Though things still felt strange and unfamiliar, Lemark couldn't complain about his stay.
His room wasn't enormous, but it was still larger than any cramped apartment he had ever lived in. The tall canopy bed with long crimson curtains was by far the most beautiful feature. Yet his eyes were often drawn to the tall, arched window at the far end.
Most of the place — or at least the parts he had seen — was built of dark gray stone, polished smoothly as if some poor soul had spent days scrubbing, and reinforced with heavy timber. It wasn't quite what he had imagined the "Dark Ages" to look like. At least, it was the closest period he could compare it to.
He never tired of admiring the vaulted ceilings, where ogival arches carried the weight of towering walls down to columns and pilasters.
He paced the corridors he had come to know well — bedroom to kitchen, kitchen to the training grounds — always with the book Fox had lent him under his arm. After procrastinating for a while, he returned to his room.
As he turned the pages, the bed beside him grew more and more inviting.
From the map of the world, Anthony gathered a few conclusions.
Geographically, Molren wasn't particularly large, especially compared to its colossal neighbors: the kingdom of Velgrado to the north and northwest, and the empire of Elsenbein to the south and southeast.
"It has the Darkleaf mountain range…"
"Ahr, enough." He snapped the book shut, the sound of heavy pages slapping together spilling into the room and escaping through the window.
"I'd already forgotten how boring studying can be."
Anthony rose, walked to the great window, and gazed at the city unfolding before him. Reading had been useful in learning about this new world, though it fried his brain a little. The city outside seemed far too tempting.
Leaving his room, he spotted Laylla climbing the stairs to the second floor.
"Captain, are there any rules about leaving headquarters to go into the city?" he called from a distance.
"Be back before training tomorrow," she said without glancing back, continuing her climb.
"Eh… that's it?" The words slipped out before he could stop them.
"What? Did you say something else?" Her footsteps halted.
"Ah, no, Captain."
Laylla didn't answer and kept going.
Heading in the opposite direction, Tom pushed open the metal door and descended a short staircase.
Orange-streaked clouds wordlessly told him the day was ending. Paved streets, houses, and shops greeted him.
Anthony wandered through several streets, careful to memorize his route back. The streets were strangely empty, movement sparse. The silence weighed heavily — too calm for his restless peace of mind.
From time to time, a cart passed, or a handful of people appeared.
Most houses, buildings, and cathedrals followed the same pattern: tall structures with steep roofs, usually crowned with a pointed window at the attic. The stone that formed them was dark — black and gray hues dominated everything. Even the rare patches of greenery looked like darker shades of green. Red stood out as a vivid contrast in the landscape, like spilled blood.
The streets were mostly narrow, some barely more than alleys.
After several minutes of walking, he found himself before a towering cathedral. It was a bit different from the others, though built in the same style: tall limestone and granite walls — lighter than most of the city, though time had darkened them. The windows were masterpieces, stained glass framed by sharp ogival arches. Two massive towers loomed overhead, adorned with oversized gargoyles.
He felt dwarfed before the dark wooden door. The carvings etched into it made little sense to him.
"Need a hand?" a cheerful voice asked from behind.
"I… I don't think so." Anthony turned.
Behind him stood a tall, robust man. His short brown hair and olive eyes carried no harshness, though his physique was intimidating. Judging by the lines etched into his face, he was at least twenty years Anthony's senior.
The man's gaze was friendly as he stepped ahead and pulled the door open.
"There's still an hour before mass begins, but if you'd like to wait inside, I see no problem."
Mass? No, wait, I was just curious. I don't want to sit through a religious ceremony.
Inside, the cathedral seemed cloaked in shadows, echoing the dying sun. Countless candles flickered with phantom drafts. The ceiling rose so high he could hardly make out the frescoes.
It wasn't quite the Catholic churches his parents had once dragged him into back on Earth.
The man — whose name Anthony still didn't know — walked ahead along the central aisle. Rows of long wooden benches filled the nave, and near the altar dozens of candles burned.
Two steps forward, something to the left caught Anthony's attention.
A magnificent statue stood against the wall. Unlike the rest of the place, its marble was pristine white, polished smooth as paper. Nearly three meters tall, its veiled form was sculpted as if wind swept the stone fabric. Its head bowed low, arms raised, holding a golden balance — perfectly even, tilting neither left nor right.
Is this the Violet Maiden Snow mentioned?
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
Anthony nearly jumped, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment. Turning, he saw the same man again.
"What does it mean?" he asked, returning his gaze to the statue.
"That everything demands balance," the man replied, stepping closer to admire it as well. "A single misstep, and all collapses."
Anthony shifted his attention to him, who turned with a smile.
"Sir…"
"Abel. Father Abel," the man interrupted.
Anthony narrowed his eyes, then tried to speak in a way that wouldn't reveal how lost he felt.
"I'm new in the city. Could you point me to a good place to eat?"
"Of course. There's a bakery I favor — Golden Bread. It's on Borges Street, not far from here." Abel smiled. "At this hour, it should just be opening. If you go now, you might catch the first batch fresh out of the oven."
"Thank you, Father Abel." Anthony nodded.
"May the Lord be with you in this new beginning!" Abel pressed his palms together. "And when you're done, don't forget to return to hear the word of the Lord."
"Mm-hm," Anthony murmured softly.
The young man stepped out of the cathedral.
Though he didn't know exactly where Borges Street was, he felt confident he could find it by following the gray stone plaques at each corner marking the names.
Religion again. First Snow, now Father Abel. Hope I didn't seem too strange or suspicious.
His excuse hadn't been a bad one — just like back on Earth, when moving to a new place, finding food was a priority. As were hospitals and markets. Though he wasn't sure those existed here.
Minutes later, he found the dark gray plaque: Vein 18, Borges Street.
Across the road, golden letters marked Golden Bread Bakery.
Crossing, Anthony grasped the narrow wooden door and pulled. It didn't budge. His expression fell.
No way.
Yes, it was locked.
The priest said it should be open by now… He sighed in restrained disappointment.
Farther down the street, movement on a staircase caught his eye. A group of people descended, voices and laughter rising.
With nothing to lose, Anthony approached.
The closer he got, the louder the conversations and laughter swelled.
At last, he stopped before a short wooden gate — brown planks serving as a makeshift welcome. A small sign hung from one side, which Anthony ignored entirely.
Inside, torches in the corners lit the space. To the right stretched a long stone counter where people drank. At one end of it, a copper bell hung from an iron rod fixed to the wall. Behind the counter stood a tall man with pale skin, wine-colored eyes, and brown hair and beard, preparing and serving drinks.
A tavern, without a doubt.
The rich smells of food and ale stirred his senses. Anthony stepped closer.
"Good afternoon, young man. A drink?" The tavernkeeper adjusted his sleeve, eyes of wine settling on the newcomer.
"No, I just came to ask about the Golden Bread bakery. They told me it would be open, but it was closed when I got there."
It wasn't a lie, though it was an excuse.
The tavernkeeper paused, scratching his brow, clearly bothered by the question.
"I recently arrived in the city and don't know it well," Anthony added quickly, echoing almost the same explanation he had given Father Abel.
"I wouldn't know. Didn't even realize it was closed today." The man filled another frothing cup. "You'll likely come back here again, so, if I hear anything, I'll tell you. In the meantime, will you eat or drink?"
Anthony opened his mouth to excuse himself and left — after all, he had no money — when the floor and walls trembled, followed by a roar of voices, shouting and cheering.
"What was that?"
"Ha, don't worry. It's all fine." The tavernkeeper seemed amused at his alarm. "By the way, what's your name?"
The shaking stopped, but the cheering continued.
"You can call me Tom."
"Simple and direct. Not bad. I'm Ouden, the one who runs this place." He nodded.
Anthony returned the nod, but his attention snapped to a door opening at the back of the tavern. A group of four poured out, and the voices grew even louder.
"Is that where the noise is coming from? What's going on?" Curiosity gnawed at him.
"They say curiosity killed the cat… but if you'd like, you can take a look." Ouden smirked, sipping from his foamy mug.
Anthony's curiosity burned, though a spark of caution lingered.
Then his expression froze. From that same door strode a tall young man with green eyes, messy dark-brown hair, clad in purple and white.
"Malivor?!"
"Tom?" Malivor blinked, surprised. "Didn't expect to see you here, but good timing."
He shut the door behind him, striding over with long steps. Slapping an arm over Anthony's shoulders in a mock embrace, he grinned like an old friend. Anthony couldn't dodge — Malivor was taller, stronger, imposing.
"Ouden, a round of Gel!" Malivor shoved Anthony onto a stool at the counter, sitting beside him.
The tavernkeeper nodded and filled two wooden mugs with orange-yellow beer, lightly fizzy, sliding them forward.
Without hesitation, Malivor downed half his mug in a single pull.
Anthony stared, wide-eyed.
"What? Don't tell me you don't drink." Malivor wiped the froth from his mouth.
"It's not that, it's just—"
"Then drink up!"
Tsk.
Grabbing his mug, Anthony matched him, gulping down half.
The orange liquid hit his tongue bitter with a hint of sweetness, then turned citrus and searing in his throat, leaving a trail of burning needles. His face twisted.
"Man, what is this stuff?" He covered his mouth, coughing hoarsely.
"You're too soft… That's Gel ale — better known as throat-killer." Malivor mocked, tipping his mug back again to finish it. "Another round!"
Ouden puffed his cheeks at the sight, refilling Malivor's cup.
"Gel's smooth on the tongue but deadly going down. A real man can drink three without vomiting. Five, you lose your voice. Nobody knows what happens after the sixth."
Seriously? Some kind of bar legend?
With effort, Anthony finished his mug.
"So, Tom, how's training with the captain?" Malivor asked casually.
"Honestly, she's tough, doesn't go easy at all. But she's good. Doesn't talk much — mostly just orders."
Steeling his will, Anthony drained the second mug without grimacing.
"Either the captain's softened or you're as crazy as she is." Malivor emptied his second without effort, motioning for another.
Anthony's throat begged for mercy as he forced his down, resting his head on his hand against the nausea.
"I'm done." His voice trembled.
"Tom, that'll be four zenns." Ouden collected the mugs, wiping the counter.
A chill ran up Anthony's spine. He'd lost himself in the moment, forgetting.
"M—" He turned to his comrade—
The stool beside him was empty. Malivor had vanished.
Damn it.
"Uh… Mr. Ouden—" His voice cracked. The tavernkeeper's face was blank, unreadable.
Without a word, Ouden reached to the counter's end, tugging a rope.
Ding, ding, ding, ding!
The copper bell tolled, echoing through the tavern. Conversations ceased, silence smothering the air.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Tom swore he could hear his heart pounding in his ears, faster, louder, as dread tightened his chest.
A heavy thud — the back door swung open.
"Ouden, am I mistaken, or did I hear the bell?!"
Anthony's brows shot up, his eyes wide.
"Yes, you heard right," Ouden replied, face calm.
"And who's the bastard that didn't pay?" came the voice from the doorway.
"That young man there. Dark skin, black hair." Ouden pointed.
Anthony swallowed hard.
A large group poured from the back, rowdy and jeering. At their head, grinning, was none other than the veteran mercenary, Malivor.
The crowd surrounded Anthony before he could even think to flee — arms, legs, even his head were seized. He was hoisted above them, carried toward the back door.
Damn it, Malivor. I'll kill you!