CYRDEL SONASSON, heir apparent to the Alkaran Throne, is a budding inventor against the wishes of his father, the King. But when a friend from the Inventor's District needs help, he has to drop everything and come to their aid, even going as far as...
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Cyrdel blew a breath, massaging his chest in an attempt to get his throat to clear up. A lump which has been growing since earlier only doubled in size. He craned his neck at the mass of huts and their painted brick walls, each looking similar to something he passed by just a few minutes ago. At least he lost the Russets somewhere in the city.
He shouldn't have gone out of the Inventors' District. Where was he now and how could he get back to the Palace?
To answer his own questions, Cyrdel forced himself to walk further, his boots slapping the cobbled road in a series of disproportionate taps and scratches. He kept looking behind him, expecting more of his father's soldiers bearing down on him, ready to drag him back to the manor. As always, he was wrong.
The inventions and mechanism he had adored from the huts a lifetime ago had vanished, instead having been replaced by sacks of flour, grains, and salt and crates upon crates of fruit and vegetables. He passed by a huge hut, almost taking over the space between their neighbor which could have been a road. Exotic odors from flowers and herbs wafted in pungent waves in the air, filling his nose.
Unlike in the Inventor's District, this new face of Depandes was quieter and, if he dared say it, cleaner. There were no mechanical bikes or automated carts chugging along the roads, spewing smoke from their ore exhausts as they go. The huts didn't have the specific stain of dirt and smears of ash in their walls. The windows were paned with glass, the bricks painted in bright shades of red, yellow, and orange, and there wasn't a single sound of hammers hitting molten metal ringing in the distance.
It brought about a certain kind of peace Cyrdel hadn't felt in the Inventors' District or anywhere in the Palace.
He continued walking, the minutes and hours lost on him as he did so. The sun had begun to darken, signaling the nearing end of the day. How long was he wandering around this district? Where would he end up if he tackled that road ahead? Moreover, what was that brownie doing with his dough?
True enough, by the time Cyrdel turned to the hut he assumed to be a bakery, a brownie clad in an off-white apron threw his tray up, blobs of uncooked dough flying towards the ceiling. Then, to Cyrdel's surprise, and quite possibly, horror, the batch of dough flopped to the brick ceiling and remained stuck there. The baker didn't appear concerned. Instead, he left the dough where he threw it, whistling on his way to attend to other tasks.
Cyrdel loitered in his place. Should he call the baker's attention? What would he say, though? Sir, your dough is on the ceiling? That's a stupid thing to say considering the baker threw it in there himself. So maybe along the lines of...
Someone tapped him in the shoulder, chasing away his thoughts. He whirled to find a familiar girl with long, khaki hair clad in her muted yellow dress. A frown pulled the corner of his lips in a low curve. "You again?" he snapped. From the corner of his eye, he saw the baker peel the dough stuck to the ceiling by hand before depositing them into a nearby oven. "Did you follow me all the way here?"
