"Follow me."
Without paying any mind to the stares around him, Eman silently followed the girl who had motioned for him to come along.
Her pace was steady and confident. The faint click of her boots echoing against the stone paths.
But before they could go far, a sharp voice cut through the air.
"Stop right there!"
Eman instinctively turned his head toward the source. A young man was striding towards him.
His features registered in Eman's vision. About the same age as him, with striking red hair, brown eyes, and sharp, hawk-like brows. His hand was resting on the hilt of a sword at his waist. The blade's edge glinting faintly under the sunlight.
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"Here goes Randolph," someone whispered.
The atmosphere immediately grew heavier, as if everyone was expecting something to happen.
Eman's steps slowed, then came to a halt.
The red-haired man— Randolph, as the others called him, stopped a few paces in front of Eman.
