The grand wooden double doors of the Golden Pavilion Inn swung open, welcoming them into a lobby lined with polished mahogany and illuminated by floating, warmth-infused spiritual arrays. The air inside smelled faintly of rare incense and sandalwood, completely removed from the copper-heavy stench of the outer slums.
Ethan stepped confidently toward the marble reception counter, still effortlessly carrying Mary in his arms. Behind him, Roy shuffled inside, his arms trembling slightly as he held his sleeping sister.
The female receptionist behind the desk—a sharply dressed cultivator wearing the uniform of the hospitality guild—instantly raised her eyes. The moment her gaze drifted over Roy's patched trousers and the simple, worn cotton garments of the two unconscious women, her professional smile faltered into a deep, heavy skepticism. To her, they looked exactly like the desperate refugees who frequented the outer borders.
