Chapter 25 — The White Dust

"The shock was nearly equal—no, just slightly less than the sight of me stepping out of the family manor's fog."

Sartor murmured with quiet joy.

Before him, the city added a distinct charm to the landscape, like an ancient painting come to life.

Mordred sprinted ahead toward the gates, leaving the two others trailing behind him.

The city boasted a thick, seemingly solid wall, crowned with tall defensive towers protecting both stone and soul.

As soon as the group arrived, two guards pointed their spears directly at them.

The guards spoke in succession.

The first barked orders with a commanding voice—his coarse face framed by an unkempt beard, his brown eyes revealing a commoner's birth:

"Who are you?"

The second, younger and less threatening, spoke like a trainee:

"What brings you to our city at such a late hour?"

Yasmin lifted her head, then bowed it with measured grace.

From atop one of the towers, she sensed arrows aimed at their group—not a direct threat, more a warning.

(This may be a backward city… but I respect the commander. The discipline of his men stirs something nostalgic in me.)

Mordred stepped forward, calm and centered:

"We're just travelers, sirs. Planning to rest in your city before heading to the Crimson Capital."

The stricter guard replied:

"So you're bound for the Meteor Principality? Fine. Show your identity papers and pay five Fumus Terra each."

Yasmin reached into her pocket and responded coolly:

"I don't carry such a low-tier currency."

Behind her, Mordred was rummaging through his clothes.

"I think I lost my documents."

The guard turned toward the rest of the group:

"Don't tell me you've all lost your IDs too?"

The guards stepped back cautiously, putting space between themselves and the potential threat.

"If you have no papers, wait until morning. Even if you had the money, no one enters before dawn."

The bearded guard ended his words with solid finality, leaving no room for negotiation.

The team withdrew to a safe clearing outside the forest, preparing to camp without a tent or supplies.

Fortunately, it was summer—any colder, and someone might have frozen.

As they set up near the forest's edge, Sartor asked:

"Yasmin… I've never read about this currency in my books. What is it?"

Mordred jumped in:

"There are many coins, but we common folk just use Lounis, Itar, Fumus, and Fumus Terra. Those are the main ones."

They stopped at a fallen tree. Mordred pulled out his fire-starting tools as he finished explaining.

Sartor sat on the log beside Yasmin, while Mordred found a spot on the ground once the fire sparked to life.

As Yasmin warmed her hands, she mocked him:

"You're giving the young master incomplete knowledge. There are other currencies you didn't mention."

Mordred only laughed before defending himself:

"Those are for nobles and kings. They're not used in daily life—what's the point of telling him about them?"

Yasmin kept arguing, but Mordred seemed to enjoy the banter, like he was having fun riling her up.

Sartor sat silently, watching them. Yasmin insulted Mordred, and Mordred smiled without reply.

Sartor couldn't understand.

(I've never seen Yasmin talk this much before… Why is she showing these emotions to a stranger?

But that's not the real issue. The real issue is: why don't I like seeing her talk to him this way?)

Without knowing it, a seed was planted within him—no one could predict what would bloom.

They kept talking, voices fading into debates about principalities and kingdoms, until sleep claimed them by the firelight.

When morning came, sunlight filtered between the trees, falling across the faces of the sleeping group.

That was all the signal they needed—they headed back toward the city.

This time, no one stopped them.

New guards stood at the gate.

They encountered no issues with the money Mordred provided.

After some questions, they were handed small wooden tokens.

"What's this?"

Sartor asked, turning the piece in his fingers.

Mordred replied:

"A temporary ID token, until you get your papers from the city administrator."

Once they passed the city gates, Sartor was greeted with a vision worthy of his happiness gallery.

Stone houses intertwined with odd wooden extensions filled his view, streets paved with smooth stone winding between them.

The city was surrounded by gray walls, their paint faded with age. Not majestic, but curiously organized.

On either side, homes crammed tightly—some tilted, some draped with old flags bearing strange symbols.

The air was a mix of smoke, damp earth, and sharp spices from street vendors.

People moved quickly, yet still exchanged greetings. Sartor noticed with curiosity: they didn't just shake hands—they pressed their foreheads too.

Above, thin white smoke drifted from towering spires, like whispers from rituals never explained to outsiders.

Sartor lowered his gaze, admiring the cobblestone beneath him like a child discovering his world anew.

Yasmin, watching him, smiled as a mother might when her child steps into the world for the first time.

They continued on, searching for an inn.

Sartor's exploration was interrupted by a large crowd gathered near a multi-towered building.

On a stone platform before it stood an old, bald man with a thick beard, shouting to the people:

"Life here is salvation! Our god has sent us the White Dust to save humanity! Believe, oh believers, in Gilu the Divine!"

Suddenly, a scream pierced the crowd.

A frantic woman ran forward, holding a frail, pale child in her arms.

"Save him! Please!"

She cried, tears streaking down her cheeks.

The old man extended his hands with unnerving calm.

He took the boy gently, murmured indecipherable words, and produced a small vial—filled with fine, white dust.

He gave the child a few sips.

Moments passed...

Then the boy stirred.

He opened his eyes slowly, stood up as if he had never been sick, and clung silently to his mother.

The crowd murmured, some falling to their knees.

Sartor stood there, joyful at witnessing something beyond the natural—yet his smile carried the weight of silent analysis running deep in his mind.

Behind it all, Mordred's smile remained.