The continuous grinding of wooden wheels on gravel, a sound that had become familiar after five days on the road, now carried a different vibration.
The ground was flatter, wider, and smoother. The earthy smell on the wind was now tinged with the faint scent of woodsmoke.
As the shadow of a massive stone wall came into view, the carriage began to slow. The sounds of people from all directions brought a rush of life into the carriage. They were no longer in the middle of a forest, no longer on a desolate, empty road. This was the entrance to the city of Felnia.
A great iron gate stood imposingly before them. Under the black shadow of the city wall, various groups of people were lined up, waiting to be inspected before entering.
Beside the gate, four long wooden tables were set up. Officials dressed in dull black leather sat at each, carefully inspecting people.
On the tables were stacks of documents, official seals, and old brass lanterns.
No magic, no flashing lights, no crystal balls.
Only eyes accustomed to spotting deception, the smudge of ink, and the stroke of a signature.
The carriage stopped in front of two guards. A large young man approached, his eyes catching the insignia on Grant's chest—a bow crossed with three silver arrows. He paused for a moment before standing at attention and calling out.
"Grant Felhart, Level-Three Hunter of the Felnia Hunter's Association, is that correct?"
Grant nodded slowly, calmly handing over a light brown document. "Along with my wife and daughter."
When the official took the document and glanced at it, he stamped it without hesitation. No questions, no requests for clarification. But just before handing it back, he paused, his eyes falling on the out-of-place young boy.
"This boy?"
"He's with me," Grant answered curtly. "An unfortunate boy from Alvia. I'll vouch for him."
The guard narrowed his eyes. It wasn't a look of suspicion, but there was a flicker of hesitation. He picked up a blank sheet of paper from a pile at his side.
"I will register him on the 'Temporary Dependent' list. If any trouble arises in the city, you will be held responsible."
"Agreed."
While the guard was writing, James remained silent. He felt as if he were crossing the border into another world. He was no longer a refugee in the shadow of the forest, but he wasn't a 'citizen' either.
He was just walking behind someone with authority... under someone else's name.
…
The carriage moved onto the main street. The flat stone pavers received the wooden wheels with a dry rasp. Dust kicked up by the wheels settled on the window ledge. James pulled the curtain back slightly, and Felnia slowly revealed itself.
Ann, sitting beside him, spoke in a flat tone.
"On the left is the Lower District. Laborers, merchants, the unaffiliated live around here," she said. "Don't walk alone at night if you don't have an identity seal yet."
James looked over. He saw small shops packed tightly into the crevices of buildings. Some were half-open, others looked like they had been closed for a long time. A young boy was sharpening a knife on a stone next to a salt barrel. His face was emotionless, his eyes lowered as if he had done this countless times. It was an image that reflected the reality of the Lower District more clearly than any words could.
A place where children had to hold a knife before they held a pencil.
The carriage turned at a wide intersection. A large brick building had the sign of the Hunter's Association hanging prominently over its iron door.
"Over there, the Felnia Hunter's Association training hall. Anyone who wants to register has to pass the test there," Ann said, her eyes scanning the area like an inspector.
On the other side of the street was an open square. A stone statue leaned against a wall, and old bloodstains marked the stone ground. Two soldiers were practicing their sword forms in silence. No greetings, no conversation.
Ann spoke softly as she looked through the window.
"That area is used for practice for new hunters and the city guard… but if you see anyone staggering around here at night, don't get involved."
She paused for a moment before continuing in a serious tone.
"Some come back drunk. Some have lost their minds from what they saw on the road. If he's a hunter who failed a mission... you will never be able to help him."
The carriage began to descend a small hill into a narrower alley. The wooden buildings on both sides were packed so tightly that almost no light reached the walkway. The silence in this alley had a weight of its own, as if every footstep was being recorded by the walls on either side.
At the end of the alley, a well-preserved old wooden sign hung above a solid wooden door.
Dark letters spelled out: "Cranewold Bar."
This simple-looking place had been in operation for over a hundred years.
It was said to be a hunter's bar. Some said that anyone who hadn't set foot in here couldn't truly call themselves a hunter.
The owner was Brack Cranewold, a large man with a booming laugh and hands as heavy as logs. He was the third generation of the Cranewold family to inherit this small bar.
Though it seemed hidden in an alley, there wasn't a hunter who didn't know of it.
When the carriage stopped at the door, Ann was the first to jump down. She said nothing, simply pushed the wooden door open. The smell of smoke, liquor, and animal hide immediately wafted out.
Inside, about ten round tables were arranged without any regard for order. Some tables were tilted, others had knife gashes. On the wall, deer antlers were mounted in a row, along with a crude line drawing of some monster James didn't recognize.
Near the thick wooden counter, a young woman was wiping a glass with a dark cloth. She wore a black tunic, her long, dark hair tied back loosely. Her face was sharp and still, as if carved from stone. Her gaze was placid yet profound.
Ann whispered to James.
"That's Varena. She's worked here longer than anyone. Smart and strong." She gave a faint smile.
"No one dares to mess with her."
At the same time, a thin young man emerged from behind the kitchen curtain, holding a wooden tray with three glasses. His face held a bright smile, the kind of a person who had never been angry at anyone. The grease stains on his sleeve were a testament to his constant hard work. When he saw Elen, Grant, and Ann, his smile widened even more. "Lady Elen! Sir Grant! Ann!"
Frey quickly put the tray down before walking over to greet them with a joyful expression. "It's been too long."
"This is Frey," Ann added softly. "He works in the kitchen and serves. He does it for his sick mother and young sister… but you'll never hear him complain, not once."
James nodded before looking around the room.
This wasn't an inn for travelers.
It was a refuge for those who had returned from the dead—with wounds that had yet to fully heal.
"Come on," Elen said in a flat tone. "Uncle Brack is in the back. You should go introduce yourself."
After greeting Frey, they walked around the counter and into an office that smelled of ink and damp wood… and the hearty, deep laughter of the man who was waiting for them.