Guest walked slowly along the invisible but clearly felt boundary between the worlds. Here, on the edge of the Magi's territory, the land seemed wild, untamed, overgrown with thick grasses and gnarled trees. But once you crossed the line— the landscape changed dramatically. On the people's side, the roads were smooth, the buildings were tall and majestic, and the air didn't smell damp or smoke from campfires. He had never crossed the border because of his mother's words, but he had imagined what it would be like to be one of them a thousand times.

The border was especially busy today. A crowd of people gathered in the distance, talking excitedly and holding up flags with a golden coat of arms. Guest narrowed his eyes. A cavalcade of horsemen was moving along the pavement. In front rode a man in heavy royal armor, sitting in the saddle with a grace beyond even the best knights.

King Alaric Thorne. His cloak the color of the night sky fluttered in the wind, and the sunlight reflected in the polished metal of his armor. People looked at him enthusiastically, and some even fell to their knees, begging for his blessing. "They worship him..." thought Guest.

The king did not even turn his head towards the border. He didn't see them. I didn't notice them. Guest didn't know what angered him more: the admiring faces of people who were ready to worship the man who had thrown the country into chaos, or the indifference of the king himself.