Windsea buzzed with life, its cobbled streets alive with footsteps and voices. Cloaks trailed behind merchants and nobles whilst children ran by, laughing as they played street games and painted the walls with chalk. Smoke rose from chimneys, the smell of baking bread and meats mingling in the air with smelting iron.

But beneath the glitter and the polished rooftops, Windsea pulsed with a sense of unease.

Soldiers in plated armour stood watch at every corner, their spears twinkling in the light as they pointed towards the sky. Their helmets bore the emblem of the Phantom Empire, and people knew not to speak too loudly when crossing by. Whispers moved fast in Windsea, rumours of disappearances, rebellion and assassins.

He however, had stayed out of the hushed words and murmurs.

Aurelian pushed through a crowd of people, moving like a shadow wrapped in silk through those who had gathered outside of Windsea's central bank. The people barely noticed him, their attention fixed on trying to get inside the heaving bank on payday.

He kept his arms hidden within his thick, black coat, slick with rain from the storm he had travelled through to reach Windsea- darker still where blood had soaked through. Aurelian's jaw tightened as he pressed his hand to the wound, the red blood staining his fingers. The injury wasn't fatal- a rush job to cut out the tracker buried beneath his skin.

Still, it needed stitching. A lot of it.

His magic wasn't enough to seal the wound, not when it was self inflicted. And he definitely didn't trust anyone else's magic. Not in this city. Not ever.

He needed a blade, a steady hand, a surgeon.

Or someone too desperate to ask questions.

His eyes swept the street, narrowing his eyes as his gaze landed on a crooked building. The sign was crooked, the paint job poor- but it was indeed a surgery. The place looked like it hadn't seen a patient in weeks. Maybe longer.

"I need stitches," he grunted, pushing in the creaking door and his eyes landing on you.

"Now."