At least the people of Apple looked more or less the same as Thalyrians, except strangely dressed and all seeming to be late for something. They raced by, heads down, many of them holding little rectangles that might’ve been glued to their fingers. No one carried any weapons that he could see, which made Piers itch to hide the sword strapped to his back and the knives in his belt. Were they why people avoided him?

He glanced down at himself. Belted tunic, boots, dust. His forearms were all scratched up for some reason. He worked his mouth from side to side, his jaw sore and aching. Most of him hurt in one way or another. He touched a hand to his throbbing nose. Blood came away on his fingers.

Wondering who he’d fought and why, Piers licked blood off his teeth and spat it in the street. A woman looked up from her rectangle and cringed away from him. She hurried to cross with the others.

Piers watched her go with a prickle of annoyance. He didn’t attract females like his brothers seemed to, but he knew he wasn’t repellant, either. Well, he might be a little repellant at the moment. He’d definitely been in a brawl, and most women didn’t like that.

Wait. Maybe she could answer some questions for him, such as how far this Big Apple extended, and where he could find the person in charge of it.

He leaped after her just as a gigantic four-wheeled wagon charged forward. It swerved to avoid him, screeching. Piers reared back toward the middle where he’d been standing, but another metal cart blared a horrible noise, squealing to a stop just in front of him.

His pulse pounding, he scrambled back to the center island, wondering who’d come up with this aberration of a system. How did children survive here? He glanced at the small striding man. He was gone. A commanding red hand had overtaken the box he was in.

Ah. Got it.

White magic held the horseless wagons back so that people could hurry across this deathtrap. Red magic propelled the wagons forward.

The red sorcery swept the big yellow wagon that almost hit him away, but not before the man inside it made what Piers could only assume was a rude gesture out a half-open window, yelling at him in a language he somehow understood as if he’d been born to it. Get out of the road, asshole!

Piers stared after him. No one had spoken to him like that in enough time for him to forget how infuriating it was. Not only was he a prince now—because his family had godsdamned conquered a realm—but he led armies.

His brow furrowed. That didn’t matter here, though. In Apple.