Happy people
That was the only phrase Cassian could come up with as he passed through the heavy iron gates of Solmere.
It was jarring. The light here felt unnaturally crisp and bright, as if the sun burned hotter and clearer without any of its usual oppressive sting. Vines bursting with vibrant, multi-colored blossoms spilled over manicured cobblestone fences, wrapping the district in a suffocating display of color. The entire city looked as though it suffered under a curse of eternal spring.
And the people were worse. They walked the swept, dustless streets with easy smiles, tipping their hats to neighbors and laughing freely in open plazas. Cassian watched them with a dark, simmering irritation. What made them so sure that doom wasn't waiting just beyond their borders? He imagined that even if the sky split open and rained ash tomorrow, these people would still stand in the street, smile, and chatter like mindless animals. Solmere was like Eveldor, but larger, wealthier, and packed with far too many flashing white teeth.
On the off chance that news had traveled and he was now wanted in the south, though he doubted his reach extended this far, Cassian deepened his posture. He pulled the frayed brim of his hood lower over his face to obscure his features, unwilling to test his luck.
The main thoroughfare was choked with vendor stalls stretching as far as the eye could see, heavy with the scent of baked bread, sweet wine, and cut flowers. Cassian wove through the pressing crowd with a practiced, light-footed rhythm. He wasn't overly paranoid. He knew he had changed over the last three weeks on the road. His hair had grown long and unkempt, a rough shadow of a beard clung to his jawline, and the deep grime of travel coated his leather boots. He looked nothing like the polished, narrow-faced youth they would print on temple posters, but caution was a habit he couldn't afford to break.
He tracked the outer edge of the market until he spotted a modest, weathered sign swinging lazily above a heavy timber doorway. Stepping inside, he slipped out of the blinding stream of golden sunlight and into the cool, muted gloom of the establishment.
Cassian approached the wooden counter, his hand resting instinctively near his hip. "A room, please."
The innkeeper, a stocky, thick-necked man wiping down a stained pewter mug with a rag, glanced up, his eyes narrowing into a squint.
"What wazzat?" His accent was thick, slurred, and heavy with coastal vowels.
"I said one room, please," Cassian repeated, keeping his voice flat, low, and completely unhurried.
The man grunted, tossed the rag over his shoulder, and dragged a battered ledger out from beneath the counter before dipping a splattering quill in black ink. "Name?"
"Anax."
"Anax what?"
"What?"
The innkeeper let out an exasperated sigh, tapping the sharp point of the quill against the damp paper. "Listen, man, I don't got all day. Give me a first name and a last name, alright?"
Cassian paused, his fingers tightening briefly around the leather strap of his pack as he ran through his prepared aliases. "Anax. Anax Sigurd."
The man scribbled the name into the ledger with a harsh, scratching noise. He reached up into a dusty wooden rack, pulled down a heavy brass key, and slapped it onto the counter between them. "Room 68. Up the stairs, all the way down the left hall."
Cassian picked up the key, its cold metal biting into his palm. His eyes darted past the counter toward the wide tavern floor behind him. "You always get this many customers?"
The innkeeper raised an eyebrow, his mouth curving down into a sour scowl. "What's it to you?"
A sense of comfort came over Cassian. This man was the first person he'd seen unhappy in Solmere. At least now,he knew they weren't all mindless.
"Nothing. Just asking," Cassian responded smoothly.
He slid a few copper coins across the wood to pay the man, turning away before the innkeeper could pry any further. He navigated the quiet perimeter of the tavern floor, taking in his surroundings. Despite the grand, alluring archway at the building's entrance, the interior felt strangely neglected. The wooden walls were a dull, dark brown, and thick motes of dust danced lazily in the sparse beams of sunlight cutting through the high birch tables. The place was quietly fading into obscurity, a state of decay he didn't mind in the slightest.
He found Room 68 tucked away at the very end of a dim, drafty corridor. It was a shaggy cube of a space containing two small, narrow windows—one looking down into a quiet rear alley, the other facing the interior hallway—and a single heavy door fitted with a squeaky iron lock.
A thin, straw-stuffed mattress rested in the center of the floor, flanked by a plain, unvarnished wardrobe on the left wall. The arrangement was hauntingly familiar. It mirrored the exact structure of his quarters back at the temple, and the memory hit him like a physical blow to the chest. The quiet stone halls. The bitter morning air. The tedious morning devotions. All the rigid, mindless routines he had left behind, or rather, that had been ripped away from him.
"You can relax, boy," Dea's voice whispered in his mind, smooth and intrusive, breaking through the rising fog of his thoughts. "You need to be patient and find the Saint, remember? That is why we are here."
Cassian closed his eyes and forced a slow, deliberate breath out through his nose, letting his shoulders drop. "I know," he muttered aloud to the empty room. "Even though it took longer to get here than I expected."
"At least we arrived safely," she replied softly.
Unclasping his heavy cloak, Cassian tossed it over the back of the single wooden chair in the corner. He sat down heavily on the edge of the frame, the old springs groaning beneath his weight. The mattress was softer than the one he had slept on for years at the temple, though the coarse, faded sheets were dyed a deep, muted red instead of pristine holy white.
He leaned back against the headboard, letting his head tilt up to stare at the water-stained wooden planks of the ceiling.
"So," Cassian murmured under his breath, closing his eyes as the weeks of bone-deep fatigue from the road finally caught up with him. "Where do we start?"
"Tomorrow," Dea said, her mental tone softening just enough to sound human. "You need rest today."
She was right. He stretched his legs out over the mattress, letting the distant, muffled buzzing of the happy crowd outside the window wash over him like background noise. He was one step closer now. Soon, the hypocrites who had betrayed him and left him for dead would pay for what they had done. But first, he would find his ally.