The evening was cooler than he expected it to be. He pulled his blue faded robes closer but the threadbare, worn out thing hardly helped. He should have brought his cloak, he thought as he rubbed his hands together to find some semblance of warmth. He looked up toward the sun and dishearteningly realized that it was about to set. It would be dark soon and he had to return before the night fell. 

Quickening his pace, he wove through the narrow, cluttered lanes. Merchants were hurriedly packing their wares, and laborers pushed past with little regard, their carts clattering over the uneven stones. He sidestepped a wheelbarrow laden with firewood and ducked beneath a low-hanging canopy, keeping his head down.

This was not at all how he had pictured his first lone journey to Raia, much less its towering Citadel. In his mind, it had always been a scene of quiet grandeur. He had planned to borrow a sleek white mare from the stables at Illari Square, her coat gleaming like morning frost. He imagined himself riding leisurely along the marble fountains that laced through the city, the water catching sunlight in playful arcs. Perhaps he would have stopped at the famous food street, letting the fragrant air tempt him. He would have dismounted with casual grace, passing the reins to a bright-eyed stable boy, ensuring the promise of fine care for the noble creature.

He pictured the scene as it should have been: laughter from the food stalls, the warm smell of spiced bread in the air, a proud beast beneath him and admiring glances from passersby. But reality tasted colder. Bitter, even.

He woke up to the news of one of the runners falling sick. He was expected to fill in his shoes and had to pick up an item from the Queen’s Top Inn situated at Raia’s citadel and deliver it to the Elder’s Building at his village, all the while being discreet and vigilant, which simply meant no stopovers. He could only leave after noon and return before night fell. 

The coins they pressed into his hand felt pitifully few, a meagre allowance that barely acknowledged the miles he would cover. Yet, within that small sum lay another burden: the gnawing necessity to save. Each copper piece held the promise of a slightly less empty stomach, a threadbare patch for his worn clothes, a tiny step towards a future that felt perpetually out of reach.

He looked further down the business street for the Inn sign. It was supposed to be nearby. He skirted around a cart full of grain sacks, his hands wrapping around himself to keep away the cold. A faint prickle crawled up the back of his neck—like the ghost of a gaze brushing his spine. He quickened his steps, not daring to look over his shoulder. Just nerves, he told himself. He walked a little further, desperately hoping to find the inn and finally the sign came into view. He sighed with relief. The purpose of the journey was at least half accomplished.