Hidden beneath simple cloaks, two men dressed as peasants moved silently through the streets of Antioch.
From the moment they passed through the gate, Asher had seen it—this was not a city divided by wealth, but by chains.
There were no true poor or rich here, only the oppressed and the free.
Men, women, even children moved like cattle, some clothed in rags, others curiously clean, but all bore one thing in common: iron collars around their necks, clinking with every step. Some were led by ropes, others marched with heads down behind their masters. Not citizens. Property.
Asher had heard the tales. He had listened to the whispers that called Everard, the golden land of slaves—glorious on the outside, rotten within. But no tale could prepare him for the truth. Seeing it was worse. Far worse.
Yet his gaze remained cold. Unreadable. And he walked on, unflinching.
Until the sound of jeering broke the murmur of the streets.
