The morning sun washed over Aurelian's polished streets like gold over glass. Daemon moved slowly through the city, his cloak drawn tight, concealing the sword at his side.
It wasn't fear that made him hide it — it was strategy. The sword's shape was too distinct, too dangerous-looking for a place like this, where everyone walked with rehearsed smiles and stiff backs like they'd been trained from birth to play roles in someone else's fairytale.
The deeper Daemon wandered, the more unnatural it felt.
Market stalls were perfectly arranged, goods stacked in pristine rows. Merchants never raised their voices. No haggling, no shouting, no fights over spoiled fruit.
Even the air was clean.
It was suffocating.
Daemon passed guards who barely spared him a glance, their expressions carved from stone. Even the children skipped by in strange, synchronized patterns. Not one beggar. Not one drunk.
