Chapter 35: How to Talk Your Way Into a Trap With Style
Night had already swallowed the sky whole by the time I made my way back.
Ashveil behind me looked like a charcoal sketch—dimmed streets, crooked façades, windows lit here and there like tired little eyes peeking out at the world. Most people were asleep. Others pretended. But no one cared about a guy walking alone in the dark, dressed too well to be a thief, but shady enough not to be trusted.
My steps were steady. New boots, full pockets, coat straight—and a mission. A damn mission with all the signs of impending disaster, but one that, deep down, gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time: purpose.
Thalia was right where I’d left her, next to the mule that, under the faint starlight, looked like a monument to animal exhaustion. The creature didn’t even blink anymore. Just stood there, resigned, like it knew life was unfair and had chosen not to argue.
She, on the other hand, was more alive than ever. Seated, holding a small dark-covered notebook, scribbling with the focus of someone writing a confession—or a threat. The moonlight cut across her in soft outlines, and even in the dark I could tell she was getting impatient.
She snapped the notebook shut, tied it to the side of her bag, and gave me a quick once-over.
"You ready?" she asked the moment she saw me.
"In the most optimistic sense of the word, yes."
The mule let out a long sigh—or an existential groan—it was hard to tell.
We started walking. She rode like an exiled heiress; I walked like the reluctant servant, stumbling over pebbles and thoughts.
The road was different at night. Narrower. Less certain. The bushes whispered with the wind. The trees felt like watchers—not protectors. And the sky, a vast, indifferent ceiling, watched us back with stars that blinked in sarcasm.