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The holy city of Thera Maryth, encircled by rugged mountain ranges, is a place often blanketed by rain and mist.

During that in-between time when greetings like “Good morning” and “Good afternoon” overlap, the streets still bore traces of rain from the previous night and early morning. The gravel-paved roads were a muddy mess, hard to walk on, with endless brown puddles filling the ruts left by wheels.

As the sun climbed higher, the veil-like mist began to dissipate. Gradually, people started appearing on the streets. Vendors and beggars lined the roadsides, while wagons and stagecoaches (though they were all casually referred to as “carriages“)—many pulled by beasts other than horses—moved to and fro.

Colin Thomson, his breath visible in the chilly air, was jogging toward his workplace when a tantalizing aroma made him pause.

Looking around, he spotted a street stall that had just finished setting up. A line of five or six people was already forming, seeking breakfast.

For about three copper coins, he could get a steaming cup of fragrant tea or “coffee” (not the genuine southern import, but a brew made from roasted dandelion roots), and for additional three copper coins, he’d get either buttered bread or a piping-hot serving of fried “chicken” (which, in truth, was the meat of an old emu retired from service)

Swallowing involuntarily, Colin reached into the pocket of his well-worn jacket and checked the contents of his wallet. Drawn by the smell, he found himself joining the line.

At this point, he was certain to be late anyway. In that case, he figured it was better to fill his stomach first and deal with the editor’s scolding later.

Imagining the taste of piping-hot fried chicken, Colin resolved himself with a hint of defiance.

As he waited for his turn in line, feeling idle, he adjusted the position of his flat cap and absently watched the flow of people passing by.

This part of the city, where miners, rough-and-tumble lower-class adventurers, and immigrants from other nations gathered, was rife with poverty and lawlessness, even within the bounds of the holy city.

The backstreets near the lower reaches of the Eusus River, the sole water source of Thera Maryth, were overwhelmed with odors. These ranged from the market’s discarded garbage and the stench of rotting fish from the wharf, to untreated sewage and wastewater flowing downstream from the upper city—the cathedral and the noble district at its center. Added to this were the smells of horse dung, urine, and the contents of chamber pots hurled from household windows, mixed with the acrid aroma of cheap liquor. Any pilgrim or tourist who unwittingly ventured into this area would find their senses thoroughly assaulted.

At this early hour, right after the rain, the stench was still tolerable. But once the sun rose fully and the temperature climbed, the situation would become unbearable. The best course of action was to finish breakfast quickly and leave.

With that in mind, Colin anxiously awaited his turn, growing restless, when his ears caught faint sounds of commotion in the distance—an uneasy ripple in the air accompanied by the whinnying of horses.

“What’s happening?” he murmured.

As a journalist, Colin’s curiosity was piqued, and he fixed his gaze in the direction of the commotion.

The bustling street unfolded before him like an underwater tableau: two-wheeled cabs darted about like a school of lively fish, while slow-moving, beast-drawn wagons lingered along the sides, reminiscent of bottom-dwelling creatures. Among them, rare and striking carriages pulled by peculiar land dragons and wildashers moved with the stately grace of deep-sea marvels. —Cutting through this scene was a magnificent four-horse carriage, gliding down the center of the street with the leisurely dominance of a large migratory fish, its heavy wheels rumbling as if to claim the road as its own.

The carriage, clearly a luxury vehicle belonging to the upper class, sent nearby stagecoaches and carts scrambling. Drivers frantically steered toward the shoulders or ducked into side streets to make way, scattering in all directions like startled spiders.

This was clearly expected, as the grand carriage continued down the center of the street, exuding entitlement. Painted on its polished, gleaming white side was a crest that made the passenger’s identity clear. Many of the displaced drivers and pedestrians, upon recognizing it, furrowed their brows and clicked their tongues in irritation.

“That’s dangerous… wait, is that the Church’s emblem?” A muttered comment from a middle-aged man in a gray cloak behind him caught Colin’s attention.

The vehicle’s gleaming finish and elegant yet imposing design suggested it had been enhanced by some sort of Theocraft—what other countries might call Magic Art. The horses pulling it were far superior to the usual farm animals, with physiques and bloodlines that would rival even the finest warhorses.

Even to an untrained eye, the carriage’s opulence symbolized its owner’s immense wealth and power. But more striking than that was the emblem painted on its side. Anyone living in the Holy City would instantly recognize the sacred insignia of the Saintess’ Church, representing the role of the shrine maidens.

Colin prompted to echo his thoughts aloud: “That must be the Étoile. Lady Barbara’s personal carriage.”

“Ah, that Lady Barbara!” the man exclaimed, nodding vigorously as if the revelation had brought everything into focus.

“It’s rare to see her here. If it were Lady Clara, I’d understand, but what’s a high-ranking shrine maiden who usually lounges in the central district doing in this part of town?”
“Indeed. What whim brought her here, I wonder?”

The other patrons in line, along with the stall’s female owner, exchanged glances and began murmuring similar questions.

“Ha, she’s probably here to score some points by visiting one of the Church orphanages. Lady Barbara used to have such a high profile, but now… well, you know.”

The man’s cryptic remark drew a mix of wry and scornful smiles from the crowd. Though they refrained from voicing outright criticism—being general followers of the Saintess’ Church—their expressions and tones were biting.

“Well, it’s to be expected. These days, Lady Clara is the strongest candidate for the role of the Shrine Maiden Princess.”
“Obviously. She’s got the skill, the charisma, and—most of all—that breathtaking beauty that’ll stop your heart if you get too close. If she keeps racking up achievements and fame, she’s a shoo-in.”
“I heard Lady Clara came up with this fried chicken recipe too.”
“Yeah, and dandelion coffee as well. Truly, Lady Clara is amazing—talented, beautiful, and generous to boot.”

“Lady Barbara isn’t bad, but… well, you know?”
“Honestly, I feel for her. How can you compete when you’re constantly being compared to Lady Clara?”
“Lady Clara is on another level.”

Author’s Note:

Carriages are typically two-wheeled and drawn by a single horse. A well-known example is the iconic “Hansom Cab” favored by none other than Sherlock Holmes.

Hackney cabs generally follow this standard of being single-horse, two-wheeled carriages.

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