Arrival in Narcéa
Night spread its dark mantle over the landscape as the train let out one last whistle before setting off. Layla, seated by a window, kept her fingers clenched around the rough fabric of her dress, hidden beneath a black cloak with frayed edges from wear. The train's rhythmic motion over the tracks was the only steady beat she could cling to.
She had accepted this journey because she had no choice. Because a messenger with a grave expression had spoken her name and handed her a letter sealed with the royal insignia. Because her master had told her it was a rare opportunity to learn and grow.
"It is time for you to see the world, Layla."
She still remembered his tone—somewhere between kindness and absolute certainty, as if he were simply announcing that it would rain tomorrow.
"And why Narcéa?" she had asked, skeptical.
"Because that is where your destiny will lead you."
Ah. The old man's eternal cryptic responses. Layla had felt as if he had sent her off with the same gravity as if he were dispatching her to buy bread. "Go on, Layla, your fate awaits you between two dark alleys and a cup of stale tea."
But irony did little to quell her unease.
As the nocturnal landscape rushed past, she pulled her cloak tighter around herself. This kingdom—she only knew it by name. And all she had heard of it was that it was ruled by a royal family whose internal affairs were as opaque as her master's failed potions.
The journey felt endless. Each station they passed gave her a glimpse of weary travelers, overly serious soldiers, merchants worn down by the cold and heavy taxes. Not exactly the kind of place that made one eager to settle in.
When the train finally came to a stop and the announcement of the final destination rang out, Layla took a deep breath.
Narcéa.
The platform was eerily empty. A few lanterns flickered in the wind, casting long, unsettling shadows. The entire atmosphere seemed to whisper, "Welcome to the warmest city on the continent. Oh, wait—my mistake."
Layla stepped down, her boots meeting the stone pavement with a weight that made her want to turn back.
A man was waiting at a distance. Tall, dressed in dark clothing, he held himself with the rigid posture of someone who had never heard of the concept of relaxing. He glanced at her briefly before speaking.
— Miss Layla?
— That depends. Are you here to offer me a royal feast, or to inform me that I've been sent here to sleep in a stable?
The man didn't react. She immediately deduced that he was the type to be impervious to humor.
— Follow me.
Oh, what warmth.
Without waiting to see if she obeyed, he turned on his heel and walked toward a black carriage. Layla raised an eyebrow. No crest, no gold embellishments, not even an attempt to hide the fact that the horse looked just as motivated as she felt.
— Really? she muttered to herself. Even my master would have found this pathetic, and he lives in a shack full of broken vials.
She climbed into the vehicle and sat across from her taciturn escort, who didn't even bother attempting conversation.
Charming. I'm going to love this place.
Through the carriage window, she observed the city. But instead of bustling streets and the radiance of a prosperous capital, she saw a silent Narcéa, frozen in an unsettling state of watchful waiting. No laughter, no music, no smells of cooking wafting from homes. Just deserted alleyways, torches fighting against the wind, and hurried figures vanishing the moment they were looked at too long.
Layla crossed her arms, thoughtful.
Either they've enforced a ridiculously strict curfew, or this city is populated by ghosts who follow a very disciplined schedule.
The carriage halted in front of an austere building. Not a palace. Not a cozy inn. Just a house that looked as inviting as an abandoned prison cell.
The man opened the door and gestured toward the entrance with a curt motion.
— You will stay here. The queen will receive you tomorrow.
She stepped inside and was immediately struck by the freezing temperature of the room. A miserable bed, a table that seemed one breath away from collapsing, a candle that looked like it had already lived far too long.
She took another step forward and crossed her arms.
Seriously? Is this a secret test to see if I can survive a night without freezing to death?
The servant closed the door without a word, leaving her alone.
Layla let out a long sigh, rolled her shoulders, and surveyed the room with exhaustion.
— Well, at least there are no rats. I think.
She removed her black cloak, draped it over the table, and leaned against the wall, feeling the cold seep into her bones.
Welcome to Narcéa, Layla.
Early the next morning, a servant arrived to take Layla to her assigned workplace. She followed in silence, still believing she would be working inside the palace, in an environment befitting nobility.
But when the carriage stopped, she found herself facing a stark, low-roofed building, its walls worn down by time. The moment she stepped inside, a sharp scent of sweat, fever, and cheap medicine filled her lungs.
The place was chaotic. Sick patients lay under thin blankets, overworked healers rushed between them, and the air was heavy with muffled groans and exhaustion.
Layla walked slowly, taking in the sight of suffering piled upon suffering. So this is where the people receive their care?
Her gaze was drawn to a grand building nearby. Taller, pristine, with large, luminous windows. Inside, she could see healers in spotless tunics, well-spaced beds covered in immaculate white sheets, an atmosphere of quiet order.
The contrast was staggering.
Intrigued, she turned to a passing healer.
— And that other building? she asked, gesturing toward the well-kept structure.
The man barely lifted an eyebrow before answering in a neutral tone:
— That is the nobles' hospital.
Layla felt a chill of indignation crawl up her spine.
— So they receive better care than the rest of the people?
The healer held her gaze for a moment before offering a slight shrug.
— They can afford the best treatment.
No anger in his voice. No defiance. Just a simple truth, spoken with quiet resignation.
Layla slowly turned her eyes back to the run-down building she stood in. Here, patients fought to survive with the barest scraps of resources, while just meters away, others received the best medicine could offer.
She clenched her fists.
This wasn't the time to protest. She might not have the power to change the rules of Narcéa, but she could change something—however small—for those suffering here.
Without another word, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work.
Days passed, and Layla worked tirelessly. She did her best not to complain, to endure the difficult conditions and lack of resources. But deep inside, an unsettling feeling refused to leave her.
Everything she saw filled her with disgust.
Weakened bodies, stifled cries, the glaring injustice between this miserable hospital and the pristine one next door.
As the days blurred together, a single question began to take root in her mind, echoing over and over like a troubling whisper:
Is this why my master sent me here?