The Year of Saston, 620 After the Pratogony ,30th Day of the Month of Lamos
After a long and exhausting journey, Attila and Ebren had finally arrived at the magnificent capital of Alphamos. As they passed through the city gates, their eyes were momentarily dazzled.
The city, with its towering stone-arched roads, tile-covered facades painted with great care, and squares filled with acrobats, musicians, and the scent of spices, was the very embodiment of an imperial capital.
It seemed as if the whole city had been bathed in gold; the morning sun glinted off the bronze plates on the rooftops, casting light across the streets. At the heart of the city stood Lukarn Square, where seven roads converged.
There, upon a raised platform, a bearded man in a black cloak was addressing the gathered crowd.
"Alphamos will not kneel! Tengritugen wants to divide our lands! War is inevitable!"
The crowd erupted in enthusiastic applause at these cries some waved flags, others raised their fists in anger. Attila paused for a moment to watch, narrowing his eyes at the man speaking. Ebren stopped beside him, glancing over his shoulder at the crowd.
With a half-mocking, half-serious tone, Ebren spoke.
"So… it seems we won't be getting the warmest welcome. Maybe we should take a little tour and find the exits, just in case, sound like a plan?"
Attila pursed his lips and nodded slowly.
"This city is shaped like a circle. If things go wrong, knowing the way out might save our lives."
Ebren, still watching the crowd in the square, responded.
"Then let's fill our stomachs first. Can't plan an escape on an empty belly. I saw a place down the corner called 'Salt and Stone.' Hopefully they don't just serve stone."
Attila gave a faint smile, and together they turned down the cobbled streets of the city, heading toward a modest yet elegant tavern.
At the end of one of Alphamos' cobbled streets stood "Salt and Stone," an elegant tavern adorned with dark-colored tiles. Its double doors opened slowly and heavily.
As they stepped inside, a sense of ancient calm seemed to mingle with a quiet wariness. Red silk lanterns hanging from the ceiling cast soft shadows on the dragon reliefs carved into the walls. The thick scent of incense lingered in the air, and the dim lighting seemed to gently chip away at one's thoughts.
Attila and Ebren silently made their way to a corner table. The table was made of obsidian stone, its surroundings simple yet tastefully decorated. A waiter approached as if to greet them, his eyes scanning the two from head to toe — then, without saying a word, he turned and walked away.
Ebren glanced around briefly, then leaned in slightly, pursing his lips.
"In this city, it seems staring at strangers is allowed, but speaking to them is forbidden,"
Attila, his eyes still fixed on the retreating waiter, replied in a low voice.
"Maybe it's their eyes that speak, not their tongues."
Five minutes later, a man appeared — wearing a long robe, with silver hair and a deep, resonant voice. He was dressed in a green satin coat embroidered with gold patterns. His face was friendly, his steps measured.
The tavern owner gave a polite nod.
"I've come to offer my apologies. Such a delay in our hospitality begs for forgiveness."
Ebren rolled his shoulders back casually and gave a slight smile.
"We're weary from the road. Fatigue stretches the wait, but your apology has arrived before the meal."
Attila returned the greeting with a brief nod, his eyes still fixed on the man.
"An apology shows intent, but intent is proven not only by words but by actions."
The owner answered with a warm smile.
"Then allow us to offer both — our words and our table. You are our guests today. That is our tradition here."
At his signal, two waiters arrived carrying golden domed trays.
Ebren leaned toward Attila, speaking in a low voice.
"Let's fill our bellies before the palace visit… but keep our eyes sharp. In this city, you draw your escape map while still at the table."
Attila nodded, his gaze shifting to the position of the doors and the architecture of the walls.
"Shields have become plates, and armor has turned into napkins. We must always know what becomes what."
As the first dishes were being placed on the table, the tavern owner took a step back and clasped his hands in front of him. The guilt on his face was visible in his eyes. He spoke in a sincere tone.
"I owe you another apology. The waiter earlier… his name is Narek… if his behavior troubled you, the responsibility is mine."
He paused briefly, then lowered his gaze.
"Narek lost his father two summers ago in a border clash on the eastern front. The cloaks you wear, the seals you carry, they must have reminded him of those days. Sometimes, people think the pain in their chest has become a scar, but it still bleeds."
Ebren gave a small nod. This time, there was no sarcasm in his voice, only understanding.
"Sometimes a shadow from the past is more frightening than the darkness itself."
Attila set down his fork and spoke. His voice was deep, clear, and firm.
"We do not blame pain, but any inner voice that leads to misjudgment is worse than a war from the outside."
The owner lifted his head. This time his voice was calmer, but also more careful.
"You're right. Alphamos is restless these days. It's not just the waiter, the whole city is on edge. The shadow of the North lingers in the streets like a mist. The propaganda against the Tengritugen Empire… it has clouded the people's minds."
As the shadows of the lanterns on the walls deepened, a silence fell like the stillness after a distant bell fades. The tavern owner finished his words.
"Strangers are no longer just travelers in these lands. Sometimes, they are seen as silent threats. Forgive us. The city judges you before it knows you."
Ebren tightened his jaw slightly, then smiled.
"Don't worry. In the places where we're known, the judgment isn't much gentler either."
Attila glanced at Ebren with a faint smile and gave a small nod.
The owner bowed once again and quietly stepped away from the table. All that remained was the steam of the food and the heavy air of the capital.
The sound of his footsteps echoed on the wooden floor until he reached the curtained partition leading to the kitchen. As he entered, he made his way to a small table in the corner. The young waiter, Narek, was already there. standing silently to one side.
The owner pulled out a sheet of letter paper and a charcoal-tipped pen from a drawer. Standing carefully and unhurriedly, he began to scribble something. The scratch of the pen and the tense atmosphere in the dim kitchen combined with the growing unease on Narek's face. When he finished writing, he placed the letter into an envelope, then looked at Narek briefly. Holding out the letter, he spoke in a short but firm voice.
"Head toward Gorman… You know what you have to do."
Narek nodded once, saying nothing. Immediately afterward, he headed toward the tavern's back door. Quietly, he opened the creaking wooden door and disappeared into the darkness.