CHAPTER 151: CIVILIZATION

Élisa didn’t respond right away. Her golden eyes swept the surroundings, scanning each building, each alley, each stare—as if trying to understand something unseen.

"The last time I came here was thirty years ago," she said into the void, not expecting a reply from anyone. "It feels... really strange."

Dylan, ever himself despite the tension hanging in the air, didn’t wait long to cut in.

"You know what I find strange?" he said with that half-mocking, half-weary tone that served to mask his nerves. "We’re finally in a city—civilization, supposedly—and yet we still smell like the aftermath of a chaos-filled road trip."

He raised an arm, sniffed his sleeve dramatically, then winced.

"Seriously, what is this alchemy of sweat, rotten grass, and cart smoke? I swear the city took a step back when we arrived."

Marisse, still focused on steering the horses through the urban chaos, exhaled through her nose—equal parts exasperation and amusement.

"Shut up and look for a damn inn sign instead of philosophizing with your stench."

Dylan raised his hands in surrender, a crooked smile on his tired face. "Look for an inn, look for an inn..." he muttered, scanning the soot-blackened wooden beams for faded signs. Most of the letters were smeared out, the symbols unrecognizable under layers of grime. "Easy for you to say. So far, the only legible sign I’ve seen promises ’Fresh Guts & Hot Blood.’ Sounds appealing, right? Especially the guts—I don’t trust their cleaning methods."

He stopped abruptly, his gaze drawn to a narrow alley that sloped steeply into a fog of hot steam and sparks. "There! That looks like... maybe a limping horse painted on a plank. Or a giant rat? Either way, I say it’s an inn. ’The Limping Stallion.’ Has a ring to it."

Marisse cast a skeptical glance in the indicated direction. The entrance was narrow, partially blocked by a group of rough-looking men drinking thick beer from chipped mugs. Their eyes followed the cart with hostile curiosity. A low rumble echoed from the depths of the alley, mingling with muffled cries and the steady clink of hammer on anvil.

"’The Limping Stallion’ mostly smells like an overheated forge and sour beer," Marisse replied, shaking her head. She gently pulled the reins, calming the uneasy horses, narrowly avoiding a smoking pile of garbage. "And those gentlemen look like they want to count our teeth before letting us through. Let’s find something else."

"Why not go to that aunt you mentioned?" Dylan asked with a mock-solemn frown. "You did promise me a nice bath, remember? I even dreamed of soap. Real soap. With a scent."

"I am offended. That was a very serious question." He switched to a more playful tone. "Come on—your famous aunt? My dreams are at stake here."

Marisse didn’t look up, maneuvering the cart around another puddle of ominous-looking liquid. She grunted—a guttural noise that betrayed hesitation.

"Aunt Dana, I think..." Maggie chimed in, her voice dry and direct, like even the name left a rusty-metallic taste in her mouth. "Sorry, I’m bad with names."

"Her name is Aunt Edna," Marisse murmured suddenly, her voice soft but steady. Her gaze was still fixed on the horizon—or something beyond it. "She’s a retired mercenary who settled here after an incident in her youth. Been running her inn ever since."

"Charming," Dylan said with a crooked smile, more nervous than sarcastic. "And she takes in filthy, starving travelers with shady pasts and a lead-weight loaf of bread in their cart?"

"Let’s hope she’ll take us in," Élisa whispered, lowering her head slightly as if addressing someone unseen. "I believe she will."

Marisse sighed. Not out of weariness—but like someone who’s made a decision against their better judgment.

"Alright. We go deeper into this damned city. We have to make it before nightfall."

⸻

Their footsteps echoed now across the uneven cobbles of a ruined district, somewhere along Martissant’s slope, where roofs seemed ready to collapse under the weight of time and suspicion. A grayish light slanted through the buildings, as if even the sun thought twice before entering.

The cart slowed before a low stone house, its lime-coated walls covered in graffiti faded by rain. A wooden sign hung, half unscrewed, above a heavily barricaded door. "Inn of Final Rest."

"Now that’s welcoming," Dylan muttered.

"Shut it."

Marisse dismounted in one sharp movement, visibly tense. She stepped toward the door slowly, hands in plain view, her voice calm—too calm.

"Aunt Edna? It’s me. Marisse."

Silence. Then a mechanical click. A peephole snapped open, revealing bloodshot eyes framed by deep wrinkles.

"Marisse, my girl...?" The voice was hoarse but laced with a mix of affection and deep suspicion. "What in the... WHO ARE THESE BLOODY SAVAGES YOU BROUGHT HERE, BY MY MOTHER’S DAMNED BONES?!"

With a screech of rusted hinges, the door flew open—then slammed shut just as fast, bolted from the inside.

"GET OUT, you vultures! I warned you—I don’t want to see another one of you ’errand boys’ sniffing around my block! You’re not stealing another coin from me, you pack of damn hyenas!"

The silence landed like a slap.

"Excuse me?" Maggie muttered, already halfway to drawing her knife.

Dylan raised his arms in innocent surrender. "We can talk about this, I mean—we’re not—"

"You’re armed to the teeth! With that look in your eyes and your shady little bags! You think I’m blind?! I didn’t survive three campaigns and a pyromaniac ex-husband just to get scammed by gang punks! SCRAM!"

Jonas opened his mouth... then shut it again with a resigned sigh.

Marisse looked close to snapping. She stepped up and gently placed her palm against the door, almost affectionately.

"Edna. Look again. It’s me. Marisse. I need a roof. Just for one night. I swear they’re not from Martissant. They’re not gangsters. They’re..." She hesitated. Then: "Fools, maybe. But they’re mine. And they’re hungry."

A dragging sound. Then silence.

Then another click.

The peephole slid open again. The eyes returned, sharper now.

Élisa stepped forward slowly, floating like a shadow.

"Can you smell the bread?" she asked softly. "It’s all we’ve taken. Some bread. Some water... and a thousand thorns in our feet. No gold. No threats. Just... dust."

A long, tense pause followed.

Then, with deliberate slowness, the door creaked open once more.

Not fully. Just enough to reveal Edna’s figure—a tall, wiry old woman with a proud stance, gray hair wrapped in a bright red scarf. She held a machete in one hand, though her grip was loose.

She scanned each of them from head to toe.

"You all look like hell."

"Thank you," Dylan replied with a near-dashing smile.

Edna turned around, leaving the door ajar.

"Come in before I change my damn mind. But one stunt—ONE—and you’ll be sleeping in the latrines. With those bloody rats."