Out the Eastern Gate.

The morning sun, pale and diffused by a thin layer of clouds, manufactured shadows across the now bustling area. The streets began booming with activity – merchants hawking wares, children chasing pigeons, and the rhythmic clatter of cartwheels over the rough stones. And, amidst all of it, a small haven of silence found residence in the tea stall.

Empty teacups, their warmth now fading, stood stacked before Ryan and Cecil. The steam that had once danced above the fragrant brew had dissipated, leaving behind a faint wisp of ginger and lemongrass that lingered in the air.

Their cloaks, heavy with the weight of impending travel and a touch damp from the morning mist, billowed gently in the slight breeze that whispered through the street. A comfortable silence had settled between them, broken only by the distant calls of vendors and the rhythmic clinking of coins being exchanged.