In the noble district of Feria, a young man—moderately tall, pale, and haggard—walked aimlessly through the snow, lolling his head left and right. He stopped, raised his right hand toward the falling snow, and shakily grasped at the air.

  "Noro, come look at this!" a fellow youthful noble called out, urging him over.

  They moved into an alley beside a house fashioned with iron slab stairs leading down to a cellar. Inside, an envoy from a distant kingdom and several noble youths were present. The envoy's hair was fall-leaf orange, his ears perched like those of the proverbial elf, and his eyes sharp and green.

  "Look at this thing," an unremarkable noble said with evident intrigue, poking the envoy's face with an iron rod as if pointing to a chalkboard. The man remained silent and did not resist. He appeared dazed and confused—perhaps unaccustomed to such hostility.

  "Oh, uhm," Noro began. He had never truly fit in with the other youths of the district. His house in Feria had once been prestigious, though that distinction had always felt distant to him. He paused, thought, then offered a forced laugh. "Watch this. I want to play with the animal."

  He grabbed the man by the ear and dragged him up the stairs and into a bush blanketed in snow.

  "Crawl. Now. NOW," he commanded. The man fell face-first and began to crawl. Laughter and affirmation rang out from the stairs as Noro lifted a large stick and struck down with such force that it splintered, a shard cutting into his own cheek. A total of twenty-six blows were administered.

  Each strike slammed into the snow and stone beside him—close enough that the impact shook his bones but at such an angle that to the viewers it was no different to an execution.

  "Quick, someone grab some herbs," one of the youths said. "I think this beating was too severe. We can't leave him dead in the snow."

  The youths scattered, scrambling to revive the man in order to avoid paying even a modest fee. Amid the commotion, Noro seized the envoy and ordered him to hide at the back of his house.

  "I've got rid of him. He'll float down the river to the common quarters—they'll deal with him," Noro said. The group were relieved to hear this; they had no desire to expend further effort on the man. They dispersed quickly, forgetting the incident as a mundane act.

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  Back in Noro's home, he offered the man a warm towel.

  "When I saw you raise that stick with that look on your face," the man said calmly, "I had never seen such an expression contrasted by an act of generosity."

  Noro frowned. "If I had actually struck your head, would you have retaliated?"

  "No, probably not. My people aren't violent, nor is our land."

  Noro looked up, confused. "It slipped my mind—what are you even doing here? An envoy in the noble quarters? The capital is far from Feria."

  "I heard of the new king's coronation," the man replied, "and intended to speak with him, as instructed by our duke. I even brought a cornucopia of pleasantries."

  Noro found himself more intrigued by the man's appearance than his explanation. Cairnreach's climate rendered most of its people pale, and seeing someone with skin like honey and such extraordinary hair was a rarity. This disparity was perhaps due to the kingdom's allocation of resources. Cairnreach was heavily guarded, and few of its folk ever left. Commoners exchanged crowns for meals stored in coldrooms that never spoiled, while hunter-gatherers constantly brought in new supply. A crown was merely a token for the right to eat—necessity above all else.

  Outside Cairnreach, crowns were functionally useless. Nobles instead traded in marks, a more conventional currency that enabled a lavish lifestyle. Visitors were rare. Envoys typically arrived in warm, luxurious carriages and were seldom seen in public. Those who did visit remained in the noble quarters, admiring the land's beauty and purchasing traditional attire and souvenirs. The common quarters offered nothing of interest beyond the eyesore of poverty.

  Noro returned to the matter at hand. "Yes, but here—in Feria? An envoy has no business other than heading straight to the capital. What in the world were you doing in a cellar?"

  The strange man glanced toward the window, watching people move to and fro across the plaza.

  "In my land, Seriol, we have a controversial custom," he said, "where we treat those around us with dignity. I naively believed I could wander freely for a while. It did not end well. I was threatened and kidnapped."

  They sat in silence. Neither knew what to say. Noro knew he should help the man leave, yet his attention was fixed on the book tucked into the envoy's belt. It bore an old, eldritch emblem, beneath which were hands in prayer wrapped around a locket.

  "What is—" Noro reached for it.

  A foreign language was suddenly screamed at him, shrill as a banshee. His arms grew heavy—so heavy that his jitter vanished entirely. He felt an ice-cold chain coil around his limbs. The man stared at Noro's hand with aloof curiosity, as though observing a magic trick. Then he stood, leapt through the window, and vanished into the snow.

  "Oi—what was that, you moonless—" Noro cried, rushing to the window. All that remained was the cold, metallic sensation on his arm and a single brown hair resting on the windowsill.