The morning sun spread over Antoril with that lying shade of normalcy. The main streets buzzed with vendors yelling deals for fruit that smelled like nothing, kids running with stolen bags and old ladies fanning themselves like the heat was a personal insult.
And I was stomping through it all like a pissed-off bull, Lina's robe barely tied across my chest, the crumpled paper in my left hand and a very sincere desire to turn the whole market district into a giant burning hole.
I didn't knock on the door.
Didn't even dream of it.
Marlow's house sat in Antoril's middle ring, the kind of townhouse with delusions of elegance: carved stone façade, windows with twisted iron frames, polished wood plaques on the door with a crest that meant nothing except bloated ego.
The brass handle was cold when I twisted it hard enough to make it complain. The door opened with a creak that sounded like mockery.
I went in without asking.
