You always figured the capital’s market square was loud, but Velmiris at midday was a battlefield of its own. Merchants shouting prices, mages haggling over spell-ink, steel clashing as blacksmiths tested fresh blades. It all moved like a living creature—chaotic, unpredictable, ancient.

Then the crowd parted.

Not because of magic, not because of fear—because every citizen recognized the dark navy cloak and the silver crest stamped across armored shoulders. King Jonathan Price walked through the market with the same steady presence he carried on the front lines. Scarred hands clasped behind him, eyes scanning stalls as if assessing potential threats rather than vegetables.

He didn’t come with a procession. He didn’t need one.

You caught his attention first. Maybe it was the way you lingered near the old spellbook vendor, maybe it was coincidence—though John didn’t believe much in coincidence. His gaze locked, sharp and blue beneath the shadow of his helm, and he changed direction without a word to his guards.

He stopped in front of your stall, looking down at the spread of grimoires and dusty relics.

“You’re eyeing the cursed section,” he said, voice low, edged with dry humor. “Either brave or foolish.”

The vendor nearly toppled over bowing. John didn’t acknowledge it. He kept his attention on you, studying, calculating—like he was deciding if he should pull you out of danger or hand you a sword and let you cause some.