Lucindris is, of course, nothing like the Burn.
The streets are paved with smooth grey stone instead of packed dirt and ash. The houses sit on solid foundations, their walls mostly a mix of pristine white and soft cream, their windows fitted with clean, perfect glass. Flower boxes hang from some of their balconies, bright splashes of color that seem almost obscene compared to the muted greys and browns of home. The air smells fresh and crisp, with hints of tantalizing things—baking bread, drying herbs, roasting meat and spices from what must be early-morning food stalls.
I expected more of a smoke-tinged smell, because I expected more dragons to be cluttering the sky overhead.
But I spotted only four as we approached the city walls, and now, that color-streaked sky is clear of both clouds and winged beasts. I occasionally hear one in the distance, but they're far enough away that the sound isn't even as triggering as it normally is to me.
Interesting.
Maybe it's coincidence, or timing, or maybe the rumors I've heard about Mouren's dragon-filled skies have been exaggerated. I'm not sure. Whatever the reason, I don’t dwell on it now; there's too much else to see.
People are already moving through the streets despite the early hour—guards casually patrolling in pristine, shiny armor; merchants opening their shops; a woman whistling a soft tune while sweeping her doorstep; a group of children running past with a small dog at their heels, laughing and teasing each other.
No one looks hungry.
No one looks afraid, or angry, or downtrodden.
I'm terribly homesick, all of a sudden. Or maybe just sick. I knew the differences would be stark, but this city, it's…
It's like an entirely different world.
I force myself to keep observing. To notice the layout of the streets, the way they branch and connect, and all the different landmarks I can stand to commit to memory. There's a temple with a copper-green dome that rises above the other buildings. A market square with a fountain in the center of it—one that’s in the shape of a dragon, of course. Water pours from its open jaws, crystal clear, while people fill buckets from the basin below. A child splashes his hands in it, delighted. His mother watches him, a bemused littlesmile on her face. Not scolding him, like a parent of the Burn would.
Why would she?
There's no shortage of clean water here.
My fingers curl into fists against my thighs.
“Something wrong, Ashwalker?” King Reave's voice is low and close, each word a hot dagger sinking into the back of my neck.
I don't give him the satisfaction of a reply. I don't even look at him.
He says nothing else, but I can sense his smugness.
If we actually make it to the palace without me punching him in the face, it will be a godsdamned miracle.
The streets grow even wider as we move deeper into the city. The homes become grander and larger, their facades featuring broad verandas and decorative stonework. We pass a park full of trees that are flourishing—not stunted and struggling like the few that still cling to life near my home, but tall and full-leafed, providing genuine shade. There are benches dotted between them. Paths for taking lovely little strolls.
My stomach aches and aches andachesfor the uneven world, for the injustice of it all.
Then the palace finally rises ahead of us, and even through my exhaustion and disgust, I can't help but stare.
It's built from pale, subtly shimmering stone. Under different circumstances, it might be beautiful—a bright jewel gleaming on the hillside. But as I watch the sunrise spilling across its white walls, painting it in shades of scarlet and crimson, all I can think about isblood.
Towers spiral upward at each corner, topped with dark slate roofs. The main structure sprawls across what must beacres of land, its windows countless, its doors large and imposing. A high wall surrounds the grounds, but the gates stand open, and we pass through without slowing.
Gardens stretch on either side of the private road that leads up to the palace. Not practical gardens for growing food, but ornamental ones, full of roses and lilies and other, more exotic flowers I don't know the names of. Hedges are trimmed into unnatural, elaborate shapes. There are more fountains, more statues, than I can count. Everything seems to be about excess.
We finally stop at the base of a wide stone staircase that leads up to the main doors, which are deep red and covered in ornate gold filigree. Guards move forward immediately, taking the reins of our horse. King Reave dismounts first, then reaches up to help me down.
I ignore his offered hand and slide off the horse myself, my legs nearly buckling when my feet hit the ground. I catch myself against the stallion’s flank, breathing hard, willing my injured knee to cooperate. The king gives no response to my stubbornness; he simply turns his back to me and carries on.
Another palace guard steps forward and murmurs something too quiet for me to hear. King Reave nods once, then motions toward his riders. They remain in their saddles, crossing one arm over their chests and bowing their heads.
He starts up the steps, still ignoring me. There's no choice but to follow his lead; the masked riders form a solid wall at my back, while the palace guards are watching my every motion, unspoken expectation written in their cold eyes and reinforced by the tight grips they have on their spears.
I take a deep breath. Remove my hood. Pull the scarf away from my face.
