Bare walls. A white bed. An empty dresser. He set his belongings down (mostly books he’d brought from the library with Thorda’s permission) and stood awkwardly in the doorway.

“I’m home,” he said, and he wished he didn’t sound so bitter. Didn’t sound so broken.

Downstairs was a flurry of joyful activity, none of which Cyrus felt appropriate to join in. Stasia was tearing through the pantries, checking out the fruits and vegetables purchased by their servants in advance of their arrival. Mari was busy opening up windows to let in fresh air while also lighting candles to ward off the coming dark. Thorda, as was his want, knelt before the hearth, steadily building up the fire to his liking.

“I’ll be going out for a bit,” Cyrus told them.

“An excellent idea,” Thorda said. He nudged the core of the flames with a metal poker. “Get a feel for the city. Study its many pathways, both the obvious and the secret. That familiarity may one day save your life.”

Hardly what he had in mind, but he nodded as if that were his reason. In truth, Cyrus wanted out. He wanted to wander, and forget himself for however long that might be. His nerves were fraying every second he remained close to Thorda. His teacher was a constant reminder of the mission they would soon undertake, an assassination attempt on one of the Uplifted Church’s magistrates. His first big reveal to the populace, and the first step in crafting the Vagrant persona Thorda believed would lead to Thanet’s salvation.

The weather was cold. That was why he took a long-hooded cloak with him when he departed. It wasn’t to hide his face as he wandered the streets. After all, who would recognize him with his more mature face, longer hair, and faint shadow of stubble around his lips and chin? It couldn’t be because he was afraid, for that would mean Cyrus was a coward, and a coward couldn’t succeed at the impossible task Thorda set before the Vagrant.

For the first time in years, Cyrus walked the streets of Vallessau. Everywhere he looked, he saw evidence of change. Old signs torn down and replaced with the buildings’ names rewritten in the imperial tongue. Symbols of butterflies and lions, once as common as the rain, were painted over or scraped off doorways, signposts, and windows. The sun set, and with the rising darkness he felt more at home. More than anything, Cyrus wished to go unseen. He wished to convince himself he could be like the men and women he passed, who were so deeply vital to the city, no one gave them a second thought. No one immediately thought them an outsider. The imperials were the outsiders, not him.

So then why did the few imperial soldiers he saw seem so much more comfortable within the city than Cyrus?