Ardan strolled in a leisurely manner along the cobblestone street. A cold, drizzling rain fell from above. He had grown used to the sight of it through the window — those small, sharp droplets leaving long threads of tiny beads on the glass. But walking under them was a different matter entirely. He could feel them prickling his face, tickling his neck as they slid in from the brim of his hat, and squelching under his boots as he stepped into the puddles.
At this late hour, you could hardly find a single soul in the center of the city. Just a few unfortunate people like Ardi, who looked equally lost and were wrapping themselves in autumn coats and cloaks, pulling their collars up high to shield themselves from the omnipresent raindrops. They also tried to hide under umbrellas, but as soon as they would sigh with relief, exhaling little clouds of mist, the playful wind would join forces with the rain.
It swept through the streets, shaking the crowns of the few trees planted in flowerbeds, tearing the last golden and russet leaves from their branches and flinging them into the faces of the pedestrians while also bending the spokes of their umbrellas.
The wind also carried scents that were rare in Evergale, but reigned here in the Metropolis like proud monarchs of old. The smell of steel and metal, cast in the nearby factories; the stench of smog and black smoke from coal and coke, rising above those very same factories. It mingled, swirling in hot dances with the islanders’ spices, then mixing with the aromas of expensive perfumes and under-roasted coffee imported from Lintelar.
Sometimes, cars passed by. Like otherworldly, phantom beasts with glowing eyes, they emerged from the rainy curtain, cutting through puddles with their tires and drenching anyone too slow to jump back from the curb, and then vanished back into the darkness.
The trams weren’t ringing and there were no whistles from the traffic wardens; the newspaper boys had gone quiet, no longer peddling their wares, and even the shops, which usually gleamed as brightly as decorated festival trees, had fallen asleep.
The Metropolis, or at least its pompous and expensive center, had sunk into slumber. And so, Ardan felt not quite like a stranger here, but rather as though he had, by accident, wandered into his parents’ bedroom late at night, ready to tell them some incredibly funny and unquestionably important story, only to catch them in the midst of...
Now he knew exactly what they had been doing at those times when he’d barged in. And he finally understood why, on that day when he’d played hide-and-seek with them and had hidden in the kitchen cupboard for a good few hours, his boast of an undeniable victory had so thoroughly amused his great-grandfather.
Ardi smiled at the memory and sighed.
For a moment, it seemed to him like the city smiled back and sighed as well, as if relieved that its new, albeit temporary, resident might find something of his own among the opulent buildings, broad streets, bulky avenues, winding alleyways, and the haughty bridges arching over the black river.
And so, Ardi continued walking, looking around the entire time. Over his shoulder, his satchel thumped against his back; in his hands, he carried a bag and a staff, its tip tapping rhythmically against the smooth cobblestones of the pavement. The stones rang under the heels of his boots, echoing the cawing of scattered and spooked crows, which had gathered for a feast but then been scared off by a cat.
Speaking of which — there it was, the cat. Licking its paw, it darted into an alley and disappeared under a trash bin. The very one beside which, sheltered by an overhang, a waiter stood in black pants, polished shoes, a black-and-white striped shirt, and a starched white apron. He was smoking and, bending down, scratched the cat behind the ear before it scurried away from the rain.
"Hey, Zor, are you going to dawdle all day?" Came an annoyed voice from the other side of an inconspicuous door.
"Coming," the waiter grumbled, stubbing out his cigarette on his shoe and tossing it into the trash. Before disappearing into the building, he exchanged a glance with Ardi.
A moment later, Ardan saw only the swinging door and moved on. The restaurant’s windows glowed in the nighttime gloom of the capital, their light scattering the darkness with a lazy sweep, like someone swatting away a fly.
Ardi paused briefly in front of the wide display window. On the other side, in a grand hall bathed in gold, marble, and amber, sat important men in tailcoats with their companions. A band played on a small stage, and waiters like Zor flitted between the tables. They had different faces and different bodies, but all of them wore the same uniform.
One of them approached the window and waved Ardi away, motioning for him to hurry on.
Ardan tipped his hat and continued. For hours, he walked, simply soaking in the atmosphere of the city, acquainting himself with it as cautiously as if he were meeting a predator in the hunting grounds. With care and respect, he absorbed the sounds, scents, sights, and sensations the Metropolis offered so generously, even deep into the night.
Occasionally, he stopped by small parks where a few locals were walking their dogs, or where, under the streetlights, people sat at tables, smoking and playing chess or cards.
The rain ended — though probably not for long.
In its place came a light, low-hanging mist. Like a pet, it hugged his legs, drifting toward the river, which slowly and steadily flowed closer to the ocean.
The ocean...
Ardi had read much about it, but he had never seen it before. Alas, he probably wouldn’t see it today, either. Too many things to do.
Damp, but strangely not disappointed, he stopped under a streetlamp. The ornate post made of black wrought iron was crowned by two lamps, their yellow light flickering against the foggy glass.
Smiling at a group of young people walking by who were discussing art (they, for some reason, recoiled from him and hurried to cross the street... Perhaps it wasn’t customary to greet people here as it was in Evergale?), Ardi pulled a newspaper from his bag. He had bought it, quite honestly, from the Anorsky household on his last day there.
Well, "bought" was a term for it — he’d left five kso on the hall table. That’s how much the "Imperial Herald" cost in the capital. It was two kso more expensive than in Evergale. Although, if you thought about it, the printing press was located here, and there was no need to send it by postal trains and...
Ardi waved it off. He needed to get used to the fact that everything in the capital cost absurdly large sums of money.
The issue was already a week old, but Ardan didn’t need the latest news from it. He needed something else entirely.
Flipping to the last pages, he ran his finger over several ads he had circled with a pencil.
Even back in the prairie, when he’d heard about the dormitory, Ardi hadn’t planned to stay there for long. Six years with Aergar had been enough to instill a snow leopard’s outlook in him for life, and so he would always seek out his own territory and solitude.
"Big Oboronny Street, number 12," Ardan read aloud from one of the ads he had marked. "I think Mart mentioned Small Oboronny Street once... What’s the price? Nine and a half exes a month. The apartment has heating and a kitchen."
Ardan grimaced and immediately crossed out the ad. Given how his first classes had gone, the scholarship-grant seemed more and more ephemeral, and relying on it was out of the question. So, his budget was limited to eighteen exes in cash and two suits, which he still had to pay off, though luckily, the deadline hadn’t been specified, so he could stretch it until New Year’s.
Suddenly, Ardi realized what the merchants in Evergale must’ve felt when, at the end of each month, they’d rushed to the bank to deal with their loans and debts.
"No point in renting anything farther than an hour’s walk from the Grand," Ardi continued running his finger over the ads. "It’s about thirty minutes by tram... Maybe a bit farther if I run..."
Though, who knew how the city guards would react to a two-meter-tall mage running down the street? Something told Ardi that such a sight might cause unnecessary excitement.
"All right," the young man folded the newspaper and tucked it back into his bag. "No point looking for a place until I sell the suit... And the shops won’t open until eight."
Ardi glanced at his wristwatch. It was a quarter past two... There was still a long time until the shops opened, so...
Adjusting his grip on his staff, he glanced toward the park, then, after making sure there was little traffic on the road, he dashed across it.
Three elderly men, clearly well-to-do judging by their fine coats (this was the Central District, after all), continued playing cards.
Ardan approached and watched them for a while. He recognized the game immediately.
Olikzasian Sevens.
It was one of the most popular card games in the world, and it had grown out of a simple dice game common among sailors in the merchant fleet. That was how it had spread across the globe.
The rules were also simple enough to make it a staple in taverns and saloons.
From a deck of fifty-two cards, each player would be dealt two, and then, each turn, another would be placed on the table until the sum of the cards in one’s hand and on the table equaled seven — hence the "Sevens" part of its name.
Between card reveals, players could place bets, and after the final round, they’d check who had the best combinations. The winner would take the pot.
"Two dragons and two soldiers," one of the elderly men with a comical monocle under a bushy eyebrow said with a grin, a large wart on the tip of his nose.
"Three soldiers," replied the second, already gathering the coins from the table. He was so thin and shriveled he resembled an overcooked tomato.
"Easy there, friends, easy," the third man raised his hands and began laying out the cards for a higher combination. "A two-sword soldier, three-tailed dragon, four-masted ship, five-staff mage, and," he slapped the final card down on the table with a victorious grin, "a six-pointed crown!"
"Eternal Angels," muttered the shriveled man.
"As usual, Peter wins," the wart-nosed one said, spreading his hands.
"Hand over your coins," the cigar-biting elder swept several kso toward himself. The bets seemed rather modest.
"And you, young man, why aren’t you asleep?" Peter asked suddenly, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "We, you see, are old men; sleep left us long ago."
Ardan had been standing behind the Shriveled One and the Wart all this time, so they hadn’t seen him, but now they turned and froze for a moment. Fear flashed across their faces for a split second, while Peter, who was slightly portly with rosy cheeks and skin as rough as birch bark, exuded a sticky calm.
"I’m waiting for dawn," the young man replied honestly.
"Then wait for it elsewhere-" The Shriveled One began, but Peter interrupted him.
"Did a lady of the heart throw you out?" The elder, shuffling the deck, nodded meaningfully at Ardi’s bag.
Ardan allowed himself a small smile.
"I wouldn’t call those gentlemen ladies. They were quite masculine elves and dwarves."
The Shriveled One and Wart exchanged confused glances, while Peter only nodded briefly.
"Well, young scholar, sit down with us."
"Peter, you can’t-"
"Nazhir, calm down," Peter interrupted the Shriveled One. "Do you know how to play Sevens?"
"I know the rules," Ardi confirmed, sitting down as the fourth player.
"We bet one kso each," Peter explained. "And raise no more than five."
"Got it."
"Good... By the way, since we’ve got a youngster at the table, what do you know about jazz?"
"Why such a strange question?" Ardi couldn’t help but ask.
It was indeed a strange question.
"Because you’re looking at its aficionados," Peter winked. "We just came from a concert and wanted to take a little walk and chat about it... And that was..."
"Three hours ago," the Shriveled One grumbled.
"Oh, come on, Nazhir," Wart waved him off. "We all live in the neighboring house anyway, so..."
"You may as well give him the keys to my apartment!" Nazhir bristled.
"Friend, he’s a mage — if he wanted to, he could get into your apartment without keys... Or did you forget to hide your second set of dentures?"
The old men, including Nazhir, chuckled.
"And so," Peter continued, "my young friend who has generously lowered the average age of players at this table, what do you know about jazz?"
Ardi didn’t know much. Only what Mart had told him about it. Apparently, it was a kind of music that was slowly capturing the hearts and minds of the people of Metropolis. Born out of the classical instrumental music of the upper class, jazz had woven in the light and quick rhythms of the elves.
At first, jazz had become popular among the working class, who didn’t have the money to enjoy high culture, and then, since there were more poor people than the wealthy, the music had spread throughout the capital, eventually beginning to reach beyond its borders.
But that wasn’t what had interested Mart about it. What had intrigued him was why it wasn’t possible to create a transmitter that could broadcast music over long distances. He had mentioned something about... electromagnetic waves, or something like that...
The problem, Mart had explained, was that these waves were disrupted by the echo of the Ley Lines, which created such strong interference that the waves dissipated after just a few dozen meters.
Mart had said that they had tried to solve the problem by using wires, but even those were affected by the Ley. Apparently, Star Engineers were now in a kind of gold rush, trying to find a way to transmit information over long distances using not "electromagnetic waves," but "Ley cables." But so far, no major breakthrough had occurred.
Ardan hadn’t fully understood what Mart’s words had meant at the time, and he still didn’t quite grasp them now.
But he did remember the part about jazz.
"Well, young man," Peter began dealing the cards. "You, judging by your appearance, have come from afar, but know so little about jazz... And what is the Metropolis without jazz? No, without it, this wouldn’t even be the Metropolis at all. So, take note of what an old detective has to say: Jazz is..."
A few hours of Sevens and an equally long time spent discussing jazz later
Ardan tucked the city map back into his waistcoat pocket, yawned, and tugged on the brass handle. The wooden door, painted matte black, with a sign reading "Madam Okladov’s Atelier, open from First to Fifth day, from 7 in the morning to 9 in the evening," swung open, causing the bell above the doorframe to jingle.
Upon entering, Ardi immediately took off his hat and wiped his boots on the mat... only realizing after the fact that it was likely decorative and not meant for use. After all, how else could he explain the intricate pattern of scissors trimmed into the high-pile carpet?
The old men he had played Sevens with had told him where to find a decent tailor nearby. It wasn’t a place where the prices soared through the roof, but not a bargain basement where they’d sew a button back on for a couple of kso, either.
Ardi needed something in between, and Wart (the young man never did catch his name) had recommended Okladov’s Atelier. It was just down the street, right next to the Three Bridges Avenue.
And as it turned out, the atelier, located on the ground floor of a residential building (like all shops, cafés, and restaurants in the central districts of the Metropolis), was still a little closer to what Ardan considered sky-high prices than not. He had forgotten, once again, that he had been speaking with residents of the capital.
The spacious room, which clearly served as both an atelier and a sort of showroom, featured a massive, full-length mirror, likely for fittings. The walls, painted a deep green, displayed paintings and a cuckoo clock with dangling weights. The space itself was filled with mannequins.
They were spaced far enough apart that several people could pass between them freely. Some mannequins wore flamboyant outfits: crimson suits with twisted orange stripes and shoes polished to a mirror finish, made from white leather so stiff it almost cracked around the toes. Dresses covered in sequins made from tiny aluminum pieces boasted slits so high you could probably see more than you should.
A bit farther on stood simple, well-tailored, woolen three-piece suits. Double-breasted and single-breasted. Some had contrasting silk vests and others were standard, matching the main fabric.
Winter was approaching, and the city’s residents were preparing as much as they could. Mostly, this either meant they’d be wearing more layers of clothing, or in some cases, the gradual appearance of fur coats in the shop windows hinted at how others would combat the cold. However, none of the furs were as high-quality as the ones his mother had made for the people of Evergale. And the fur itself... It was more of a joke than actual fur.
Ardan approached a very simple, dark blue suit with a low-collared vest. It had no flashy embellishments, with buttons instead of cufflinks, and a plain, low collar on a thick shirt.
Ardi suspected that, this far from the Alcade, he would probably feel the cold. But he doubted that he’d feel it so much that he would need to wear lined long johns, thick woolen socks, and a sweater over his shirt. Those items were also available in the atelier, not on the mannequins, but neatly folded on counters and high stools in front of cabinets displaying fabric samples.
Why did the young man need a suit? At the Grand, everyone dressed like that. It would be easier to blend in. But how much would it-
"It’s twelve exes and forty-five kso for the one you’re looking at," someone spoke from the doorway leading to the workshop. "The price includes the jacket, pants, shirt, and vest. Shoes, belts, and other accessories are sold separately. Our partners source those from..."
The woman trailed off as she approached and gave Ardi an appraising look. She herself looked pleasant enough: chestnut hair pulled into a tight bun, white, detachable sleeves tied with ribbons over her arms, and a gray apron with many pockets, filled with various sewing tools, was draped over her simple fabric skirt.
His mother had one just like it... Well, almost.
"Although, with your height, young man, it’s more likely to cost fourteen, not twelve and a half," she declared. "Your shoulders are too narrow for your frame, so we’d have to work hard to make it fit well."
"Madam Okladov?" The young man asked.
"At your service," she nodded curtly.
Judging by the fine lines around her eyes and mouth, she was likely over thirty, but she didn’t wear any rings. And there was a faint scent of men’s cologne about her, rather than anything feminine.
Ardan jumped aside just in time to avoid the splash from a puddle kicked up by the wheels of a speeding car. Although it nearly dirtied his last clean pair of pants, it snapped him out of his gloomy thoughts.
Without realizing it, Ardi had returned almost to the exact point from where he had started his journey. He was now a couple of blocks away from the park where he had played Sevens, near the Markov Canal (named after a notable public figure from the previous century), and he found himself at a wide intersection.
To his right, a bridge over the canal led to the other side; to his left, a street branched off toward the city’s main boulevard; and straight ahead stood a five-story building with a balcony bay window shaped like a tall tower.
Technically, it was a four-story building since, as usual, the ground floor housed shops and businesses.
One of them caught Ardan’s attention.
Under the bay windows, a round sign made of intertwined grapevines formed a simple name: "Bruce’s Jazz Bar."
Jazz...
Well, since he hadn’t managed to find a place to live, he might as well find out what the old men had been so excited about and what Mart had spoken of with such fond nostalgia.
Overhead, the sharp, cold rain began to drizzle once again. Ardi crossed the street and pushed open the door, stepping inside.
The establishment was somewhat reminiscent of a saloon in Evergale, though far more... respectable, perhaps. The dim lighting created an atmosphere of soft semi-darkness, gently embracing the many tables draped in white tablecloths. At their center stood low lamps, serving as the sole source of light.
In the distance, hidden behind a partition formed by two velvet ropes, there were booths with couches instead of chairs, where, unlike the rest of the establishment, it seemed like... not all the patrons were human.
But Ardi couldn’t make them out. Nor could he see the other guests, including the bar and bartender. The lights suddenly dimmed, and a few spotlights crossed their white beams, illuminating a small stage on the far side of the room.
"Our regular guest," came a voice from the shadows. "Tess."
The audience clapped, breaking up the veil of cigarette and cigar smoke that clung to the ceiling. In the dim light, the silhouettes of men appeared first. One settled behind the drums, another took up a curved trumpet with a multitude of valves, a third stood behind a double bass, and the last sat down at the piano.
And then, carefully walking on high heels and wearing the very same dress Ardan had seen earlier that morning at Okladov’s atelier, a young woman appeared. She had skin the color of a nascent sunrise, and was clad in nothing but that black, sequined dress with a slit that reached almost to her thigh. She stood before the golden Ley-microphone (a simple artefact that increases the volume of the voice) and began to sing.
What’s on the cat’s mind today?
Is her journey far away?
Through the grass and down the street,
So easy, so easy to scare her feet.
Sometimes,
Endless days in shades of gray
Stretch like lines that fade from view,
As the pouring rains cry away.
Her waist was slender; her small, perky chest was barely covered by her dress’ neckline, which plunged all the way to her stomach; her red lips parted slightly as she lifted her hand, scattering a mane of fiery red curls. Thick as ripe wheat, her hair curled and fell well past her back.
And then,
People find they’re left alone
In the autumn’s dreary tone,
Just like cats or strays they stay,
Alone with themselves all day...
Does someone wait for the cat,
Where is she rushing, quick and flat?
Her long, unbroken, lonely quest,
That’s her work, that’s all her rest.
Her face was probably beautiful — though after meeting Cassara, Ardi found it harder to judge. Still, there was something about her... Maybe it was in her high cheekbones, her sharply-defined, neat chin, or her slightly upturned, petite nose, and in those bright, green eyes lined with dark mascara.
Something about her made you believe that, in this bar, which reeked of alcohol and smoke, the sun had suddenly appeared. Warm and joyful, it didn’t care who you were — rich or poor, human or Firstborn. The sun simply didn’t care. It gave you its light and asked for nothing in return.
Sometimes,
Endless days in shades of gray
Stretch like lines that fade from view,
As the pouring rains cry away.
And then,
People find they’re left alone
In the autumn’s dreary tone,
Just like cats or strays they stay,
Alone with themselves all day...
This light washed away all worries and troubles as it burned away grievances and misfortunes. In its glow, everything that had happened recently seemed so insignificant, gray, foolish, and trivial that you felt ashamed for even tormenting yourself over such small things.
And that sun was the tiny young woman singing by the microphone, and her voice outshone even the music itself.
Never
Can people ever understand
What the sky sings late at night,
Whispered from the starry land.
Sometimes,
Stars will fall like leaves from trees,
And to keep the sky at ease,
The cat holds her tail up high!
When she finished singing, and the musicians played their final notes, the bar remained silent for a few moments before erupting in applause. Some patrons brought flowers to the small, round stage, while Ardi stood there, blinking in confusion.
This wasn’t the first time he’d heard music, but he had never heard anything like this before. Now he understood why the old men had spent so much time talking about-
"Finally!" A booming voice came from behind him. "You must be my tenant, I presume?"
Engrossed in the music, Ardan hadn’t noticed the tall figure approaching him from behind. He turned to find himself facing a towering man — no, not quite a man. His lower jaw jutted forward too much, his nose had been flattened, and his short but muscular arms hinted at orcish blood.
The figure was dressed in a black satin suit, though curiously, he wore no vest, which struck Ardan as odd. In his experience, no one wore a suit without a vest unless they were in formal attire, like a tailcoat.
"Excuse me... what?" Ardan asked, still trying to shake off the daze from the music.
The orcish half-blood deflated slightly, his shoulders slumping.
"Ah, it’s not you, either... Fuck it, Sleeping Spirits, what a day..." The half-orc scratched the back of his head with nails so long and hard it sounded like someone brushing a horse with a stiff comb. "I’ve been waiting three days for my tenant, and he still hasn’t shown up. It’s like this asshole fell through the ice or something. Meanwhile, my place is just sitting there, empty."
Ardan blinked, fish-like, opening and closing his mouth before blurting out, "I need a place to live."
The half-orc froze, his hand still on his head, and narrowed his eyes at him, looking Ardan up and down with a scrutinizing gaze.
"You do, huh? Well, don’t get too excited," the half-orc said with a dismissive wave. "The place is more of a hole than a room. No comforts at all. You’ll have to come down here just to use the bathroom. And the space itself... It’s weirdly oval, drafty as hell, with no heating, and no plans to add it, either. You might’ve noticed it when you came in — the last balcony in the tower? That’s the one."
"How much?" Ardan asked, cutting in with great urgency.
The half-orc hesitated. "I’m telling you, lad, there’s no heating."
"I’m not sensitive to the cold," Ardan shot back. "How much?"
The half-orc rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "The contract is until the end of the year. Five exes a month, plus a ten-ex deposit. But seriously, there’s no heat, no nothing, and-"
"I’ll take it," Ardan interrupted him, thrusting his hand out.
"You will, huh?" The half-orc smirked, clearly caught off-guard by Ardan’s eagerness. "Well then, just know this, lad — if you move out early, I’m keeping the deposit. Understood, huh?"
"Understood."
The landlord squinted at Ardan with growing suspicion. "Why are you so eager, huh? There’s something weird about you. You’re not... You’re not up to something, are you, huh?"
The orc’s gaze drifted to the student badge peeking out of Ardan’s breast pocket and then to the red cloak draped over his shoulders.
"You’re one of those... students from the Grand, aren’t you, huh?"
Ardan nodded, barely able to contain his excitement, though the tune from Tess’ song still hummed in his head.
"Well, I’ll be damned," the orc muttered. "You smell funny... Like a cat... Though maybe it’s just that blasted song of Tess’... She could sing about that cat for hours, and it’d never be enough for this lot." He gestured toward the crowd.
"My name’s Arkar, by the way. And you, student?"
Ardan braced himself for disappointment, sensing this was where his luck might run out.
"Ard Eg-"
"None of that surname stuff," Arkar grunted, clapping Ardan on the back and nearly knocking him off his feet. "We’re simple folk here. Hah! I’ve always loved that joke. Simple folk... non-humans..." He laughed, shaking his head. "Alright, come on, I’ll show you your new palace, Mr. Mage. Just keep in mind, if you blow something up, I’ll make you pay for it — and break your legs. Or arms. Maybe both, depending on my mood."
"Deal!" Ardan responded enthusiastically.
Arkar led him past the stage, down a narrow hallway, and then up a set of stairs that wound higher than the top floor of the building, stopping at a small landing.
"To the left is the attic," Arkar pointed to the first door. "And this one is yours. Here’s the key."
Ardan stepped forward, only for Arkar to tighten his grip on the key, smiling wickedly in order to reveal the sharp lower tusks common among orcs.
"Money first, lad. Fifteen exes."
Without hesitation, Ardan pulled out his wallet from his belt and counted out the amount, handing it to the landlord. Arkar took the bills, held them up to the light, sniffed them, and then crumpled them slightly between his fingers.
"All good," Arkar declared, handing over the key. "Alright, lad, make yourself at home. I’ll bring you the paperwork in half an hour so we can sign it. By the way, you mind if I put down that your deposit was a hundred exes instead of ten, huh? You know, so when people ask why I’m renting it so cheap, I don’t look like a fool. Don’t worry, it’s nothing for you to fret about. The deposit’s yours anyway, so no harm done. And why would I cheat a Grand student, eh?"
"Bring the papers, landlord," Ardan said with a silly grin.
Arkar blinked, caught off-guard by the abruptness, then nodded stiffly and began descending the stairs, muttering under his breath, "Crazy kid..."
Ardan wasn’t the least bit worried about the little trick with the deposit. After all, the deposit was what Arkar owed him, not the other way around. Plus, his Matabar senses had told him that Arkar was being completely sincere. The orc had no intention of pulling a fast one on his new tenant.
An orc... in a suit... Why did that combination feel oddly familiar to Ardan?
Whatever the reason, the thought evaporated the moment Ardan unlocked the door.
Beyond it was an oval-shaped room, about six meters in diameter and surrounded on all sides by windows, which allowed the city’s lights to spill in.
There was a bed large enough for his legs not to dangle off the end, a nightstand with two drawers, a tall but narrow wardrobe by the door, and a simple desk positioned beneath the windows. Off to the side stood a washbasin, complete with a tank for water and a press faucet.
But the windows... They made it feel as if the walls had disappeared and Ardan was gazing out over the rooftops of a city gradually being cloaked by the mantle of night. Below, a swarm of buzzing cars and people rushed about. The sidewalks glowed under a line of streetlights stretching off in every direction.
And the water, ever-present, was lapping against the rough granite.
Ardi smiled.
For a moment, he felt as if he were a child again, sitting on the cliffside of the Stairs and looking down over the forested expanse.
Perhaps life was getting better...
"Don’t jinx it," Ardan reminded himself, and began unpacking his things.