"We don’t just walk today," Kael said, his eyes scanning the architecture for bottlenecks and flow. "We observe. Every street has a rhythm. If we’re going to live here, we need to know the 'track' better than the people who paved it."
They descended into the Middle-Tier MarketCinder-Grills
Taren stopped at a vendor selling "Suncatcher Fruit"—bright orange spheres that supposedly glowed in the dark. Kael bought a handful, the heavy weight of the gold in his pocket a constant reminder of the life he could now afford. The fruit was hot to the touch and tasted like spiced honey and smoke.
"In the village, we eat to survive," Lyra whispered, watching a merchant sell silk-woven harnesses encrusted with jewels. "Here, they eat to show off."
Kael watched the locals. The culture was one of visible hierarchy; the higher someone lived, the more intricate their embroidery. But in the market, the tiers mixed—a chaotic, high-velocity exchange that reminded Kael of a crowded paddock before a championship race.
As they neared the Transport Hub
It was a Ravok Talonfowl
Beast Profile: Ravok Talonfowl
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"Look at the ground clearance," Kael murmured, drifting toward the beast. He didn't see a monster; he saw a rugged, high-torque engine on two legs. "Those talons aren't just for killing; they’re anchors. They allow it to maintain full-speed stability even on loose shale or wet stone."
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The handler, a man with the heavy boots of a long-distance rider, noticed Kael’s technical appraisal. "You’ve got a sharp eye. This Ravok is a 'Trench-Runner.' It doesn't fly, but it can outrun a Stalker in a straight line through the lower canyons. It’s got enough power in those legs to kick a hole through a city wall."
Kael admired the might of the beast. "The center of gravity is low for a bird," he noted. "Perfect for traction."
Kael was about to ask about the bird’s turning radius when the rhythm of the city shifted.
A sudden, thunderous roar—not of a beast, but of a thousand human voices—erupted from the lower shelf of the tier. The steady flow of the market broke. People began to sprint, knocking over baskets and abandoning stalls.
"What's happening?" Taren shouted, nearly swept away by the tide.
"Is it an attack?" Lyra asked, her hand instinctively going to her belt.
Kael watched the faces of the people running past. There was no terror, no white-knuckled panic. Instead, there was a frantic, infectious energy. Their eyes were bright with anticipation. "No," Kael said, a familiar grin tugging at his lips. "They aren't running away. They’re running to the stands."
He grabbed Taren’s arm and signaled Lyra to follow. They pushed through a stone archway that opened onto the Western Open Track
The course was a masterpiece of brutal engineering. It wasn't a flat oval; it was a vertical nightmare of obstacles. Kael saw water pitssteep rampsslalom-posts
"It's a trial," Kael whispered, his heart hammering against his ribs like a piston.
Below them, three riders on Mid-Class Stalkers were lined up at a massive iron gate. The crowd was leaning over the stone railings, screaming bets and waving banners. Kael’s eyes immediately went to the first turn—a sharp, banked curve that dropped off into a five-hundred-foot fall.
"They're going to take that corner with zero runoff," Kael analyzed, his mind already drawing the perfect line through the mud and water. "This isn't just a race. It’s a test of who understands physics better than they fear death."
For the first time since he had arrived in this world, Kael didn't feel like a stranger. He felt like he was home.