With daylight still on my side, I make my way toward the slums. Getting out through the city gates isn't hard, I'm not questioned, but something feels off.
The number of guards has doubled.
They stand in tighter formation, sharper eyes, hands closer to hilts. Tension hums in the air like a taut string.
Is it the fallout from the assassination attempt? Or something else brewing in the city's underbelly? No way to know. Not yet.
I step into the slums, and the world changes.
The air shifts, thick with piss, rotting food, and the kind of human misery that clings to your skin. It's the kind of smell that settles in your lungs, refusing to leave even after you're long gone.
There are more armed figures on the street than I remember, too many for a place that's supposed to be crawling with the desperate and starving. Some wear rusted armor, others carry makeshift weapons, scraps turned dangerous.
Still, I press on.
I spot one of them standing by a broken cart, eyes sharp and posture tight. A local, no doubt. I walk straight toward him.
He sees me. His gaze narrows instantly. Suspicion flares like a flame doused in oil.
My clothes don't belong here. Tailored fabric and clean stitching scream outsider in a world that survives on scraps. By the time I stop in front of him, his eyes already carry a dozen silent accusations.
"What do you want?" he growls, voice low and rough. "This ain't a place for people like you."
"I'm looking for the crazy beggar," I say plainly. "The one who lives around here."
His eyes narrow further, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
"All the beggars here are crazy. You looking for trouble?"
"No," I answer. "This one always rants about the gods. Mad talk."
That seems to jog something. His frown deepens, not in confusion, but in recognition.
"Oh. You mean Yusuf." He leans back slightly. "What are you then? His long-lost relative? Or one of those church rats come to shut him up?"
"Neither. I've got business with him. That's all."
He doesn't relax, but after a long, uncomfortable pause, he jerks his head in a direction.
"You'll find him near the Hunters' Guild. Loiters there like a damned ghost, always trying to talk to the girls."
He spits on the ground and points.
I thank him with a nod and move on.
The deeper I go, the worse the smell gets. There's something new in the air now, something fouler. A wet, decomposing stench that hits like a punch to the stomach. Rotten. Meat, maybe.
I round a corner and spot the Hunters' Guild.
It looks nothing like the towering buildings of the noble districts. This one's hunched and narrow, windows covered in thick black curtains. It resembles a vampire's den more than a guildhouse. People drift in and out, some dragging game animals behind them, others carrying wrapped carcasses that leave dark trails behind.
The stench clings here. I press a sleeve to my nose, fighting the reflex to retch.
I start circling the building, scanning the side alleys. And that's when I find him, or, at least, someone.
A scuffle.
A man lies on the ground, curled in pain, blood soaking into the dirt. Three others stand over him, fists clenched, fury in their eyes.
"You don't know anything!" one of them snarls. "Calling God a piece of shit?"
The man on the ground coughs, spits, then laughs, madness in his voice.
"God doesn't love you! He doesn't love anyone! He's just a worthless puppet. A cog in the system, blind to the administrators. He's nothing!"
His eyes are wild. Blood runs down his temple, but he doesn't stop.
"Trying to control the world…? Heh. The madness is going to consume him too."
It's him. Yusuf.
I step forward before they finish what they started.
"Enough!" I shout, voice sharp. "You're going to kill him over words?"
They turn to me, eyes burning.
"This isn't your business!" one of them snaps. "He's had this coming."
"This may be the slums," I say, stepping closer, "but it's still part of the city. And You don't get to murder someone because you don't like what they say."
They hesitate. Just a heartbeat. But I see the flicker of uncertainty.
Not fear.
Just confusion, like they're unsure who I am or how far I'll push.
I don't back down.
They glare at me, then back at Yusuf, who's still laughing softly through the blood. The tension stretches thin in the air.
If I hadn't stepped in, they might have killed him. Maybe they still will.
They mutter amongst themselves now, huddling close like jackals debating whether the meat is worth the risk. One of them glances at me again, eyes narrowing. He says something I don't catch, and then his hand lifts, finger jabbing in my direction.
Recognition.
Not full certainty, but enough to shift the mood.
With a final, spiteful kick to the beggar's stomach, they turn and walk away. No words. Just scowls and lingering hate in their eyes as they melt into the shadows of the slum.
I watch them go, hand still resting lightly on the hidden knife beneath my coat.
Then, as if the violence hadn't even touched him, the beggar groans, sits up, and pulls himself to his feet in one smooth, unsettling motion. He moves like his body is made of old wires and rusted springs, but they still work.
Blood stains his cracked lips. One eye is already swelling shut.
But he grins.
A slow, crooked grin that somehow feels far too aware for someone who was just on death's doorstep.
He limps toward me, every step deliberate.
And then, he speaks, with a voice rough like gravel but carrying a sharpness that cuts through the stench of the alley.
"What does the son of Demure want… with me?"