Dylan stepped out of the house, closing the wooden door behind him. It creaked softly on its hinges, just like every morning.
The autumn sun had already opened up in the sky, pale and golden, dusting the slate rooftops with a gentle light. The air was crisp, carried by a light wind that swept up armfuls of dead leaves, dancing through the alleys like whispered secrets.
The city lived — vibrant, murmuring.
The church bells rang out the half-hour with a voice both clear and deep. In the distance, the clock tower in the market district beat the rhythm of morning. Hooves clattered against cobblestones, pulling carts filled with fabric, apples, steaming baskets. Soldiers' boots clicked in cadence, crossing paths with children running and laughing, a loaf of bread under one arm.
