Chapter 5: Chapter 4 – A City of Strangers

Chapter 4 – A City of Strangers

The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon when Seraphina passed through the worn stone gates of Valeburne—a small but bustling city nestled near the outer provinces of the Empire. The journey had taken her nearly five days on foot. Her legs ached, her feet were blistered and swollen, and the soles of her shoes had thinned so badly she could feel every pebble through them.

Still, she made it.

Dust clung to her skirt and hair like a second skin. Her stomach groaned, hollow from too little food and too many prayers. But her heart still beat with one stubborn truth:

She would save her sister.

Even if it killed her.

Valeburne was no imperial capital. Its streets were uneven, its alleys narrow, its buildings close enough to feel like they were leaning in to watch her. But to Seraphina, it might as well have been a holy land. So many people. So many buildings. So many chances.

“I just need one,” she whispered. “Just one… and I can do the rest.”

She didn’t waste time.

On her very first day, she asked every merchant, every tavern, every shopkeeper if they needed help. Carrying crates, washing dishes, sweeping floors—anything. Most waved her away without looking. Others gave her short work for a few coppers, but no one wanted to hire her permanently. She had no name, no reference, no shoes worth stealing.

She kept trying.

Every day, she walked until her legs throbbed. She fetched water, carried sacks, scrubbed pots, and cleaned tools. She worked from sunrise to sunset, just enough to eat stale bread and pay for a corner in a shared shed or a dusty warehouse.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

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Two weeks in, she swallowed her shame and walked into the pleasure district—a place of painted faces and bright lights. She was turned away at the gates.

“Too young,” one woman said, her expression tight. “Go home, girl. This isn’t your path.”

But not everyone was as kind.

There were shadows in the alleys. Men with too-friendly grins. Whispers of quick gold if she’d just come with them for a bit.

Seraphina never did. She might have been desperate, but she wasn’t stupid.

More than once, she fell asleep with a stone in her hand, hidden beneath staircases or abandoned carts, praying she’d still wake up with her satchel beside her.

Through all of it, only one thing kept her spirit alive: the letters.

Father Arlo wrote her every ten days. Sometimes earlier. Each envelope carried hope tucked inside.

“She ate soup today and asked for you.”

“I read her your letter—she smiled.”

“The stars were out tonight. She said they looked like your eyes.”

Seraphina held onto those words like they were sacred scripture.

Until one day, everything shattered.

A letter came—unfamiliar handwriting, shaky and faint.

It was her sister.

“Sera… if you’re reading this, it means I’m awake again.

But… I don’t think I have much time left.

I can feel it.

I want to see you. Just once. Just to hear your voice again.

If I close my eyes for the last time, I want your face to be the last thing I remember.

Please, if you can… come home.”

—Your stupid, tired sister.

Seraphina stared at the letter for a long time. Her hands trembled. Her throat burned. And when the first tear finally fell, it didn’t stop.

She had to go back.

She needed to go back.

But she had nothing.

No travel money. No contacts. Not even a job stable enough to beg for an advance. She ran from place to place, asking anyone who had ever given her a crumb of kindness. Most ignored her. One man tossed her half a coin and told her to "stop whining."

The rest looked at her like she was a stray mutt.

Not worth feeding.

Not worth saving.

That night, Seraphina sat by the side of the road—knees pulled to her chest, the letter crushed in her hands. People passed her by. The sky above the city turned violet, then deep blue. The lamps flickered on, casting gold light across the cold stone road.

She felt small. Helpless. Lost.

“Why is it always us?” she muttered. “Why is the world always cruelest to those with nothing left?”

No answer came.

Just footsteps.

At first, Seraphina didn’t even look up. She had grown used to feet passing by—boots, sandals, fancy heels. But these footsteps paused.

A pair of polished shoes stood before her.

Then came a soft voice, warm and curious. “You’re crying… are you hurt?”

Seraphina slowly looked up.

The woman standing before her was radiant.

She had platinum-blonde hair tied loosely behind her shoulders, and clear emerald-green eyes that glowed even in the lamplight. Her dress was travel-worn but refined, marked with the crest of a noble house. Her skin was pale, her expression gentle.

But it was the concern on her face that struck Seraphina most.

Not pity.

Not disdain.

Just concern.

“Do you need help?” the woman asked, crouching slightly.

Seraphina’s throat closed. Her lips trembled, but no words came.

The noblewoman waited patiently. Not with judgment. Not with impatience.

And in that moment—on that cold stone road, under the watchful light of the city’s lamps—Seraphina met Lysandra Valessia for the first time.