THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

Dawn had barely begun its ascent over Valemir when David opened his eyes. The room remained shrouded in darkness, illuminated only by faint silver moonlight filtering through the small balcony doors. The large bed—a source of much unspoken tension the night before—now held three sleeping forms arranged in a peculiar compromise. Luna had claimed the space nearest David as her right, while Elara had maintained a careful distance at the opposite edge, her back turned to them both.

David extricated himself from beneath the covers with practiced stealth, each movement calculated to minimize disturbance. Luna stirred despite his care, silver eyes opening to slits.

"Where are you going?" she murmured, voice husky with sleep.

David leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Go back to sleep. I'm just exploring the city while it's quiet."

Luna's eyes narrowed slightly. "Should come with you. Protect."

"I don't need protection for a simple walk," David whispered, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Rest. I'll be back before midday."

Luna seemed about to protest further but instead sank back into the pillows, her gaze lingering on him with a mixture of devotion and suspicion. David waited until her eyes fluttered closed before retrieving his light combat gear from his pack—sturdy boots, flexible dark trousers, and a fitted tunic that wouldn't restrict movement. No obvious weapons, nothing that might draw attention, but his system-enhanced body was weapon enough.

At the door, he paused, looking back at his companions. Elara had shifted in her sleep, one arm flung outward as though reaching for something lost. Luna had already slipped back into stillness, her breathing regular and deep. A strange sense of responsibility washed over him—not quite affection, but something adjacent to it.

Unnecessary complication, he reminded himself, closing the door silently behind him.

The Crooked Spire stood quiet in the pre-dawn hours, with only a single attendant dozing behind the front desk. David slipped past without waking him, emerging into streets still wrapped in the soft gray of early morning. The air carried the crisp bite of autumn, tinged with the lingering scents of the previous day's commerce—spices, smoke, livestock, and the ever-present musk of too many people living in too small a space.

David oriented himself using the distant white spires of the inner city, their tips catching the first golden rays of sunlight while the lower districts remained in shadow. He'd studied maps of Valemir during the journey, committing major landmarks to memory, but maps couldn't capture the organic complexity of a city that had grown and evolved over centuries.

He began walking, not toward any specific destination but allowing the city to reveal itself through direct experience. The outer districts awakened gradually around him—bakers stoking morning fires, street cleaners sweeping away night's detritus, early merchants arranging wares. Few paid him any attention; he was simply another anonymous figure in a city of thousands.

As he walked deeper into the city, David observed how Valemir's architecture reflected its social hierarchies. The outer ring featured functional structures—warehouses and modest dwellings constructed of wood and rough-hewn stone. Progressing inward, buildings became progressively taller and more ornate, streets widened and grew cleaner, and the population better dressed.

At each of the seven rivers that divided the city's districts, David paused to observe the flow of morning traffic—who was permitted to cross which bridges, how guards checked credentials, which routes seemed most congested. He mentally catalogued guard rotations, patrol patterns, and security checkpoints, filing away details that might prove useful later.

One particular bridge caught his attention—a narrow stone archway spanning the fourth river, conspicuously less guarded than others of similar size. He filed the observation away for future reference. Potential entry point to the inner districts if needed.

By mid-morning, David had worked his way through three districts, gradually building a mental map more detailed than any parchment could provide. He passed marketplaces preparing for the day's trade, temples opening their doors for morning prayers, and guild halls posting daily bulletins. At each location, he lingered just long enough to gather information without drawing attention.

Near what appeared to be a minor nobles' quarter, he overheard a conversation between two scholars discussing the Eye of Ternion's unexpected appearance. Their hushed tones and furtive glances suggested the topic was sensitive, perhaps even restricted.

"...calculations were precise," the older scholar insisted. "It shouldn't have manifested for another seventeen months. Something has disturbed the cycle."

"The Empress has summoned the Astral Conclave," his companion replied. "The Stargazers' Guild is in complete disarray—their predictions invalidated after centuries of accuracy."

David committed the exchange to memory. The Astral Conclave. Another lead to pursue.

As the sun climbed higher, he decided to venture into one of the less reputable districts—places where information flowed more freely, albeit at greater risk. Following a series of increasingly narrow streets, the buildings around him grew closer together, blotting out much of the sunlight. The air here carried different scents—unwashed bodies, cheap liquor, and something acrid that burned his nostrils.

David realized, with mild irritation, that he'd taken a wrong turn. The labyrinthine layout had confounded even his enhanced sense of direction. He attempted to retrace his steps, only to find himself in an unfamiliar alley ending in a blank wall. The sensation of being watched prickled at the back of his neck.

With calculated casualness, he turned, finding the alley's entrance now blocked by four men. Their clothes, while shabby, bore subtle insignias—local gang members, territorial rather than opportunistic. The leader, a scarred man with a crooked nose, stepped forward.

"Bit lost, aren't you?" he asked, the question dripping with false concern. "Fancy clothes, walking alone... must be carrying something valuable."

David sighed, genuinely disappointed that his peaceful reconnaissance had been interrupted. "I have nothing worth taking," he replied evenly. "Let me pass, and we'll forget this happened."

A second thug laughed, drawing a crude knife from his belt. "Hear that, Drav? He wants us to let him pass!"

The leader—Drav—smiled, revealing several missing teeth. "Strip him," he ordered. "Anything valuable, we keep. Then we'll decide what to do with him."

The smallest of the group lunged forward, knife aimed at David's ribs in what might have been an intimidating move to someone untrained. To David, it was almost comically telegraphed.

He sidestepped with fluid precision, his left hand capturing the attacker's wrist while his right delivered a devastatingly precise strike to the elbow joint. The sickening crack of breaking bone echoed in the narrow alley, followed immediately by the man's howl of pain as his knife clattered to the ground.