Chapter 76: How to Go Home as a Semi-Hero (3)
The air inside Marlow’s office felt denser than ever, as if the wooden walls and crammed bookshelves had absorbed all the voices of the city just to give us back pure silence. The smell of damp paper, fresh ink, and burnt coffee mixed with raw anxiety.
The mayor — chubby, his face slick with sweat — fanned himself with an embroidered handkerchief that did nothing to hide his panic. He sat in a heavy oak chair that creaked with every sigh. Marlow stood behind his desk, arms crossed, eyes sharp as blades. And us: me and Thalia, lined up like defendants in the makeshift courtroom of the city’s most stubborn newsman.
No one spoke for several long seconds. Until Marlow, in that tone that sounded civil but spat knives, broke the silence:
"I want the truth. No flourishes. Start talking."
I took a step forward, too tired for ceremony.
"Antoril’s rotten underneath. Literally. Tunnels, secret compartments, magical contraband, sealed memories sold like spices. A whole hidden market, with people paid to shut up — or to shut the throats of anyone asking too much."
Thalia took a deep breath. Her voice came out lower, almost fragile:
"They locked me up. Wanted to pack me in a cart like merchandise. I would’ve disappeared. No trace."
The mayor swallowed hard. But he didn’t look shocked. Just uncomfortable.
Marlow didn’t blink.
"And you saw proof?"