The carriage moved at a slow, almost majestic pace, as if it ignored that it was rolling over the entrails of a sick city. Outside, the morning noises mingled: cries of merchants, the clatter of buckets against cobblestones, muffled quarrels from alleyways. And above all, the smell. That greasy, persistent smell, seeping through thick curtains and closed windows like a possessive old lover. The city, Martissant, didn't let you go.
Opposite him, the man was still reading. Unperturbed. A black glove on one hand, the other holding the book open like a prayer. Dylan hadn't managed to see the title — and at this point, it annoyed him almost as much as the silence.
He sighed inwardly and focused on the blurry landscape beyond the window. The carriage was climbing through increasingly wealthy districts. The cobblestones became more regular, the facades more arrogant. Clean windows, flower-adorned balconies, gates that closed a bit too quickly when the horses approached.
