The atmosphere changed the moment she crossed into the slums. That told her she'd entered a different environment, one that ran by its own rules.
Open braziers burned along the streets. Too many people occupied too little space, compressing heat and breath into the air, making it feel thick and stale, used over and over without time to clear.
Buildings rose tight on both sides. The gaps between them were narrow, choking off airflow and light. Even at midday, the shadows stayed deep.
She found the first man two streets in.
He sat against a doorframe with his legs stretched across the path, gaze fixed somewhere unfocused. She would have passed him. Nothing about his posture suggested he was worth her time.
Then she noticed his coat.
Heavy wool. Precise stitching at the collar, done by someone trained. Good fabric despite the wear, expensive once.
Now it was filthy, layered with weeks of neglect, the hem dark with street grime. Still, the quality showed through. The coat didn't belong to a man in this condition.
That posed a problem. Either he'd once had money, been close to it, or taken the coat from someone who did. Each possibility carried different risks. She needed to know which.
She stopped in front of him. "Are you looking for work?"
He tilted his head back. His eyes took a moment to focus.
"What kind of work?"
The words lagged slightly, arriving a fraction late.
"Steady pay. At the citadel."
He considered that. "I worked at a citadel once." A faint smile pulled at his mouth. "The people there were very serious."
His eyes settled on her.
"You're very serious too. You've got that look."
"What look."
"Of someone who already made a decision and is waiting for everything else to catch up."
He shifted against the doorframe.
"I had that look once. It wears you down, I wouldn't recommend it." He gestured loosely at the street. "Sit down. Take a break from it."
She remained where she was. "The coat. Where did you get it?"
He glanced down. His fingers brushed the collar.
"Gift."
"From who."
He opened his mouth to answer, then stopped.
Something changed behind his eyes. His focus slipped away from her, from the conversation, from the present itself. His gaze drifted three feet to her left and fixed there.
"The wool is from the southern coast," he murmured to empty space. "They shear twice a year there. Did you know that. The grass grows differently."
A dead end.
Whatever information he had, he couldn't hold onto it long enough to share.
She weighed the value of pushing further. Too much effort for uncertain gain.
After a moment, she nodded once. "All right."
"Come back if you change your mind about sitting down," he called as she stepped over his legs. "The offer stands."
She moved on.
Near the south end of the slums, she found another man crouched in front of a storage door hanging off its lower hinge.
He held a flat piece of iron against the old pin and struck it upward from below with a mallet. Each blow rang cleanly through the street.
The work took effort, but with the way the hinge sat, it was the right way to free it.
Before she saw his face, she noticed his balance. He leaned forward on the balls of his feet, adjusting without thought as he worked. Training showed in movements like that.
He heard her coming and looked up.
Mid-twenties, approximately. Watchful expression.
His gaze lingered on her for a moment before returning to the pin.
"Your house?" she said.
"No." Another strike. The pin rose slightly. "The old lady inside can't manage it anymore."
She waited to see if he would add more. He didn't.
"Are you working at the moment?"
"Some." He kept his attention on the hinge. "Why?"
"I'm putting together a list of people for positions at the citadel. I came through here to find anyone with matching skills."
That made him pause. He looked at her directly.
"Why come here for that?"
She kept her voice flat. "The warehouse district is already tied up elsewhere. People here aren't."
He held her gaze a moment longer, measuring her, then returned to the door.
She studied his hands. Calluses lined the edge of his right palm and the outer knuckles of his left hand.
Weapon drills left marks like that.
A healed split crossed his right hand, recent enough to matter.
"What sort?" he asked.
"General work to start. Some of it physical."
"What kind of physical?"
"Security. Message running. Anything needed in a building being established from nothing."
She watched him carefully.
"I'm still determining specifics."
He didn't answer at once. Instead he freed the pin, pocketed it, and stood. After testing the door on its remaining hinge, he adjusted the angle and pulled a new pin from a satchel.
"And who's setting it up?"
"The prince. He arrived recently."
He drove the new pin down in silence.
She waited. His pattern was consistent. Work first. Words after.
"The pay?"
"I don't have the exact number, that's his decision." She kept her eyes on him. "It's regular and includes food. Payment goes directly through the office. No intermediaries."
He seated the pin fully and tested the door. It swung cleanly.
"I've got family." He checked the hinges again. "My mother and a younger sister. I need to be back every night."
Clear terms.
"The work is during the day," Aestrith said. "You'd return each night."
He turned then and studied her fully for the first time.
He took his time with it, reading distances, weighing her, taking stock of the unknowns. She let him.
"What's your name?"
"Aestrith."
He picked up his satchel. "Lewin." His hand brushed along the frame one last time. "I'll think on it."
She continued through the slums for the rest of the afternoon.
She approached a dozen more people. Some shut down immediately, closing off before she could get through a sentence. Others talked without giving her anything useful.
A few met her criteria. She marked them down.
As the light faded, she reviewed the page and counted.
A few names. Enough to keep the place running. Enough for minimal security, assuming enough accepted. Enough for a beginning.
The long term would require more.
She folded the page into her coat and headed north through the residential district.
The city had entered its end-of-day rhythm. Stalls closed. Braziers burned in doorways. Cooking smoke drifted through the narrow spaces between buildings.
She kept a steady pace, turning the day's pieces over in her mind.
The drunk man's coat and where it came from.
Lewin's hands and what they revealed about him.
Godric's steady caution and how it would shape future decisions.
She held each thought without forcing conclusions, keeping them long enough to understand what mattered.
By the time she reached the gate, she had a workable list of priorities.
No one stopped her as she crossed the courtyard.
But the coat stayed with her. A man whose mind had gone elsewhere.
She still didn't know what that meant.