It’s quite amusing how some people show up where they aren’t wanted, but it’s even funnier when they do it with a smile.

With Aiden hanging back, I continued my journey with a little urgency in my steps. The soles of my boots thudded against the cobblestones, and my fingers curled into fists at my sides with a whitening tightness. I retraced mentally, step by step, word for word, what had been said. Duke Lysander’s daughter, Catherine.

Sigh. Just what I needed. Another reason to put on a fake smile.

Why did she bother coming? What was the point? To play nice with a bunch of people she probably couldn’t care less about? I find it quite ironic that a person who detests a place still makes the effort to visit. You might wonder why I feel this way about Catherine. During her last visit, I caught her chatting with her maid, lamenting how much she despised coming to Stormbourne Estate. Until now, I still can’t get that reproachful look of hers out of my head. It was a perfect portrayal of the woman she truly is.

Why couldn’t she just be like a normal person and tell Aiden her thoughts? She could just order him to visit her in Silverhold City. Her family was of a higher class than ours. Whether it was forging closer bonds between our families or just screwing around, I couldn’t care less. It would do me a huge favor if she did that. It’s kind of pathetic seeing her act all polite and sweet around my family.

At least there was that. I was sort of glad that my parents weren’t here. My head would otherwise have been splitting from hearing my mom nag me to wear something fancy, and my father would have endlessly told me to act proper during that bitch’s visit.

Furthermore, her visit had already taken its toll. On the way to the gate, I could see the several arches and pillars the florists had set up to beautify the pathways. I could even smell their overwhelming sweetness from where I was walking. The estate staff was bustling about, too. A few gardeners were out in the courtyards, trimming the hedges. Their movements were precise and methodical. They glanced up, their brows furrowing ever so slightly, passing on my questions why the son of their lord seen usually only in afternoon hours was up so early in the morning.

The guards were changing shifts. Four of them trudged off to the guardhouse for a break. I made for one of the guards, a burly man with a scar running down his face. He stopped dead, his posture rigid as he sized me up.

“Morning, Master Alex,” he rumbled in greeting.

“Morning,” I mumbled in response. “What time did I come back last night?”

The guard rubbed his chin with his hand. “I didn’t see you, Master Alex,” he said. “After Lord Stormbourne left the estate by a quarter after nine, some more of the servants came back from town around ten. After that, nobody from among the household staff or your family members exited or entered the estate.”

My brow furrowed as I tried to recall what had taken place here last night. How the hell did I drag myself back to my house? Was there even someone who brought me back? Or did I drunk-walk here, passing through the gate without the guards noticing my presence? I peered up at the walls before me. Did I fly over them?

“Want me to check the logbook, Master Alex?” offered the guard.

I ran a hand through my hair. “Forget it, and thanks,” I muttered before turning away.

Before long, I was making my way down Storm’s Road, where the hedge maples seemed to be gossiping among themselves. But these weren’t the usual whisperings of the wind. These leaves had developed quite a sense of nasty humor, murmuring about “revenge, blood, nosebleed, paper cut.” Then again, maybe that’s just where my head was at. Funny how you can be surrounded by so much noise, and your ears will only pick out what they want to hear because you’re stewing in your own thoughts.

Getting closer to the town, the trees started to thin out and gave way to patches of open fields and a few scattered cottages. The kind that looked like they’d been standing there forever, just watching the world go by. By the time I hit the streets, the day was in full swing, and the town had come to life in that way only Stormvale could. Vendors shouted out their prices from every corner. Kids darted through the streets like they had the devil on their heels. And the air was so thick with the smell of food that it could make even the grumpiest soul crack a smile.

But I wasn’t there for the market. My goal was obvious. The Chosen One bar. A new drinking spot on the eastern side of town, far enough from the clamor to keep its own vibe but close enough that you didn’t feel like you’d left the hustle and bustle behind. Still, as I wound through the streets, dodging the occasional stray cat or overly enthusiastic merchant, I couldn’t help but notice a few things that made me pause. It’s interesting, really, how the world likes to throw little distractions your way when you’re trying to stay focused. Like it’s testing you, seeing if you’ll stick to your path or get caught up in whatever random nonsense it swayed in front of you.

As much as I tried to keep on track, a part of me could not help glancing around, taking in the view. It seemed important and screamed for my attention. It was as if the town knew what I was up to and decided to tantalize me with everything that didn’t pertain to what I was looking for.

First, there was an old man, easily in his seventies, leaning forward with the weight of every year that had settled on his shoulders. His face, with deep creases, created from decades worth of labor. A stubborn battle with a mule who appeared equally set on making his morning as terrible as possible. The animal stood like a boulder and, from the look on its face, screamed, “Tug all you want, old man, but I’m not moving an inch.” Reins taut under the grip of the old man while he slurred some choice words which would have earned him a scolding from his wife.

Just when it seemed the old man might give out, a young boy, probably his grandson, came running up with a handful of oats. The boy’s expression was full of earnest, with bright eyes believing he could solve anything. Now that’s a face of cleverness. I smiled, guessing what he was going to do. Sure enough, at the sight of the oats, the mule’s ears twitched and after a fast sniff it started walking at last.

The old man straightened his body. Spine creaked like an old barn door. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a hand. He glanced at the boy with a mix of relief and fondness, and ruffled the kid’s hair. This sent the boy into a fit of giggles. Together, they continued down the road. The mule now scampering along obediently as if it were telling the old man, “All right, you win this time.”

Next, my eyes settled on a middle-aged man. A merchant, judging by his well-traveled, worn-out clothes. He was struggling with a dangerous-looking cartload of casks and boxes wrapped with cord. His face flushed in deep crimson, and sweat poured down his forehead in streams. He muttered under his breath, likely cursing the bad fortune that had saddled him with a cart looking ready to collapse at any moment. He had his arms wrapped around the crates as if he was trying to keep them from toppling with sheer willpower. But it was a lost cause. As he rounded a corner, the top crate wobbled before slipping off and crashing to the ground. The wood splintered with a loud crack. Apples scattered everywhere, rolling away as if they had some place better to be.

Poor old dude. Staring at the merchant stooped low to pick up the fruit. It looked like it was about time to do my share of helping when, out of nowhere, a bunch of street-smart kids came into the picture. They pounced on the apples, snatching them at an incredible pace and tossing them gleefully back into the crate as though it were some sort of game. The merchant looked up, startled, but then his face softened into gratitude. He chortled and gave an affirming nod toward the kids, who greeted his response with beaming smiles before vanishing just as quickly and dashing off to their next adventure. Chuckling to himself, the merchant began loading up the crate onto the cart, clinching it down more this time.

And then there was this dog, a scrappy little thing with boundless energy, darting through the streets after a pack of laughing children. It scurried on its small paws at an incredible speed, its wagging tail moving even faster to match their pace. No matter how fast it tried to run, it never seemed able to catch up. It yelped, its feet barely touching the cobblestones. “Come on, you can make it, buddy,” I rooted for him silently. At one juncture, the dog made a sharp turn and almost rammed into a plump woman carrying a basketful of eggs. The woman screamed curses while balancing the basket. When the dog shot past her, she sidestepped and tightened her grip on the basket. “Oi! Watch where you’re going, you mutt!” But the dog paid no attention to the near disaster it had just created and went streaking on by, its ears flapping as it got back into the middle of things. The woman clicked her tongue at the dog’s back and waved a hand in irritated farewell to it.

I took a deep breath after absorbing everything and smiled just a tad. It was so ordinary, so typical of a peaceful town. Life chugged along, whether you were paying attention, and sometimes, the little things were what gave you the pause. But I wasn’t here for those little moments. I had a destination in mind.