The outer districts of Vidalia didn't shimmer like the palace.
They pulsed.
The pulse wasn’t frantic or chaotic — it was rhythmic, like a heartbeat beneath the cobblestones. Elara felt it through the soles of her shoes, a steady thrum that matched the cadence of the city’s breath. Here, Vidalia wasn’t polished or ceremonial. It was raw. Lived‑in. Honest in a way the palace could never be.
Elara walked beside Calvinus through winding streets that curved like questions. The buildings leaned close, carved from dreamstone and memorywood, their windows flickering with scenes that hadn't happened yet. Vendors called out in languages that shifted mid-syllable. Children chased shadows that darted like birds.
It was beautiful. And strange. And alive.
Calvinus wore no crown, no crest. Just a da
