Chapter 22 – Streets of Smoke and Silver

The gates of Karthaven were not gilded, not armored, not even particularly tall.

They breathed.

A lattice of floating glyph-plates shifted with an almost organic ripple, reading every step, every breath of those approaching. Behind them, the city glowed like a shattered constellation—splitting into two halves.

To the north, gleaming towers, light-draped bridges, and crystal conduits pulsed with magic and machinery—the Inner Area, home to ancient families, scholars, and the arena's elite.

To the south and sprawling wide, where most first arrived, the streets bled shadows—rickety shacks stacked like teeth, neon rune-lamps flickering, alleys echoing with clinking chains and whispered threats. This was the Outer Area, a perpetual twilight ruled by gangs who owed fealty to inner families.

"Charming," Aarav muttered as they stood on the dusty road leading up to the first gate.

"Smells like home," Xena said without irony.

"You grew up here?"

"No. But crime and I have an understanding."

A few steps ahead, a rotund merchant in teal silks was berating a kneeling slave. The merchant's ringed hand lashed out, striking the slave's face.

"Lazy filth," the man barked. "Two more mistakes and you're food for the pits!"

Aarav clenched his jaw, stepping forward—but Xena grabbed his arm.

"Hold," she whispered.

Then, with a grin, she strolled casually past the scene. In one smooth motion, she tripped on a loose cobblestone, stumbled into the merchant, muttered apologies… and slipped his coin-pouch into her sleeve.

By the time the merchant realized nothing, she was back at Aarav's side, tossing the pouch in the air.

"Entry fee handled."

"Is this your usual plan?" Aarav hissed.

"Cheapest one," she replied, unbothered.

At the gate, a bored guard in cracked armor held out a hand.

"Fee," he said, voice flat.

Xena flipped him a few silver crescents from the stolen pouch. The glyph-plates shimmered, scanning them briefly before clattering apart to form a narrow archway.

"Welcome to Karthaven's Outer Streets," the guard droned. "Stay out of trouble… or don't. I don't care."

As they stepped through, Aarav glanced at Xena. "You're a menace."

"You're alive," she said. "You're welcome."

City of Smoke and Silver

The Outer Streets of Karthaven unfolded in layers of chaos.

Buildings leaned against each other like drunks, glowing sigils painted across wood and metal, flickering weakly from lack of upkeep. Market stalls spilled onto alleys, selling charms, scrap tech, beast hides, and illegal rune patches.

The smell was worse—oil, blood, rotting fruit, and incense burned to mask all three.

Above, a web of skybridges connected gang watchtowers. Aarav spotted banners marked with fanged glyphs and spiked suns—symbols of rival groups.

"You feel that?" Xena asked quietly as they walked.

"Feel what?"

She nodded toward the rooftops. "Eyes. Outer Streets are crawling with gang lookouts. They don't move without approval from the Inner Families."

"And we're just walking in?"

"Exactly like every other mark they've seen."

From a high terrace, the Inner Area shimmered like another world entirely.

Floating rail-lines zipped between towers of crystal and blacksteel. Guard constructs patrolled shimmering walkways where scholars in gold-trimmed robes passed, holding levitating tablets of glowing runes. Magical fountains sprayed motes of light instead of water.

Aarav tilted his head. "We're going there, right?"

"Eventually."

"So what's stopping us?"

"ID," Xena said grimly. "The Inner Gate won't open for anyone without a validated Karthaven sigil. They don't care who you are—bloodline, rune prodigy, doesn't matter."

"How do we get one?"

"Two ways," she held up fingers:

Apply at an Identity Bureau. They probe your bloodline, runes, and history, then give you a verified sigil. Problem is, you need documents… and a sponsor from an Inner Family."

"Find a forger in the Outer Streets. They'll brand a counterfeit sigil rune under your skin—cheap, quick, and risky. If a patrol scans you wrong, they send you to the pits."

"And the safe option is…?"

She snorted. "Neither. But forging's faster."

They stopped by a crooked hotel lit by sputtering blue lanterns—The Silver Maw. Its entrance bore scratches from failed break-ins, and a drunk lay passed out near the steps.

"Five silvers for two rooms," said the innkeeper, not looking up from his rune-dice.

Xena slid coins across. "One room," she corrected. "And a lock on the door that works."

The man shrugged.

Inside, the room was cramped—a single cot, one flickering rune-lamp, and a cracked basin—but it had a door that closed, which counted as luxury here.

Before resting, they hit the night market.

Xena tossed Aarav a set of roughspun traveler's clothes with muted colors. "Your current outfit screams 'fresh meat.' You'll be robbed in an hour."

Aarav held them up. "This smells like… oil."

"Authenticity," she said with a smirk.

They also picked up:

A battered pack for supplies.

Cheap rune-ink quills and parchment for Aarav's studies.

Concealed dagger-sheaths (Xena called it necessary fashion).

As they returned to the inn, Aarav caught himself glancing back at every shadow, every flicker of movement.

This place didn't feel alive—it felt hungry.

In the room, Xena sprawled on the cot, hands behind her head.

"Tomorrow," she said, "we find a forger for IDs. Then… we get into the Inner City."

"And after that?"

She grinned lazily. "Arena. Library. Debt-clearing. Whatever comes first."

Aarav sat by the lamp, staring out at the Outer Streets through the warped glass window. Somewhere out there, gangs collected tribute for unseen masters. In the sky above, Inner towers glowed, untouchable.

He thought of home. Then of power. Then of survival.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Tomorrow."

Elsewhere — The Hunt Continues

In a dim understructure beneath Karthaven's arena, mercenary trackers knelt before a projection of a pulsing red mark on a map.

"Target anomaly detected near Silver Maw District," a handler said. "Tier Zero–One fluctuations. Unknown companion."

From the shadows, cloaked hunters known as Ashhounds emerged, their visors glowing faintly like dying coals.

The hunt had already begun.