Chapter 77: How to Go Home as a Semi-Hero (4)
The street was nearly empty, except for one or two drunks arguing philosophy with the cobblestones. I kept my cloak pulled over my face, trying to pass as just another miserable nobody—the trick was to walk fast enough to look busy but slow enough not to draw attention. Antoril wasn’t the kind of city that asked questions, as long as you didn’t offer answers.
Lina’s tavern sat wedged in an alley that smelled of stale yeast, crushed garlic, and damp firewood. The lights were low—a sign the main room was closed to the public or, more likely, that she didn’t want to be bothered. The wooden sign swung in the cold wind, creaking like a warning for the curious to fuck off somewhere else.
But I wasn’t curious.
I was stubborn.
I didn’t go through the front door. I wasn’t stupid. I turned down the side, into an alley narrower than a bankrupt noble’s pride. The smell was worse there—mold and fish scraps tossed by someone who believed "organic waste" was an excuse for olfactory crimes.
I found the little service door. The hinges would screech if you treated them like an enemy, but I knew the trick. Pushed sideways, kind of up, kind of with my shoulder. It gave with a resigned sigh, silent. A talent I was proud of: opening doors that wanted to stay shut.
Inside, the kitchen was dark. Pans hanging, a table stained with something I hoped was wine, and the smell of old onion trying to murder any freshness in the air. I squeezed between the wall and a cupboard to avoid knocking anything over. Quiet as a thief—which was funny, since I was a terrible thief. But I knew how to survive.
I crept down the stone steps to the cellar. A creak here, another there, but nothing alarming. The trick was remembering where the wood was rotten and where it would still hold an idiot like me. When I reached the last step, I took a breath. The air was colder. Heavier. It smelled of things without names.
The cellar door was ajar. Faint light spilled out—a candle, maybe two. I pushed it open slowly, letting the minimal creak drag like a whisper. And there he was.
Sitting on an improvised bench. Thin legs stretched out. Bald head revealing runes carved like they’d been done with dull knives and anger. Ears once long and elegant, now torn, the tips burned. His skin was a sickly gray-green. And those eyes.
Those fucking eyes.