The Pulsing City

Myriath revealed itself to Edric even before he crossed its gates. The city rose as a living tangle of towers, rooftops, and elevated passageways, growing in irregular layers around ancient walls of darkened stone. Banners of weathered colors hung from narrow balconies, swaying in the wind like signs of a life that never ceased, and the sound of the city—overlapping voices, creaking wheels, distant bells, street cries in tongues Edric did not recognize—reached them like a constant tide. There was no solemnity in the entry. Myriath awaited no one; it swallowed everyone.

The four advanced together through the main archway, merging into the human current that poured in and out without pause. Merchants pushed wagons loaded with textiles and spices, guards watched with practiced attentiveness, and weary travelers argued over prices even before finding lodging. Edric felt, almost immediately, that there was no room for hesitant steps there. Each person seemed to know exactly where they were going, or at least pretended to, and this collective certainty left him feeling strangely displaced.

A few paces beyond the gate, the group slowed their pace, as if everyone understood that this was the natural point of parting. Lorien was the first to speak. He stopped, rested his hand on the worn strap of his pouch, and looked at Edric with a weary but sincere half-smile.

“This is where we part way,” he said. “Myriath is seldom kind to those who arrive full of questions... but you've already come too far to turn back now. May the winds be favorable to you, Edric. Good fortune in this new endeavor.”

Edric nodded, feeling an unexpected weight in his chest. That brief companionship on the road, though formed by strangers, had been a rare interval of safety since he had left Eldorwyn.

Brann, a man of few words and little ceremony, gave a nod of his head. Edric returned the gesture. Maia stepped closer next. There was a constant alertness about her, as if the entire city were a text to be read between the lines. Before moving away, she leaned in slightly and spoke in a low, almost conspiratorial tone.

“I heard a name in the markets a few days ago,” she said. “A scribe, the one I mentioned to you before. He isn't a mage, but he deals with ancient maps, old contracts, and stories that few people trouble themselves to record. They call him Tavian. They say that if anyone in Myriath knows how to point you in the right direction without asking too many questions, it’s him.”

Edric kept the name like one might keep a rare coin. He did not offer long words of thanks; he merely inclined his head, aware that in Myriath, promises and farewells rarely endured.

One by one, each took their own course. Brann went to unload his wagon. Lorien vanished amidst soldiers and porters. Maia headed in the opposite direction, blending into the narrower alleys where the flow seemed less predictable. Within moments, Edric was alone, standing in the middle of the crowd, feeling for the first time the true weight of the city.

Myriath offered him neither welcome nor hostility—only indifference. The high facades cast irregular shadows across the streets, and the sky seemed distant, carved up by suspended bridges and wooden balconies. The scent of baked bread mingled with that of salted fish and smoke, and every corner promised something different: opportunity, deceit, or oblivion.

Edric adjusted the strap of the pouch on his shoulder and took a deep breath. Night would soon fall, and he had learned far too quickly that one does not traverse a city like this without shelter. Before seeking answers, before even uttering dangerous names, he needed a place where he could close his eyes without fear of waking to find his few possessions gone.

With that in mind, he let himself be carried by the current of the streets, resolved to find an inn and survive his first night in Myriath. The city would have plenty of time to test him later.

Edric found the inn after moving a few streets away from the busiest part of the city. It was not a flashy place, nor did it attempt to compete with the grander houses near the market, but it drew attention for its discreet cleanliness and the well-kept, time-darkened wood of its facade. There was a sense of quiet order about it, as if the space were maintained by someone who understood the value of constancy more than that of quick profit. Upon entering, he noticed the familiar scent of hot soup and freshly baked bread, something that brought him brief comfort after the city's restlessness.

He paid for the room with care, mentally calculating his coins even before drawing them from his pouch. He did not lack money at that moment; his years of labor in the fields had yielded enough to begin his journey with some measure of security. Even so, Edric knew that Myriath was not a city for thoughtless spending, and he had no idea how long his search might take. Months, perhaps. Luxury was not merely unnecessary—it was a risk. Moreover, he had never felt drawn to excess. The simple life had always come naturally to him, and there was no shame in that.

In the room, he put away his few belongings carefully, as if the act of organizing them helped impose some order onto this new world. The light had not yet entirely faded, and Edric decided to go out once more before nightfall, not to seek answers, but to let the city reveal itself to him by degrees.

He walked without a definite route, letting himself be carried by the streets and the flow of people. Myriath was undoubtedly grander than any city he had ever visited—perhaps even larger than Varethia in span and diversity—but the difference between them lay not just in size. Varethia had always seemed enveloped in solemnity, almost reverent, in the manner of a city whose stones carried the weight of tradition and respect for magic. Myriath, on the other hand, pulsed. There was a constant movement within it, a flow that never ceased; the city itself seemed to breathe and stir according to invisible wills.

At every corner, Edric saw some manner of exchange taking place. Coins changed hands, merchandise was evaluated in hurried whispers, and glances crossed with intentions hard to decipher. Some transactions were clearly legitimate; others, less so. And yet, it all seemed to coexist in a precarious balance, accepted by everyone as a part of urban life.

As he neared the main market, he felt the impulse to explore it, but held himself back. That place demanded time and attention, and Edric did not intend to lose himself in its vastness on his very first day. If he required weeks in Myriath to find something relevant, then so be it. Haste, he knew, rarely led to good paths.

When the sky began to darken, he returned to the inn and went down to the main hall, now filled with voices and movement. The place was crowded. Conversations overlapped, laughter erupted here and there, and the clatter of utensils marked a steady rhythm. After ordering his meal, Edric looked for a place to sit and spotted a blacksmith alone, his broad frame hunched over his plate.

“May I join you?” he asked, pointing to the empty chair.

The man raised his gaze for an instant, evaluated Edric with little interest, shrugged, and returned his attention to his food. Edric sat down and tried to strike up a conversation, making simple remarks about the city, the bustle and the work. He received only short grunts, curt answers that led nowhere. He did not insist. He began to eat in silence, and shortly after, the blacksmith finished his meal, stood up, and left without any farewell.

A few minutes passed until an elderly gentleman, his face marked by time and bearing an easy smile, approached the table.

“May I sit?” he asked, already pulling out the chair.

“Of course,” Edric replied, returning the smile.

The man spoke with pleasure, telling stories of his life, mentioning the trade he no longer practiced, and, with special pride, the little granddaughter who visited him whenever she could. Edric listened with genuine attention, asking occasional questions, feeling strangely at ease in that unpretentious conversation.

At one point, the old man asked where Edric came from. He told him he was a peasant from Eldorwyn and that he had decided to travel to Myriath in search of certain information. The man arched his eyebrows, curious, and asked what it was about. Edric hesitated for only a moment before mentioning the name of the scribe Tavian.

The gentleman’s smile remained, but he shook his head.

“That name is not familiar to me,” he said. “But if you are after someone who deals with records and numbers, perhaps you should begin in the western area of the main market. The tapestry merchants gather around there. Organized people, who like everything counted and noted down. If anyone knows how to point out a scribe, it should be there.”

Edric thanked him sincerely for the suggestion. After finishing his meal, he bid the man farewell and went up to his room. He lay down with the distant sounds of the city still filtering through the walls, aware that this had been but the first of many days in Myriath. Before falling asleep, he mentally repeated the name Maia had given him.

Tavian.

The search would begin in the morning.

The following morning, Edric headed to the western area of the main market, where the tapestry tents lined up in orderly rows, forming corridors of rich colors and hanging fabrics that swayed gently in the breeze. There, the air felt different—less weighed down by shouts and hurried bargaining, more dominated by measured conversations, silent evaluations, and watchful eyes. It was a sector frequented by well-dressed people with enough coin to spend not just out of necessity, but for ostentation. It took only a few paces for Edric to realize how out of place he looked there. Peasants did not buy tapestries, and everyone there knew it.

Even so, he did not give up. He approached a stall, attempting to observe the fabrics as he had seen others do, but the merchants barely cast a glance his way. When he tried to initiate a conversation, he was cut short by dry answers or simply ignored. Some buyers stared at him with open suspicion, as if his mere presence were an annoyance. There were those who interpreted his approach as a plea for alms, waving him away with an impatient motion of the hand without even listening to his words. At other tents, watchmen positioned themselves discreetly in front of him, blocking his path, their eyes far too sharp for someone who was merely looking. Edric began to understand that, in that sector of the market, he was not just out of place—he was suspect.

He decided then to change his approach. He began to show a few coins in the palm of his hand, saying he had an interest in acquiring a tapestry. For a few moments, this worked. The looks turned appraising, postures opened, and one or two merchants were willing to explain qualities, weaves, and origins. But the disguise soon unraveled. When asked about sizes, uses, or preferences, Edric did not know how to answer. He did not comprehend the language of that trade, nor the criteria that differentiated a valuable tapestry from a common one. The interest vanished as quickly as it had arisen, and he went back to being ignored, now with a slight trace of disdain.

It was then that he realized his mistake. Showing the coin attracted far too much attention. As he pulled away from one of the stalls, he felt the weight of persistent stares upon him. He kept walking, pretending not to notice, but soon he was certain he was being followed. Two, perhaps three figures maintained their distance, matching their pace whenever he adjusted his. Edric's heart quickened. He looked around for guards but saw none nearby. The sector seemed too orderly to need them—or perhaps it simply hid its dangers better.

He quickened his stride. The others did the same. Without thinking much, he cut through a narrow alley between two rows of tents, veering away from the main flow. The passage led him back to the more bustling area of the market, where the crowd thickened. That was where he needed to be. Under many eyes, a robbery would be too risky.

Upon emerging among the people, he spotted a tapestry stall a bit further off, where a middle-aged man sat concentrated on scrolls laid out across the table. Two watchmen stood nearby, alert but relaxed. Edric ran up to them, making no effort to hide his nervousness.

“I need your help,” he said hurriedly. “I am being followed. I think they mean to rob me.”

The merchant raised his gaze, his expression grave. The watchmen shifted their stance immediately, their countenances hardening as they positioned themselves in front of the stall, ready to push Edric away. But before they could do so, the merchant looked past him and noticed the figures moving cautiously on the street, feigning interest in other stalls but keeping far too much attention fixed on that spot.

The man then broke into a smile.

“Dear nephew!” he exclaimed, opening his arms. “How long has it been! Sit here beside me and tell me the news from the countryside!”

Edric understood the game in the same instant. He sat down, leaning toward the merchant, and answered without hesitation.

“The harvest in Eldorwyn was bountiful this year,” he said. “Heavy work, as always. My mother... that is, your sister... has been complaining of how she misses you. She keeps asking when you will show your face around there.”

The watchmen advanced a few paces, closing in on the suspicious figures. That was enough. One of them turned the corner, another merged into the crowd, and the third vanished among the tents. They would not risk robbing the supposed nephew of a well-protected merchant.

When the tension dissipated, Edric breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank you very much,” he said, standing up. “My name is Edric.”

“Darien,” the merchant replied, gathering his scrolls calmly. “And you ought to take more care where you walk.”

Seizing the opportunity, Edric mentioned his search for Tavian. Darien furrowed his brow thoughtfully.

“The name is not strange to me,” he admitted, “but I cannot link it to anyone here in this sector. If you seek a scribe, you are wasting your time among tapestries. Go to the central area of the market. That is where they offer writing services, records, and contracts. You will have better fortune.”

Edric thanked him. Before moving away, he hesitated for an instant and decided to risk one more question. He mentioned magic in a vague manner. Darien shook his head, almost smiling.

“That is a thing far removed from the common life of Myriath,” he said. “Mages are no part of my world, nor of most people here. I cannot help you with that.”

Edric understood. He bade him farewell politely and walked away, still feeling the echo of the tension in his body. Now he had a clear new course: the central area of the main market. There, perhaps, the name of Tavian would cease to be just a sound cast at random among strangers.

Edric headed toward the central area of the main market, leaving behind the more orderly sector of the tapestries. As he walked on, the environment shifted in an almost imperceptible way. The tents became smaller, more functional, and the flow of people took on another rhythm: less ostentation, more urgency. There, people did not trade in wall hangings or symbols of status, but words, records, and agreements that sustained the very life of the city.

It did not take him long to find the place where the services of scribes were offered. Simple but organized stalls displayed neatly arranged parchments, inkwells protected from the sun, and discreet signs announcing copies of contracts, deeds of ownership, commercial letters, and genealogies. Men and women sat in concentration, writing with practiced speed, while clients waited impatiently or discussed terms in low voices. Edric felt that, finally, he was in a place that made sense for his search.

He asked for Tavian with care, first to an apprentice, then to an older scribe. The initial answers were vague or negative until, after a few attempts, someone raised their gaze upon hearing the name.

“Tavian?” the man repeated thoughtfully. “Yes, I know him. But you won't find him here today.”

Edric leaned in, attentive.

“He has been choosing only very specific tasks lately,” the scribe continued. “The kind of service that yields enough for an entire week. He can afford that luxury. He knows things that few people know.”

The information encouraged Edric more than he cared to admit. He asked, then, for Tavian's address—and realized his mistake in the same instant. The man's countenance closed slightly.

“We do not give out that kind of information,” he answered, without harshness but with firmness. “Least of all to strangers. It wouldn't be proper.”

“Forgive me,” Edric said at once. “I didn't think.”

The scribe nodded, accepting the apology.

“Come back next week,” he advised. “Perhaps you will find him around here. When he accepts a commission, he usually comes in person to settle the terms.”

Edric thanked him and moved away, absorbing every word. It was not the encounter he had hoped for, but it was more than he had had until then. Tavian existed. He was real. And, by all accounts, he was someone who could choose when and how to work.

With his stomach reminding him of the hour, Edric looked for a place to have lunch. While he ate, he observed the city around him, now with different eyes. Myriath remained chaotic, but it was beginning to reveal patterns. He decided, right then and there, that he would not limit himself to waiting for the following week. He would use the coming days to explore the city, observe, listen, and learn. Tavian might be a door—but he did not need to be the only one.

If there were paths to magic beyond the distant towers of Varethia, they would not be announced aloud. They would be hidden in the cracks, in the conversations held at the right table. Edric knew he needed caution. He had learned, in a short time, the price of drawing too much attention.

Blending into the city was not something natural for him. It had never been. But Myriath demanded adaptation, and Edric realized, with a mixture of apprehension and resolve, that he was learning. Slowly, stumbling at times, but learning. Soon, perhaps, he would cease to look like just a peasant lost among ancient stones and become one more face among many—and that, in Myriath, could mean surviving long enough to find answers.