By the time they reached the Ashford gates, Felix had developed a personal disagreement with every buckle on his formation case.
The left strap pinched. The right strap slipped. Something inside knocked against the lid whenever he tried to improve the arrangement.
Beyond the gates stood three receiving tables, two fountains and an avenue broad enough to make walking feel like a public performance.
He wanted a bed.
A steward in green sleeves consulted a board covered in narrow columns.
“Lady Ashford, the family approach. Master Jian, recognized cultivator reception. Your luggage will proceed through the lower gate.”
“And me?” Felix asked.
“Your house?”
