CHAPTER 156: OUTSIDE

Dylan descended the stairs with a satisfied expression, his jian strapped to his waist, heels brushing the steps as if he were choosing them one by one, careful not to startle the wood. Behind him, the two women had remained upstairs. Élisa and Maggie, busy talking about "women stuff" — in other words, things that, according to them, he had neither the right nor the capacity to hear or comment on.

And Dylan, as carefree as he liked to act, wasn’t entirely stupid. He knew damn well what they were about to talk about. But he knew just enough to not know when to shut up.

"You’re gonna talk about your period crap, aren’t you?" he’d thrown over his shoulder as he slammed the door, smirking — a ridiculous display of bravado.

Élisa had gone even paler than she already was — which was saying something — and Maggie had stared him down with a look so sharp it could’ve skinned him alive on the spot.

But Dylan hadn’t stayed a second longer in that room where even his breath felt threatened by some kind of mystical throttling. He had fled — bravely — the way only fools know how.

At the bottom of the stairs, he locked eyes with Jonas. The latter widened his eyes like a kid caught sneaking sweets, then smiled. Dylan flashed him two thumbs up, unsure if Jonas would get it. Judging by the sheepish grin and twitchy nod, Jonas understood... something. Or was pretending to.

Dylan approached and sat across from him. Jonas barely looked up.

"So? How’d it go?"

Dylan smiled.

"I poked around and found the perfect excuse. From now on, she’ll be spending more time around you. Try to make a move while you’ve got the chance, man. Be yourself. Declare your flame. Shake off that damp-fish energy."

Jonas raised an eyebrow, unsure whether to laugh or run.

"You think I have a chance?"

Dylan shrugged, tone flat:

"Man, even I’ve never seen her hang around a guy. I actually started to think she might be eating off the same plate as us, if you catch my drift. So yeah — no promises. Just don’t make a clown of yourself."

Jonas seemed to ponder that, then shook his head.

"And our deal?"

Dylan gave him a sly grin.

"Little Jo... You work on your sweet talk. I just set things up in exchange for a few coins and your clothes. I’m not her damn matchmaker."

"Shhhhut..." Jonas whispered, eyes locked on something behind Dylan.

Maggie was walking down the hall — light on her feet, but straight as a blade — heading for her room.

Dylan turned his head slowly.

"Well... speak of the devil."

And his gaze lingered a second too long on her departing form.

"That’s her ass we’re lookin’ at now."

He hadn’t said it too loudly — not out of shame, but because he knew full well how many ears lurked in a place like this. Better not to advertise just how much of an asshole he could be. He’d learned, through years (and a few well-aimed slaps), to keep certain lines to himself. Just loud enough for fun. Just low enough to survive.

His eyes stayed fixed on the door for a moment longer. Though shut tight, it still let in a few clever sunbeams — the kind that always find a way — spilling over the floor in lazy patterns, like melting runes.

A pretty sight. Yeah. But boring. Pretty and boring, like those symphonies that drag on too long, or paintings that make art lovers cry but leave everyone else snoring.

Dylan yawned wide, then turned to Jonas with the contagious enthusiasm of a kid watching their favorite dish being brought to the table. His eyes had that particular gleam — part scheming, part impatience — that never hinted at anything particularly sensible.

"So... we heading out?"

He rubbed his hands together like he was about to conquer the world — or at least stir up some trouble in a too-quiet neighborhood.

They stepped outside together, greeted by a wave of warm air that washed away the inn’s stagnant dampness. Leaving behind the dry wooden walls, they were bathed in the crude but not yet cruel morning sun. One of those honest dawns, almost kind — the kind that didn’t yet realize it would end up scorching everything by noon.

Outside, as expected, it was packed. Not the festive or curious kind of crowd. No. This was dense humanity, heavy and resigned. People walked without lifting their eyes, like part of the scenery. And the scenery... well, Dylan was really seeing it now for the first time. Yesterday, he’d been too focused on getting into a bath to notice much. But now, with a clearer — or at least emptier — mind, some truths became too obvious to ignore.

The city was filthy.

Not just dusty or run-down — no. Filthy in the way walls oozed poverty, alleys coughed up rags, barefoot kids, and smells that clung to your throat. Even the cobblestones looked like they’d given up on pride.

The people didn’t look much better. Tired, hunched over, dressed in what seemed more like scraps of memory than proper clothes. Everything here gave off the vibe of a world running on fumes. A slum with a thin coat of makeup, slapped on to avoid scaring off visitors. Not that there were any. Just them.

"Feels like we’re in a poor district. A slum, really," Dylan muttered, eyes sweeping across the street, brows furrowed like he was solving a mystery that had already confessed.

Jonas chuckled, still walking.

"Well, you are in a slum, man," he replied, voice somewhere between sarcasm and surrender. "We’re literally in the Lower Belt. What’d you think — we landed in the golden districts of High-Terra?"

"Lower Belt and High-Terra?" Dylan asked, a skeptical curl tugging at his lip. "So there’s a part just for the rich?"

Jonas nodded, hands buried in his pockets, eyes avoiding the beggars slumped beneath the awnings.

"High-Terra, yeah. That’s where the nobles live, the rich merchants who act like royalty. That’s where you’ll find the guilds, the biggest trade houses, the official warehouses... and most importantly, the count’s residence."

He paused, then added with a grimace:

"Up there, they serve wine in silver cups. Down here, we’re just trying to figure out if today’s bread is still edible or already qualifies as a blunt weapon."

Dylan snorted into his beard, then spat on the pavement — more for effect than necessity.

"Lovely society. Always vertical."

Jonas nodded toward a narrow street veering off to the left, half-hidden behind a crooked cart.

"See that alley? It climbs up to the Guardians’ Quarter. That’s the first wall between here and up there. You can go in — staying is another story. The guards are tense, and the stares can cut skin."

Dylan followed the alley with his eyes. It really did climb, lazy and narrow, between soot-stained stone walls. Shapes moved quickly through it, hurried, almost ashamed. No one lingered.

"And to go higher? To the famous High-Terra?"

Jonas let out a short, joyless laugh.

"You need a badge, a pass, a reason — or a sack of gold. Or you get boxed. Literally. The mechanical lift, with guards at every stop. For us? It’s locked down tight."

Dylan stayed silent for a moment, eyes lost in the incline.

Then:

"What if we had a good reason?"

Jonas glanced sideways, raising an eyebrow.

"You got one?"

"Not yet. But I’ll find one."