The border gates of Kharzad rose like twin sentinels carved from black basalt and veined with molten gold. Banners of crimson and amber snapped in the dry wind, emblazoned with the roaring dragon emblem of the Emberhold. Guards in scale-mail armor—human, beastkin, elf, dwarf—stood at attention, spears gleaming in their hands.

 

Alex and Veyra approached on foot, cloaks and clothing dusty from two weeks of travel.

 

Even before they stepped into view, their mana pressure rolling ahead of them, making their presence known to every guard who had once stood lazily and now stood with frozen expressions. They began to huddle together, weapons ready.

 

One, a lion-maned beastkin with a captain’s plume, dropped his spear with a clatter. Another whispered, voice cracking, “Lady Veyra…” What was once a defensive maneuver is now a formation of bows and respect.

 

A third turned and bolted toward the inner city, shouting over his shoulder. “The princess is home! Inform the king—Lady Veyra has returned!”

 

Veyra exhaled slowly, shoulders squaring.

 

Alex glanced at her. “They really thought you were gone.”

 

“They… mourned me,” a flicker of guilt passed her eyes, gone in a heartbeat but unmistakable. “In their eyes, I was lost; a mindless beast. A shadow of someone I once was.”

 

“You were fighting to come back,” Alex's voice was soft. “They may not have seen that struggle, but I did.”

 

Veyra’s breath caught. A small tear escaped her eye. She nodded once, gently and slowly, and he returned that gesture.

 

The captain stepped forward, bowing low, deep enough that his mane brushed the ground. “Lady Veyra… we did not expect… forgive us! The king will be informed at once! Please, enter. The city awaits you.”

 

Veyra inclined her head. “Thank you. Before I see my father, I wish to see my home again before the throne. Give us a couple of hours before the reunion is set.”

 

The captain hesitated for only a second, then stepped aside.

 

Alex followed Veyra through the gates. Kharzad opened before them like a living flame.

 

Streets wide and paved with polished red stone wound between buildings of white marble and dark granite, roofs tiled in shimmering copper that caught the sun like fire. Market stalls overflowed with spices, silks, forged weapons, glowing crystals, and roasted meats. Beastkin hawkers called out prices alongside human merchants; elves bartered herbs with dwarven smiths. Laughter, music from bone flutes, the clang of hammers on anvils—it was alive, chaotic, warm.

 

Alex stopped walking for a second, just breathing it in. The diversity hit him like a memory.

 

Wolf-eared vendors haggling with pointed-eared traders, a human child chasing a fox-tailed girl through the crowd, a dwarf and an orc laughing over mugs at a street-side stall. Languages blending, accents overlapping, skin tones, fur patterns, and scales all mixed without anyone batting an eye. It felt oddly… familiar.

 

Chicago on a good day, Michigan Avenue at rush hour, the Loop packed with every kind of person speaking every kind of language, food trucks selling tacos next to halal carts next to deep-dish stands, nobody caring who you were as long as you kept moving.

 

He felt a sudden pang of homesickness, sharp and unexpected.

 

Veyra noticed his pause. She touched his arm lightly. “You are quiet.”

 

Alex gave a small, crooked smile. “It’s just… this place reminds me of home. Chicago. Same energy. Same mix of people who don’t care what you look like as long as you’re not in their way. I didn’t expect to feel that here, of all places.”

 

Veyra’s eyes softened. “Then Kharzad may feel like a second home to you.”

 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Maybe… Maybe it already does.”

 

*Hey… I did that on purpose,* the author’s voice cut in, softer than usual. *Knew you missed the chaos of a real city. Figured if I couldn’t give you Chicago, I could at least give you something that felt close. You’re welcome, by the way.*

 

Alex blinked, then let out a quiet laugh. *You’re from Chicago, aren’t you?*

 

*Guilty.* The author chuckled. *Born and raised. South Side, actually. Used to grab Polish sausages on 63^rd, before with my father, then after night shifts. The same smell hits me every time I write a street-food scene.*

 

Alex shook his head, still smiling. *You’re a sentimental bastard.*

 

*Guilty of that too. Don’t tell the readers. They think I’m just here to torment you.* The author calmly replied.

 

*Your secret’s safe.* Alex let the wave of nostalgia hit him like a truck and exhaled slowly. *But… thanks. Really.*

 

*Don’t get mushy on me now.* The author’s tone snapped back to its usual sharpness. *You’ve got a dragon princess and her royal family to impress. Make me proud, son.*

 

Alex glanced at Veyra, who was watching him with quiet curiosity. “The voice?” she asked.

 

“Yeah,” he said. “Turns out he’s from Chicago, too. He… made this place feel familiar on purpose.”

 

Veyra’s smile warmed. “Then your home is closer than you thought.”

 

They kept walking, past a fountain shaped like a coiled dragon breathing water, through an open-air forge where a dwarf and a tiger-beastkin hammered a blade together, into a square where musicians played drums and strings in a circle of dancers.

 

Near the square’s edge, a small street vendor had set up a cart selling skewers of spiced meat and flatbread. The smell hit Alex hard; smoky, garlicky, a little like the Polish sausage stands back home during summer festivals.

 

He stopped again, staring.

 

Veyra followed his gaze. “You recognize that scent?”

 

Alex laughed—short, surprised. “Yeah. Back in Chicago, there were food trucks and street vendors everywhere. One guy near my precinct used to sell something almost exactly like this—sausage, onions, peppers, on bread. Called it ‘Chicago-style.’ I’d grab one after a long shift. I wonder if eating one from here would remind me of home…”

 

Veyra stepped up to the cart, bought two skewers, and handed him one. “Try it,” she said.

 

Alex looked at it; square veggies and meat, the only thing missing was the hoagie. He took a bite. The spices were different; earthier, with a hint of something floral, but the warmth, the char, the comfort of street food in a busy crowd… it was close enough. He closed his eyes for a second, savoring each second of this taste. “Thanks,” he said quietly as he swallowed.

 

Veyra took a bite of her own, then leaned against his shoulder-to-shoulder. “We have many such carts in Kharzad,” she said. “And many stories behind them. Perhaps one day, you and I will have such stories together.”

 

Alex smiled, real, unguarded. “I only know so much about where and how I grew up, but it’s definitely a deal.”

 

A shadow detached from the crowd behind them; tall, hooded, moving too deliberately.

 

Alex caught it immediately— that prickle behind the neck he knew he couldn’t ignore. All those years on the job, he felt the gaze before a face. He leaned close to Veyra. “We’ve got a tail. Black cloak, on the left side of the square. Been with us since the gates.”

 

Veyra’s eyes flicked sideways—casual, predatory. “Beastkin. Wolf scent. And he’s not alone. Two more, rooftops.”

 

Alex cracked his knuckles. “Want to say hello?”

 

Her smile was all fangs. “Very much.”

 

They turned down a quieter side street; narrow, shadowed, perfect for an ambush.

 

The moment they rounded the corner, the tail stepped out—hood down now, revealing a scarred wolf-man with yellow eyes. Behind him, two more beastkin: bear-kin hefting a maul, panther-kin twirling twin daggers with practiced ease.

 

The wolf-man grinned. “Butcher of Valthar. And the Crimson Terror herself. Quite the bounty pair. The bounty says it pays double if we bring both heads.”

 

Alex sighed, his hand drifting toward his sword. “Last I checked, I already took the bounty for the Crimson Terror; the only bounty you should be chasing after is mine.”

 

“You may have taken the bounty from those Valthar fools,” The wolf-man growled, licking his lips. “But someone else needs her as a corpse.”

 

Veyra cracked her neck, eyes narrowed. “Come and show me your resolve then.”

 

The bear-kin charged first, maul raised high. Alex sidestepped, grabbed the haft mid-swing, twisted. Bone snapped. The bear howled as his arm bent backward. Alex drove a knee into his gut, air exploded from his lungs, and he finished with an elbow to the temple. The beastkin dropped like a felled tree.

 

The panther-kin lunged from the side, daggers flashing. Veyra caught one wrist, twisted until it cracked, then slammed the hunter face-first into the wall. Plaster cracked. The second dagger fell.

 

The wolf-man snarled, claws extended. “You’ll pay for—”

 

Alex stepped inside his reach, palm to chest—once. The wolf flew backward, crashing through a wooden crate. He groaned, trying to rise.

 

Veyra walked over and placed a boot on his chest. “I don’t care who sent you,” she said softly, “the Crimson Terror and the Butcher are no longer for sale. Tread carefully.”

 

Flame licked her fingers, brief, warning. The wolf-man went limp, unconscious. The other two beasts tried to bolt, but collapsed three steps in.

 

Alex dusted his hands. “Efficient.”

 

*Nice teamwork,* the author quipped. *Should I call you Batman and Robin?*

 

*What can I say? We’re an unstoppable pair.* Alex chuckled.

 

*Yeah, yeah, showoff. Need I remind you why you’re here in the first place?* The author’s tone sharpened. Just like before, it wasn’t anger but directive.

 

*I know, I know. You don’t have to ride me every time I complete an accomplishment.* Alex muttered.

 

*Okay, I just wanted to tell you that this is what they call a Turning Point, tread carefully.*

 

Alex glanced at Veyra. “Think your dad will be impressed?”

 

She smiled—sharp, proud. “He will be… intrigued.”

 

“And what about these losers?” Alex looked at the trail of the unconscious men.

 

“Well, knowing my father, he’ll probably throw them in a dungeon or two to punish them for starting an incident,” Veyra explained. “Usually after a day or two, he’ll let them go, considering most of the time bounty hunters aren’t tied to any one kingdom.”

 

“Noted.”

 

They left the unconscious hunters where they lay, letting the city guards deal with them.

 

The city continued around them—unaware, alive, welcoming. But the throne waited. And with it, the king. And answers.