In Saint Ludwig, spring sunlight spilled across the avenue paved with white stone.
Veylin and his three companions walked along the main thoroughfare known as the Golden Avenue. True to its name, dazzling wealth flowed through this place, surrounded by bustling crowds in fine clothes and an endless chorus of hawkers.
The shop windows lining the street were piled with rare treasures from across the continent-snow fox pelts from the Northern Frontier were casually stacked in heaps, precious spices from the South sat in open containers like flour, Magic Crystals from the Eastern Territory were sold by weight, and pearls from the West Coast were strung into necklaces that filled the windows.
Merchants shouted themselves hoarse, while passing nobles did not so much as lift an eyelid, as though goods expensive enough to bankrupt provincial lords were nothing more than ordinary decorations.
It was an almost pathological prosperity, as though all the Empire's blood were rushing toward this heart, swelling it until it grew bloated and feverish.
But Veylin paid little attention to any of that. His gaze passed over the dazzling merchandise and settled on another scene reflected in the window glass.
A group of shackled Orc laborers were hauling goods, their overseer holding a leather whip.
Veylin noticed that although the Orcs' backs were hunched and their skin cracked, strength still lay dormant in their muscles.
When the whip fell, a savage gleam flashed in a young Orc's eyes, as though he wanted to tear someone apart.
Nearby, a noble in lavish clothes strolled along with an Elf slave woman in tow.
He held forth about the latest opera, paying no attention to the looks around him, whether admiring or envious.
In the shadows beside the road, several ragged commoners stared greedily at the purse hanging from the