Chapter 153: Night Under Covers
He finally left the bath reluctantly, like someone leaving a dream too short, his body trembling with heat, his mind still numb.
Water slid slowly down his skin, tracing paths through the defeated grime. He grabbed the rough towel left on a rickety stool, rubbed himself dry like a cat without much motivation, then slipped into the shirt Jonas had lent him — something too big, too soft, that smelled faintly of dried leaves and pipe tobacco.
He glanced at himself in the cracked mirror on the wall. His brown skin glowed with a soft warmth under the oil lamp, and the lingering steam made him look like a wandering spirit in search of a body.
"Not bad..." he murmured, tucking a damp curl behind his ear.
He returned to his room, his bare feet tapping quietly against the wood. Once inside, he opened his suitcase — that old, battered thing as worn as he was — and started sorting through it.
His old clothes — the ones worn during the crossing, during survival, during those endless days of walking — were in pitiful shape. Torn fabrics, soaked, burnt, clumsily patched with bits of string and pride.
But they were still military outfits.
Tough, technical, made to survive extreme climates, falls, battles — or lukewarm baths in a world without soap.
He unfolded them, studied them for a moment.
Here, they would stand out.
In a world stuck somewhere between the age of blades and the first powders, wearing those kinds of clothes was like shouting "I’m either a fallen noble or a spy." And in both cases... not great.