Chapter 158: By the Holy Greed of Gold
The faded red canopy above them rippled slightly, casting strange currents of shadow across their faces. Here, the light was murky, filtered through the fabric as if the sun itself hesitated to enter. The air reeked of melted wax, dry dust, and stale incense, laced with that indescribable scent that always haunted places burdened with secrets.
Dylan walked slowly, his footsteps echoing faintly on the uneven stones. The faceless statues, worn down to oblivion, seemed to watch them despite their lack of eyes. Some had bandages tied around their necks; others wore necklaces made of human teeth. An atmosphere of sacred delirium, of decadent oracles.
Jonas said little. He watched. Eyes were everywhere here. Beneath torn cloaks, behind grimy curtains, inside the cracks of crumbling walls. Whispers drifted through the air—elusive. Nonsense syllables. Or maybe too much sense.
An old man approached them soundlessly. His eyes were as white as the moon, and his lips moved without speech. A broken horn dangled from his neck, tied with a greasy string. He raised a hooked finger at Dylan.
"You carry a name that hasn’t bitten you yet," he whispered.
Dylan raised an eyebrow.
"And you, did your brain fry already or are you saving it for dessert?"
The old man laughed—a sound like a cracked hourglass. Then he backed into the shadow of a doorway and vanished.
Jonas said nothing. He pointed to a half-collapsed tent in front of which a circle of chalk had been drawn on the ground.
"In there. If anyone knows something, it’s probably her."
"Who’s her?" Dylan asked.