Chapter 167: New Encounter
The carriage moved at a slow, almost majestic pace, as if it ignored that it was rolling over the entrails of a sick city. Outside, the morning noises mingled: cries of merchants, the clatter of buckets against cobblestones, muffled quarrels from alleyways. And above all, the smell. That greasy, persistent smell, seeping through thick curtains and closed windows like a possessive old lover. The city, Martissant, didn’t let you go.
Opposite him, the man was still reading. Unperturbed. A black glove on one hand, the other holding the book open like a prayer. Dylan hadn’t managed to see the title — and at this point, it annoyed him almost as much as the silence.
He sighed inwardly and focused on the blurry landscape beyond the window. The carriage was climbing through increasingly wealthy districts. The cobblestones became more regular, the facades more arrogant. Clean windows, flower-adorned balconies, gates that closed a bit too quickly when the horses approached.
"I almost feel like a noble," he thought, a half-smile clinging to the corner of his lips.
His military trousers clashed with the decor. The shirt he borrowed from Jonas — too broad in the shoulders, but with a collar almost stiff — gave him the air of a spoiled child of some minor baron. A boy who had likely been sent to boarding school, then brought back to court once he’d calmed down. At least, that’s the role he enjoyed playing.
He had no weapon. At least, officially. He had kept his dagger, strapped to his leg, hidden under his boot’s leather. Just in case. The boots, for that matter... still stained with dried mud, split at the right seam, but still sturdy. Enough to pass if you didn’t look too closely.
And his hair... he noticed it, vaguely reflected in the window. His tight braids, slightly undone from nights without care. His mother would’ve had a fit. She’d have thrown a hairbrush and an insult at him at the same time.
"I’ve done worse," he thought, resting his elbow on the carriage’s door armrest.
The man’s silence was becoming almost provocative. Dylan glanced at him. Still the same posture. Book open. Face hidden. Not a word since they’d left.
He opened his mouth, just for the pleasure of breaking the silence:
"What are you reading?"