Outside the alley, the reality of the lower city hit him. The streets were made of rough, uneven stone, with rusted metal grates serving as railings against sheer drops. The city was built in layers, ascending in a chaotic spiral of bridges, alleys, and staircases. It was a vertical labyrinth. Within minutes, Tom's confidence evaporated, replaced by a growing disorientation.
"Where… where is that staircase…?" he murmured, looking at the identical passageways around him.
The people here moved just as Gunder had described: like frightened rats. Hooded, their faces hidden in shadows, they scurried along the walls, vanishing at the slightest hint of attention. Standing in what seemed to be a small square, Tom felt dozens of eyes on him. The whispers were like the buzzing of venomous insects. It didn't take long for him to understand: the outlier, the potential prey, was him.
His clothes, though simple, were of a sturdy, clean fabric. His boots were worn, but made of good leather. He didn't belong here, and every inhabitant knew it. Tom swallowed hard, the sound echoing in his suddenly dry throat. Maybe… maybe walking around alone wasn't the smartest idea.
It was then that a different sound cut through the tension: laughter. Loud, hoarse, and soaked in alcohol. He turned toward the noise and spotted a shabby-looking tavern, its door swinging on a single hinge. It was a typical sight in any city, a den for drunks and loafers.
An idea sparked in his desperate mind. He was lost and needed directions to the upper city. And a drunk, for the promise of another drink, would probably give him the information he needed. It was a simple transaction, an exchange of coin for words.
At least, that's what Tom naively thought.
The tavern door creaked as he pushed it open, revealing an atmosphere thick with the smell of cheap alcohol, sweat, and smoke. A tuneless melody was being plucked from a stringed instrument in the corner, but it barely managed to drown out the coarse laughter and the clash of tankards. Following the customs of his homeland—a sign of politeness and respect—Tom announced his presence in the clearest voice he could manage.
"Excuse me…"
It was as if a switch had been flipped. The music stopped with a screech. Laughter died in throats. The clinking ceased. In unison, every gaze in the den turned to the door, fixing on the slender, youthful figure standing in the entrance.
Every pair of eyes followed him like a predator tracking its prey. Tom forced himself to walk toward the bar, keeping his posture straight and his face a mask of seriousness. Inside, however, an icy discomfort spread through his veins. This wasn't the kind of attention he was used to.
"Not from around here, kid?" The bartender's voice was coarse gravel.
He was a bald, heavyset man in a simple white shirt under a stained apron. He watched Tom sideways, with only his left eye, a sharp gaze that bore down on the boy, making him feel even smaller. Compared to these men, he felt like a lost cub among bears.
"No. I'm from Faraam," Tom replied, sliding a few bronze coins across the worn wood of the counter. The metallic sound seemed to break the spell, and slowly, the music and chatter resumed their sloppy rhythm.
"That's a long way off," the bartender stated flatly, drying a mug with a rag that had seen better days. "What'll you have?"
"Milk, please."
The bartender paused for a moment, then turned his back, bending down to grab something. "Cold or hot?"
"Warm, please."
He straightened up. With a snap of his calloused fingers, a small, bluish flame danced on his palm. He turned and placed a glass bottle in front of Tom. The ethereal flame slid from his fingers, enveloped the glass without touching it, and a gentle steam began to waft from the neck.
Tom muttered his thanks and took the bottle. As he raised his gaze to the man's face, his spine froze. The bartender's right eye was a dead, white orb, the center of a web of old scars that pulled the skin from his temple to his cheek.
With two fingers, the man separated two bronze coins and pushed the rest back toward Tom. Ignoring the gesture, the boy brought the bottle to his lips and drank the warm milk in a single, long gulp. With his free hand, he pushed the coins back.
He slammed the empty bottle down on the counter and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his sharp gaze trying to mask the shock he'd felt. "I need information."
The bartender stared at him with his good eye for a long moment. "Right… what do you want to know?"
"The way to the upper city."
The man sighed, a weary sound. "Outta here, on the street to the left of the square, there's a bridge. It leads to the station stairs," his voice was monotone, almost bored. "Didn't need to pay for that. Could've just asked anyone."
"Oh…" Tom let out, feeling his face flush with embarrassment.
As he was about to give his thanks, he nearly jumped back. The man who had been slumped over the counter next to him awoke with a loud snort. "Who are you?!" Tom yelled, caught by surprise. He hadn't even noticed the passed-out figure there.
"…If you keep gettin' startled like that… you'll be an easy target… girl…" the drunk slurred, his voice thick. His hand reached for a bottle but was intercepted by a swift swat from the bartender.
"Thanks for the advice, but I'm a man!" Tom proclaimed, his voice higher than he intended.
"Whatever you say…" the drunk mumbled, letting his head fall back onto the wood with a dull thud.
Tom turned to leave. "Keep the change. Thank you." Annoyed and flustered, he marched out of the bar.
A malicious gaze followed him from a corner table. And someone at the bar had noticed.
"That kid's strange," the bartender commented, wiping the spot where Tom's bottle had been.
"She's going to get us in trouble… sooner or later…" the drunk commented, his voice now surprisingly clear.
The bartender looked up, his eyes narrowing as he saw a group of men get up and whisper amongst themselves, heading in the direction Tom had gone. Suddenly, his expression hardened. "Wait, what do you mean, 'us'? And didn't you hear him say he was a man?"
"Trust me…" the drunk slurred again.
"Vernh!" the bartender protested in a warning tone.
"Alright… alright…" Vernh pushed himself off the stool, stretching with a crack of his joints. He nearly lost his balance but steadied himself and, with a surprisingly stable step, turned toward the exit.