Art’s POV
The city smells like wet asphalt and yeast at four in the morning.
I walk with my hands buried in my jacket pockets, my boots scuffing quietly against the cobblestones. The concealed district is just starting to wake up. Delivery trucks rumble down the main avenue. A street sweeper drags a heavy brush through the gutter. From the alley behind the bakery, the warm scent of rising dough mixes with the sharp tang of ozone from the magical maintenance crews replacing the enchanted streetlamps.
Humans walking past the ward-line don’t see the glowing runes beneath the sidewalks. They just see a quiet, slightly rundown part of town. They don’t notice the shifters heading to morning patrols, or the troll-owned cafés unlocking their doors.
I do.
I tap the pocket of my jacket. War
