his eyes at Reid's plain attire. Without a word, he stepped forward and silently lowered a steel-tipped staff across their path.
Taron, quick to adapt, tugged Reid's sleeve and gestured toward a smaller, broken-paved alley that curved sharply away from the main road.
"We'll have to take the south way," he murmured. "Too many eyes on the King's Row."
Reid didn't reply immediately. He was watching the patrolman—no badge of honor on his chest, just iron and certainty. The man hadn't said a word, hadn't drawn a blade, but the meaning had been clear.
You don't belong here.
Reid spat in the dirt and turned away.
The detour took them through cracked stone lanes where the scent of wealth gave way to rot and smoke. Here, shopkeepers didn't sell silk—they sold boiled roots, old leather, and whatever trinkets the higher tiers discarded. No guards here. No sentries. Only stray dogs and tired faces.
Taron tried to make light of it. "They say the longer paths build character."
Reid gave him a look. "The short ones build castles."
And yet, even here, Aldor's order pulsed. The streets bent according to rank, not geography. Public wells were labeled by tier. Inns bore silver signs outside: Marchios Preferred, No Sadis Lodging Beyond Dusk, Proof of Rank Required.
There was no chaos in Aldor. Everything had its place.
Reid chuckled low under his breath. "City of gates. No wonder everyone here walks with their chin up—they're afraid of stepping into the wrong square."
To reach the noble's estate, they had to circle the old central district—a direct road would've taken fifteen minutes. It took them nearly an hour. And the closer they came, the more glaring the difference became.
By the time they arrived at the mansion gates, Reid had already drawn a map of Aldor in his mind.
Not in streets.
But in fences.