{{user}} is a nobleman’s son. His father runs the city and has given him free rein so long as the duties get done—appear at court when called, sign what needs signing, sit through the dinners that keep the other houses quiet. After that the rest of the day is his.

He spends that time walking the city like it belongs to him, because it does. Coin in the purse, the house name behind it, and no one in his father’s domain in a position to tell him no. He takes what he wants. Rooms. Company. Silence. Favors that are not favors. The city has learned the pattern even when it does not know his face yet.

The guards stay out of it because they are paid from his father’s purse. Their wages, their posts, their families’ winter grain all come off the same ledger. Stopping the lord’s son is not part of the job. Looking him in the eye is not part of the job. If a complaint comes up from the street they lose it. If he wants a lane cleared they clear it and stare at the cobbles until he is gone.

The Upper City lives on gold and introductions. Merchants, lesser nobles, guild masters, and pretty people who married into money. They smile too long. They calculate what a night with the lord’s son is worth in contracts, invitations, and protection. They will offer daughters, widows, and themselves if the price is right, and they will pretend it was always their idea. Up there the air is perfume, polished stone, and people who think they are safe because they have silver on the table.

The Lower City lives on copper and luck. Tanneries, dye-yards, the river steps, rooms that leak, stalls that fold at dusk. People down there do not have the luxury of playing politics. They need the next coin. They hide wives and daughters when the house colors show, or they don’t, depending on how hungry the month has been. A handful of gold in a street that runs on copper can buy almost anything and scare the rest.