The cobbled streets of Tarnazor, one of Sanezzuwa's bustling settlements, wound around the limestone houses with sun-baked, terracotta roofs that leaned conspiratorially toward one another.

Inimuwa, the gal mesedi, strode through the market square with the languid authority of a man who knew his rank yet was still perplexed by why his favorite pair of sandals always wore out faster on the left foot. His bronze-studded belt jingled softly with each step, a sound that made the vendor of soapwort pause mid-haggle, momentarily forgetting his argument about the plant’s supposed ability to ward off misfortune.

Tarlu, the innkeeper, could be heard a street away as she harangued Misheni the carpenter about the state of his tab at her inn. Misheni, who swore his son Ulganu would pay it “any day now,” was meanwhile engrossed in an argument with Shanhadu the weaver over whether sheep preferred green grass or yellow—a debate that was rapidly drawing spectators, each armed with anecdotes about particularly fussy livestock.

And then there were the gardens—oh, the gardens! Even the smallest plots were a riot of color and purpose, their rows of bitter vetch and lentils interspersed with fragrant soapwort and sprawling vines of grapes. Fences lined with carved wooden gates bore tiny, decorative bees—an homage to the buzzing sentinels of Sanezzuwa’s famed honey. It was said that Kumayali herself, when not performing rites or issuing commands in her husband’s absence, often strolled the palace gardens, murmuring soft blessings over the crocus beds before the grand Crocus Festival.

Above it all loomed the citadel, a stone titan whose spires caught the sunlight and flung it into the eyes of anyone presumptuous enough to look too long. The halls inside were said to be filled with treasures—bronze vessels, silver ingots, and scrolls penned by the deft hands of the gal dubsar. But the most peculiar treasure of all? A wooden door that did not lead anywhere at all but hummed faintly when the zenant winds blew, as if keeping secrets