The air here hung low, warm and soft; salt rode the southern winds instead of the north-west.

Mirna was learning the difference slowly, through her hands. In a quiet corner of the southern courtyard, where the Ilari slipped only from shadow to shadow, she found a patch of earth no one seemed to watch. Hard as old bread, but earth was earth: in the end, it yields.

She sifted out pebbles, begged Tana the cook for a little ash and homemade fertilizer from the kitchens, kneaded it all until the color changed. Into that soil she tucked her crooked seedlings: parsley, rosemary, basil, humming softly while she worked.

“You’ll be good,” she whispered, plucking out a stone with a crack. “I know you’re stubborn. So am I.”

Evan laughed at how she talked to the ground. Lily would appear without asking, kneel beside her, and help.

It was good. Not happy, but good.

And Ulm had not been happy either, only a different kind of unhappiness.

~~~~~

Jereh was learning in another way. The sea lay far below, yet the docks lived. Down there a man felt human; nets tore and were mended, ropes groaned as they had in Ulm.

The first time he descended alone, he stopped on a balcony above the Merchant’s Dock. White stone gave way to timber, and the ground creaked underfoot. He drew in the salt air and stepped down toward the fishermen.

It began with a bit of advice:

“Won’t do you any good tying it like that, boy. That knot has to be double to hold.”

The boy obeyed, nodding along.

Laughter, a couple of jokes, weathered hands over rope. When they learned Jereh had been a fisherman, they called him “one of ours.”

When he mentioned Mirna, they recognized her at once; not many women with a Selavet accent had asked the market for herb seedlings.

“If she needs seaweed for mulch, just ask,” one fisherman grinned.

So Jereh spent his days between courtyard and docks. Any excuse to leave the marble prison they called a palace.

In the evenings, he and Evan counted small victories: one thorn pulled from a net without tearing it; one of Mirna’s shoots breaking the soil. They didn’t talk much, there was no need.

~~~~~

One morning, Mirna needed wool and clay from the city.

“I’ll go,” Jereh said, fastening his belt. “Evan’s coming with me.”

“Keep to the servants’ paths. Don’t look down. And if someone says the shine marks Ilari paths, tell them you know.”

“I know,” Jereh said quietly. “I already know.”

“If you have to choose between the open path and the long way, take the long way. I don’t want you brave.”

Evan smirked. “And me?”

“The same.”

They went by corridors already familiar: stone paths worn matte, recesses to step aside from an Ilar. Evan walked half a step behind, as in Ulm.

Astochia looked different now: less a threat, more a riddle with rules. Shine meant danger, matte meant safe. Light deceived, sound revealed: a light ring meant air; a heavy thud meant wall.

Lower down, the city grew denser. Fish dried on ropes, carts rolled past, an Ilar swooped low like a rain cloud. People barely looked up.

At a stall a woman asked, “One measure of clay?”

“Two. And black wool, grade five,” Jereh said, careful with the words.

Evan watched nearby: a youth with a gray armband teaching children chalk on slate. A poster read: Workshop of Number and Measure for Storehouse Hands.

“Is that a school?” Evan whispered.

“I don’t know,” Jereh said, though he did. "They call it different."

"Who allowed it?”

The merchant answered without looking up. “The one with the wings... V’Asanii. Better than his great-uncle, who taxed when nothing was left. This one doesn’t. Sends scribes to the people. Says they should write numbers in books.”

“Not letters?”

“Not letters,” she said. “But we see the teacher form them when no one looks.”

A shadow crossed the square. Young Ilari dipped low, knocking over an old man’s apples. Their laughter rang. A guard stepped forward - Jereh remembered his name - Rahl - one of the few decent Ilari he's met in Astochia.

“What are you doing?” he asked. Without waiting, he helped gather apples, murmured an apology. The young Ilari lifted away in silence.

“Thank you, Rahl,” someone called.

“Think nothing of it,” he said. One injustice stopped; a thousand rules remained.

The climb back to the palace was the same one they had learned to hate: steps carved into the wall, arms jutting in and out, winds shifting from right to behind.

On one of the narrowest bends, a woman climbed with a child and a heavy bundle. The cloth caught on a protrusion. She turned too quickly; the load dragged her. Fingers missed the edge. Feet slipped.

Evan lunged, caught her forearm. Her weight pulled him out; his hip tore from the wall, one leg swinging into nothing. The child screamed.

Jereh grabbed Evan from behind, palms pressed to his back, knees bending, hurling his own weight backward. The woman clawed at stone, nails cracking, sliding, but did not let go. Someone above caught the bundle, another seized her arm, hauling.

First her knuckles found the stone, then her elbow. Evan slammed back onto a step, lungs bursting. The bundle slipped, crashing below. The child sobbed.

For a few moments none moved. Jereh’s heart battered the wall, desperate to burst free. The woman’s hands shook.

“You’re all right?” he managed.

She nodded, lips white. “I am. Thank you.” She bent to the child, combing his hair with fingers that still trembled.

Above them, two Ilari watched. One shrugged. “Misfit,” he muttered. Then they left.

“Come,” Jereh said.

Evan tried to say I’m fine, but only air came. He looked down; the path vanished. Only void remained.

“Look ahead,” Jereh told him. “Stone to stone, son. Stone to stone.”

They moved slowly. At the first platform they sat. Evan still trembled.

“It’s all right,” he said at last. “I just… didn’t like it.”

“Nor did I,” Jereh said. Anger boiled beneath his steadying breath.

~~~~~~

At the palace Jereh did not bow. He pushed into the chamber.

“Where is he?”

“In the work hall,” Keth said.

Eirran bent over maps when Jereh entered.

“Enough,” Jereh said. His voice didn’t shout; it landed like stone on stone. “Enough ornaments. Enough timid alterations. Enough false boundaries. Enough putting railings only where no one can see.”

Eirran lifted his gaze. “What happened?”

“I nearly lost my son on your paths. A woman slipped. Evan caught her. I caught Evan. Not one of your kind came down three steps.”

“We’re alive, if that’s your question,” he went on. “But that’s not the question. The question is: how many dead before you admit you haven't done enough?”

Eirran opened his mouth, closed it. “I’m working. As much as they allow. Every railing—”

“Every railing that’s there as a decoration,” Jereh cut him off. “Every hidden handhold. Don’t speak to me of decrees. When a child pulls you toward the void, you don’t care which House owns the edge for you to grip.”

He did not use a title.

“I don’t come to you as a man to an Ilar,” he said lower. “I come to talk as one father to another. If you understand that, good. If not, nothing I say matters.”

Eirran’s wings shifted faintly. “I understand. What do you want me to do?”

“Everything. Openly. Railings where people walk. Handholds on every stair. And your Ilari, when they come among us, to lower their eyes as well. If you can’t, I’ll take my family - Lily included, just for the record, and leave. I'm not feeding my children to the jaws of your city.”

Silence dropped. At last Eirran lowered his eyes. “You’re right,” he said, voice heavy. “If you want to leave, you won’t be punished.”

“I don’t want pardon. I want a path.”

“What must be done, will be done.”

“Then do it,” Jereh said. “Do it before your compromises kill our children.”

He turned and left. Only in the corridor did his hands tremble. Evan was waiting, eyes red but smiling.

“You told him?”

“I told him. The rest is on him. And on me, if he doesn’t listen.”

~~~~~

The Hall of Plans was made to intimidate: high vault, circle, brass models.

Eirran stood over the palace map, tracing golden lines — widened halls, lower steps, railings. Every line an insult to the Eighth House.

“And again you come with demands, Venn V’Asanii?” The voice was dry leaves on stone.

Detren V’Serra, the Council representative of the Astochian branch of the Eighth House, circled the table.

“My wards cannot live in a space where every step could be the last,” Eirran said. “I want full safety — palace, city, servant paths. Not boundaries, but substance.”

Detren smiled thinly. “Interesting. Selim V’Ahderra is just now sending letters about your… disagreements in the Carthalla mines.”

“It isn’t my fault your masters built only for those who fly,” Eirran said.

“The Eighth House isn’t here to indulge mud-walkers. But, if Astochia were to hand over the parts of trade routes that go through the principality from the Third to the Eighth; perhaps it could be considered. Guardrails, walls. Your windbreaks. And my silence on the true reason you need them.”

Eirran stilled. Passing the routes meant cutting Boran V’Kethris, Selim’s ally. Making another enemy.

“What do I get?”

Detren pointed at the model. “The railings you asked for. The palace. City. You name it.”

Eirran looked to the window. Lily sat on the new stairs, safe behind a railing.

“It will be done,” he said.

~~~~~

“You’ll need a shield,” Keth told him later. “Not steel. Voices. Give me three days. I’ll send letters to those who despise Boran. While they gnaw at each other, you build.”

“Build,” Eirran echoed, thinking of Jereh's words. I'll take them and leave.

~~~~~

“Lily! Did you hear?” Evan grabbed her sleeve near the kitchen. “They’re bringing slabs for new stairs! They're going to be wide as a fisherman’s plank!”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because the old ones were dangerous! V’Asanii ordered them replaced.”

She glanced at the workers carrying stone. “It must be…” She cut herself off.

“Mad?” Evan laughed. “Maybe. Or maybe he doesn’t want you breaking your neck in his palace.”

She jabbed him in the ribs; they laughed, hope stirring beneath their ribs.

~~~~~

The weeks that followed brought more than railings and niches. The city began to taste the cost of Eirran’s choices.

Boran V’Kethris, stung by Detren’s bargain and by the insult of Astochia’s railings rising without his consent, pulled his hand from the market. Caravans grew lighter. Silk, dyes, spices — all came thinner, costlier, if they came at all. The merchants cursed under their breath, and housewives muttered over empty baskets.

“Your V’Asanii builds his railings,” one fishmonger spat, “but who will dress a child when wool costs thrice the coin?”

Eirran read the ledgers and did not flinch. “If Boran closes one hand, we’ll open another.”

He sent word to Selim V’Ahderra in Win’Tarra: a new decree to lower the taxes on all ore sold directly to Astochian smiths. For that he needed the signature from the Fourth, easily obtained due to personal disagreements V'Dessith had with Boran over criminally low taxing on trade Boran's son implemented in Selavetia, as its prince. Within a fortnight, smoke rose heavier from the forges. Iron flowed, then steel. The forges thundered like drums through the streets, and merchants soon dealt more in iron’s bite — blades, nails, hinges — than in silk or spice.

“What you lose in spice,” Keth murmured, “you gain in iron.”

Weapon racks thickened. The new guardrails gleamed not of borrowed brass but of Astochia’s own steel. Tools, hinges, and fittings multiplied until even the lowest laborer felt the shift. And slowly, slowly, the price of wool and spice bent back down. Boran’s blockade could not bite forever — too many others wanted the profit. His grip loosened, and caravans began to swell again.

“It is not victory,” Keth told him in the Hall of Plans, “but it is balance. Boran bleeds a little, Selim drinks a little, and Astochia breathes.”

Eirran’s gaze fell to the model of the palace, railings etched in brass. “Let them bleed,” he said. “As long as my people walk in safety.”

~~~~~

That afternoon Eirran sat with Lily by the cherry tree. Her gaze still sought the edges, but already dared to rest on the path’s center when there was something firm to hold.

"Thank you." - she said - "For the stairs. Railings."

"It's not me who you should be thanking."

“Then who?”

“A father.”- Eirran smiled, looking across the courtyard where Jereh was caught up in heated argument with one of the workers.

Lily nodded. “Tell him thank you than.”

“I will. But you can tell him better.”

“I will,” she said.

Above them Ilari passed, wings whispering. Below, the new railing shone just enough to be found when needed.

“Tomorrow they begin work in the central ring. There will be noise.”

“Let it be,” said Lily. “Noise is better than tears.”

“Yes,” Eirran said. He could have added more, but didn’t.

Because he knew this was only the first, smallest victory. A city’s jaws never closed after one bite. They waited for the next struggle, one of voices, houses, and power unseen until too late.