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That night, Rave slept better than he had in years. No dreams, no flashes of the past—just the heavy darkness of real sleep. When he finally cracked his eyes open, the sun was already high, its light pushing through the cracks in the warped wooden window. But even the light here wasn't normal; it filtered through the brown, dusty air outside, turning everything into shades of rust and gold.
Rave lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to gather his thoughts. His body felt heavy, limbs still half-locked in sleep. He didn't remember the last time he'd woken up this late, or this rested. It felt… good. And that alone was enough to make him suspicious.
He sat up slowly, groaning as his muscles protested. Wil's body might be strong, but it was also older, worn down in places that didn't heal right anymore.
"Shit," he muttered, rubbing at a kink in his shoulder. "Feels like I got trampled by a horse."
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the floorboards cool and rough under his bare feet. Outside the window, he could see the street below, people moving like shadows through the dusty light. They were already working, already sweating for a single iron coin that might buy them a chunk of stale bread. Rave had enough silver in his pocket to live like a king here, but he knew that wasn't why he was still breathing.
He glanced down at himself. Wil's body was thick with muscle, wide shoulders and arms lined with scars, the dark hair at his temples gone gray with time. His face in the cracked mirror was still sharp, though the lines around his mouth were deeper now—like he'd spent half his life scowling. And maybe he had.
He looked for the clothes he'd borrowed the day before, finding them crumpled on the floor in a sad little pile. He shook them out and pulled them on, feeling the stiff, worn fabric against his skin. They didn't smell great, but they'd do for now.
"I'll need new clothes," he said to himself, straightening his shirt. "Can't walk around like some homeless bastard forever."
He reached for the small pouch of coins he kept tucked inside his boot—ten gold coins he'd stolen fair and square, each one worth a hundred silver coins. But he didn't need gold today. He slipped a few silver coins into his pocket, enough for food and maybe a new shirt or two.
The hallway outside his room was lit with flickering torches, their flames burning low and steady thanks to the city's weird, half-forgotten magic. Every step he took on the old wooden floorboards creaked like a bad joke.
"Am I really that heavy, or is this place just falling apart?" he wondered, shooting the nearest torch an accusing look. "Bet it's both."
Downstairs, the old man who ran the inn was already up, cleaning out a chipped mug with a rag that probably hadn't been washed in a month. He raised a bushy brow as Rave reached the bottom of the stairs.
"Heading out?" he asked, his voice a low rasp.
"Yeah," Rave said, patting his pockets for the room key. "Here's the key. And the rent." He flipped a silver coin onto the counter.
The man's eyes went wide for a second. "Where'd you get this? Silver's worth a lot more than you look like you've got."
"From my uncle," Rave said blandly, already turning toward the door.
"Funny," the man said, squinting. "You don't look like the type to have family."
Rave paused, then shot him a dry look. "You don't look like the type to mind your own business."
The old man snorted, flashing a toothy grin. "Fair enough."
Rave paused at the door, taking in the scene outside. The door was glass, cracked and grime-smeared, but he could see the world beyond: vendors calling out over carts of rotting vegetables, kids chasing each other in the dirt. Even here, in a city choking on its own poison, people found ways to smile.
Was it ignorance, or was it acceptance? He didn't have an answer.
He opened the door, and the air outside slapped him in the face. Hot and thick, laced with smoke and something sharp that made his throat itch. He took one breath and immediately started hacking up a lung.
"Shit—" he wheezed, clutching the doorframe for balance. "How are they breathing this shit?"
He stumbled back inside, still coughing. The old man was watching him, a smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth.
"Back already?" he said.
"Don't start," Rave snapped, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
"You're not from here," the old man said, leaning on the counter. "Takes time to get used to it."
"Got something to help or just more talking?" Rave growled.
The man held up his hands, grinning like a cat. "I've got a mask. Not much, but it'll keep you from coughing up blood."
"How much?" Rave said warily.
"Normally, five silver coins," the man said, voice syrupy-sweet. "But for you, three."
Rave gave him a long, unimpressed stare, then jabbed a finger at the silver coin he'd already set on the counter for the rent.
"That's enough to buy half this dump," he said flatly. "You're not getting another coin out of me."
The old man's smile faltered. He glanced at the coin, then back at Rave's hard expression. With a short, defeated sigh, he ducked under the counter and produced a plain, patched-up cloth mask.
"You got me," he muttered, handing it over. "Here. Try not to die out there."
As Rave took it, his bracelet buzzed softly against his wrist:
| Breather's Veil |
Grade: 1
Info: Just a normal mask that prevents you from inhaling toxic air.
He tugged it on, adjusting the straps until it sat snug against his face. The air didn't feel great, but at least it didn't taste like poison anymore.
***
The city was alive and noisy, the air thick with sweat and smoke. The mask helped, but it couldn't erase the sour stench that clung to the streets. Rave weaved through the crowd, his steps steady despite the crush of bodies.
The market was even busier today, vendors shouting over one another to hawk bruised fruit, tattered leathers, and odd trinkets. It was a loud, chaotic kind of living, but it felt more real than the cold halls of Noctis.
Rave drifted through the chaos until he found a stall selling clothes off a sagging wooden rack. The woman behind it was squat and sun-browned, lines etched deep into her face like weathered parchment.
"How much for the shirt?" he asked, holding up a plain, dark blue tunic that looked like it might actually fit him.
She sized him up with a practiced eye, her gaze lingering on the broad shoulders of Wil's borrowed body. "One iron," she said. "Two if you're feeling fancy."
"It's a shirt, not a wife," he said dryly, fishing an iron coin from his pocket.
Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "And here I thought you were one of those noble types, with the way you're built." She grinned, revealing a gap where a tooth should have been.
"I'm not," he said, flipping her the iron coin. "Just need something that doesn't smell like a corpse."
She let out a raspy chuckle, the sound like dry leaves blowing across stone. "Fair enough, pretty boy."
He pulled the tunic on over his old shirt right there in the street, the fabric scratchy but clean. He felt a little less like a vagrant, a little more like someone who might belong here—if only for a day.
"Got anything else?" he asked, nodding at the rest of the pile.
"Whole lot for a silver," she said, the gap-toothed grin back in place.
"Done," he said, flipping her a single silver coin.
She handed him the rest of the bundle—two more shirts, a pair of worn trousers, and a thin jacket. "Try not to ruin them too quick," she said with a wink.
"No promises," he muttered, rolling the clothes up and slinging them over his shoulder.
***
Food was next. He found a woman at a grill, the scent of charred meat cutting through the market stink. She was stirring a pot of sauce that looked suspiciously thin.
"How much for a skewer?" he asked.
"One iron," she said, the corners of her mouth lifting. "Want sauce?"
"Depends," he said. "Is it sauce, or just river water with ambition?"
She laughed, the sound bright despite the grime on her apron. "It's sauce, boy. Real enough to burn your tongue."
"I'll take it," he said, trading her the coin.
She handed him the skewer and he bit in. The meat was tough—probably rat, maybe worse—but it was hot and it filled his belly. She watched him chew, eyes twinkling.
"Good enough?" she asked.
"Better than nothing," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
She gave him a nod. "World's hard enough without an empty stomach, pretty boy."
"Tell me about it," he muttered, moving on.
***
He leaned against a wall, eating slowly, when a voice cut through the din.
"Wil?" it said, low and surprised.
Rave turned. A tall man stood there, broad-shouldered and wrapped in a tattered cloak. His eyes were dark, warm at first glance, but they narrowed as he studied Rave's face.
"Haven't seen you around in a while," the man said, stepping closer.
Rave forced a smile, wiping sauce from his fingers. "Yeah, been busy."
"Busy, huh?" The man's gaze swept over him. "You look… different."
"New work," Rave said, shrugging. "New scars."
The man didn't look entirely convinced. His eyes flickered to the mark on Rave's shoulder, half-hidden by the collar of his new shirt.
"You good?" he asked finally, his voice quieter now.
Rave met his eyes, holding that stare. "I'm fine."
The man hesitated, then gave a short nod. "Alright. Just… don't forget who your friends are."
"I won't," Rave said, though he could feel the weight of the lie even as he spoke.
The man gave him a long look, then turned and vanished back into the crowd.
Rave let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He dropped the empty skewer into the dust and wiped his hands on his trousers.
"This city," he muttered, pulling the mask tighter. "It'll eat you alive if you let it."
He pushed away from the wall and slipped back into the river of people, his mind already churning with the weight of the mark on his shoulder and the friend's suspicious eyes.
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