Hosar shared the exact same magnificent architecture as the capital, its white stone towers and reinforced walls cutting a proud silhouette against the desert sky. A ring of Nullstone pillars lined the perimeter, while they weren't nearly as massive or numerous as the ones guarding Valoria, the ambient dampening field was still dense enough to suppress the Spiral's demands.
The Wanderer removed his mask and the prostatic arm, and moved quietly between the merchants entering the gates, making sure none sees him and if they did, he won't be recognized as Vincent.
The moment he passed the gates, he slipped into a shadowed alleyway. He took a few minutes to fix his guard uniform, dusting the heavy desert sand off his boots and smoothing out the fabric. Reaching up to his jawline, he clicked the hidden interior frame, letting the mask hiss as the synthetic flesh warped over his face, transforming him into Vincent Dragonborn.
With his head held high and his posture bold, the Wanderer stepped out into the bustling streets of Hosar. He intentionally made himself visible as Vincent, projecting the arrogant confidence of a seasoned warrior who had nothing to hide.
He walked through the market square, speaking loudly to almost every vendor he passed, letting his voice carry over the noise of the crowd. As he approached a high-end textile stall, he reached out, rubbing a piece of silky garment between his fingers.
"How much does this garment cost?" he asked.
The merchant turned around, a welcoming smile breaking across his face. "Pick your favorite, sir! I am certain a man of your keen eyes can recognize a fair price." The merchant's gaze dropped to the bronze insignia pinned to the Wanderer's breastplate, and his smile grew even wider. "In fact, it would be an absolute honor to help a member of the Dragonborn."
The Wanderer paused. "Do you know me?"
The merchant chuckled warmly. "I wish I did, my lord! But anyone in Hosar with working eyes can recognize that sigil."
The Wanderer rubbed his fake chin, pretending to look thoughtful. "Right..." He leaned forward. "By any chance, do you know where I can find the Dragonborn manor?"
The merchant blinked, his smile faltering into confusion. "Manor...?"
"Yes," the Wanderer continued smoothly, completely unaware of the weight behind the word. "Where the rest of them stay. I am a distant relative visiting from out of town."
The welcoming warmth vanished from the merchant's face, replaced by suspicion. He looked at the Wanderer's mask, then back down at the bronze sigil. "Is that so?" the merchant said. "I am not entirely sure which part of the family you claim to be from, sir. But if you are looking for them, you should head to the citadel at the center of Hosar. Someone there will be of... better help to you."
The merchant abruptly turned his back, picking up the exact piece of silk the Wanderer had been touching and aggressively wiping it down as if trying to clean off a stain.
The Wanderer stared at the back of the man's head for a moment. He didn't understand the sudden, hostile shift in the merchant's demeanor. Realizing he wouldn't get anything more out of the market stalls, he turned away from the vendor and decided to head straight to the citadel.
The citadel sat like a crown upon the highest hill in the center of the city. Its colossal walls and sheer size made it look less like a fortress and more like a separate city entirely contained within Hosar.
The Wanderer paused, looking up at the high stone towers that blocked out the afternoon sun. He thought, compared to the relatively open Valoria, this place felt intensely militaristic and oppressive.
He dropped his gaze down to the heavily guarded outer gates and walked up to one of the armored sentries. The Wanderer gave a formal military salute, and the guard returned it firmly, his eyes tracking the uniform.
"Where can I find the Dragonborns?" the Wanderer asked.
The guard stared at him for a silent second, checking out his face and the bronze emblem on his chest. "I assume you are looking for the Black Crowns," he said, gesturing with his hand toward the streets. "I'll have to ask you to leave, sir. Your status doesn't allow you access to the inner citadel, despite your rank. If you want the Black Crowns, you can find them scattered around the lower districts... probably begging for bread."
Another guard standing nearby burst into laughter. The first guard immediately stomped the butt of his spear against the stone ground, glaring sharply at his companion. The laughing man quickly choked back his amusement, forcing his face back into a mask of duty.
The Wanderer gave a tight nod and moved away slowly, his mind spinning as he walked down the steps of the hill. So... Vincent is some sort of low-life soldier? A 'Black Crown'? Roger had said the identity was a seasoned guard, but he had clearly left out the social stigma attached to the name.
A sudden wave of voices cut through his thoughts. He looked up to find a massive crowd gathering in a nearby public square. In the center stood an old preacher, atop a wooden platform.
"Our ancestors fought bravely against the ultimate sins of magic!" the preacher cried, raising a shaking finger toward the sky. "The sins that manifested into a giant beast with ten arms that terrorized and shattered the old world!"
Intrigued, the Wanderer stepped into the back of the crowd, listening intently as the old man continued his sermon.
"But the God of Light is endlessly merciful!" the preacher roared. "In our darkest hour, he sent us the Dragonborns to be our shield, to protect us from the ultimate evil!"
At those words, the crowd collectively gasped, many falling to their knees, weeping and murmuring desperate prayers of gratitude.
Confused and unsettled by the fanatical display, the Wanderer took a cautious step backward, trying to detach himself from the kneeling crowd.
"Vincent?"
A voice called out from directly behind him.
The Wanderer turned toward the voice to find a young man dressed in rags, a gap-toothed smile breaking across his dusty face.
"It's really you," the man breathed. Before the Wanderer could react, the stranger stepped closer, forcing him into a tight hug. He pulled back, gripping the Wanderer's shoulders. "Where the hell have you been?!"
The Wanderer managed to keep his composure, his mind racing to adapt. "You know... busy."
The man gasped, his eyes widening. "Your mother is worried sick about you, man!"
Faking a sad expression, the Wanderer lowered his gaze. "I'm sure she is."
"Come on, let's go see her right now!" The man grabbed his hand, pulling him forward.
As he was dragged away from the square, the Wanderer looked over his shoulder one last time at the preacher, who was now yelling at the top of his lungs, "Blessed be King Altharion!" The kneeling crowd repeated the prayer after him, their voices fading into the distance as they navigated the narrowing streets.
They descended into a slum, the magnificent white architecture of Hosar replaced by crumbling hovels made of sun-dried clay and rotting wood. Hollow-eyed men and women in ragged clothes roamed the narrow alleys, stepping over open, sewer-filled trenches that rancidly baked in the desert heat.
"You shouldn't have left for that long," the man said, looking back as they walked. "The last time we spoke, right before your disappearance... it made all of us worried."
The Wanderer slowed his pace. "I've been through a lot. My head is a bit foggy... could you remind me exactly what it was we discussed?"
The man stopped and stared at the Wanderer in confusion. "You can't remember?"
He glanced around the filthy alleyway to ensure no one was watching. Then, leaned in close to the Wanderer’s ear whispering. "Your investigation of the Owls."
The Wanderer’s eyes widened beneath his stolen skin.
"Anyway, you look exhausted," the man said, misinterpreting the Wanderer's shock. "We're here."
He pointed toward a weathered house with a splintered wooden door. The young man suddenly broke into a sprint toward the entrance, shouting at the top of his lungs, "Aunt Helen! Guess who finally came home!"
A raspy old woman's voice barked from inside. "I swear to the Light, Sunny, if it's another stray dog you dragged from the gutters, I'm going to-"
The woman appeared at the threshold, a lump of dough slipped from her hands into the dirt floor as her eyes landed on Vincent's face.
Her wrinkled eyes filled with tears. "My son..." she whispered.
She lunged forward, her fragile arms wrapping around the Wanderer's waist, burying her face into his armored chest and hugging him with a crushing warmth.
The Wanderer froze, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air. As the old woman wept against him, a knot formed in his stomach as the unearned warmth was unsettling to him.
A single tear escaped his eye unconsciously, in that vulnerable second, he found himself longing for a mother he never had.
He let his arms drop around Helen's shoulders, hugging her back gently. "It's okay..."his voice softened. "I'm here now."
Helen suddenly snapped out of her emotional daze. Stepping back, her eyes widened as she noticed the flour and damp dough smudged across his polished uniform. She frantically began wiping at his chest with the back of her wrist. "Oh, look at me! I'm so sorry, Vincent. I stained your fine clothes without even noticing."
He offered her a smile, reaching out to catch her hands and holding them gently against his chest. "Don't worry about it," he said, trying to steer her away from her panic. "What are you cooking? I'm starving."
"I'll make your absolute favorite dish right away!" she said, her face lighting up before her gaze fell to the ruined lump of dough sitting in the dirt, she let out a sigh. "Foolish Helen... your father is about to arrive any minute, and the food is entirely ruined."
"Don't worry about it," the Wanderer said smoothly, stepping over the mess. "I'll head back out to the market and buy something else for us to eat tonight."
"No, no! Don't you dare waste your hard-earned coin," Helen insisted, shaking her head. "I'll start over. It will only take an hour."
The Wanderer cut her off, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Rest for the day. I'll buy something good for all of us."
Her eyes filled with fresh tears, a smile lit her face. "I missed you so much, my boy."
Sunny suddenly jumped into the doorway grinning. "If you're buying, Vince, let's get some roasted rats from the lower plaza! I haven't tasted a single scrap of meat since the day you disappeared."
The Wanderer chuckled, the grim weight of the world lifting for a brief moment. "Let's go grab something a little better than rats today, Sunny."
As the two of them stepped out into the street a ragged child came sprinting through the mud. " Are you Vincent? I have something I need to tell you."
The Wanderer stared down at the boy, not sure if Vincent was supposed to know this kid or not.
The boy gestured for the Wanderer to lean down.
The Wanderer slowly lowered his head to the kid's level.
The child leaned in whispering.
"Zero requires your presence."