CHAPTER 150: CIVILISATION

The next two days unfolded in tense monotony, paced by the grating creak of the cart and the pounding of footsteps on a road that grew rockier and steeper as they climbed the foothills of the Martissant mountains.

The air had cooled, now heavy with a mineral scent and the first persistent wisps of smoke rising from the still-invisible city behind the ridges. The old man’s bread, dense as a brick and black as coal, still sat in the cart, untouched.

No one had dared to eat it, not even Dylan, despite his jokes. It had become a silent symbol of their lingering distrust and the strangeness of the road.

Fatigue had sculpted them, deepening Jonas’s features, making Marisse’s gaze even sharper beneath her furrowed brow. Dylan had lost part of his mocking bravado, replaced by a nervous vigilance.

Maggie still walked ahead, but her pauses to scan the landscape behind them were more frequent, her silence heavier. Élisa seemed absorbed by whispers only she could hear, her bare feet skimming the rocky ground with increasing caution.

Donovan, the bearded one, brought up the rear like a threatening shadow, his halberd now held firmly, ready. The incident with the monstrous footprints near the old camp still hung over them, an unresolved secret gnawing at the group’s fragile cohesion.

On the third morning, as the sun struggled to pierce a cold, damp fog clinging to the mountainsides, they finally reached a narrow pass. And there, below them, sprawled like a crouching beast in a ring of grey stone, Martissant came into view.

The city was not welcoming. Tall basalt walls, streaked with soot and lichen, enclosed a chaotic jumble of sharp slate roofs, chimneys belching acrid smoke, and massive, fortress-like buildings. No greenery, no bright colors—only shades of grey, black, and rust. A complex smell rose to meet them: an unpleasant mixture of industrial smoke, scorched metal, dried fish, and, still somehow lingering, that deceptive, comforting sweetness of fresh bread that had once lured Jonas.

"There’s the nest," grumbled Donovan, his first words in hours. His voice was rough, like stones grinding together.

"Looks like it got puked out by the mountain," Dylan commented, without his usual cheer. He adjusted his pack’s strap, his eyes fixed on the imposing iron gates, wide open but guarded, at the bottom of the winding path leading into the city.

Marisse pulled the reins, stopping the cart. "Alright. Deep breath. Let’s agree on our story. Jonas, you talk. You look the least... suspicious." She gave a pointed glance at Maggie and her visible weapon, then at Donovan and his halberd. "Dylan, stay near the cart. Look harmless. Maggie, Élisa, hang back a little. Don’t scream ’bounty hunter.’ Donovan... try not to growl."

Maggie narrowed her eyes but stepped back two paces, the chains of her flail-halberd now draped behind her neck, hidden beneath a thick coat. Élisa practically melted into the surrounding rocks, her piercing gaze scanning the road’s edge and the distant ramparts. Donovan merely grunted—a sound that might pass for agreement.

Jonas ran a hand over his face, wiping away a cold sweat. The man who had carried the axle and cooked the mysterious meat now felt the weight of responsibility. "Alright. We’re travelers, independent merchants. Just looking for a place to rest, restock. We’ve got..." He glanced at the miserable cart. "... fabrics. Tools. Nothing too exciting."

"And the bread?" Dylan asked, tapping the black loaf.

"We keep it. We don’t mention it," Marisse cut in. "Smells like a trap. Or some kind of drug drop."

They resumed their descent, the steep incline making the cart’s crude brakes groan. The closer they got, the stronger the feeling of being watched. Figures moved atop the ramparts—guards in quilted armor and tarnished metal, wielding halberds similar to Donovan’s, flanking the monumental gate.

Their faces were hidden behind sallets with long nasal guards, only suspicious eyes visible. The smell intensified, more layered: the stench of open sewers mixing with the smoke of forges and the tang of public kitchens.

At about fifty meters from the gates, a guard stepped forward, raising a gloved hand. "Halt!" His voice rang out, metallic through his helmet. "Origin and trade in Martissant?"

Jonas took a breath and stepped up, trying to look both confident and weary—the perfect road-worn traveler. "Hey. We’re from the Eastern plains. Independent merchants." He gestured vaguely to the cart. "Looking for a place to rest, repair our gear, maybe trade a little."

The guard tilted his head slightly, his unseen gaze scanning the group. It lingered on Maggie, still and tight-lipped, then on Donovan, whose presence alone exuded threat. He ignored Dylan, who tried on a friendly smile.

"Independent merchants?" the guard repeated, skeptical. "You look a bit too... armed for trinket traders." His gaze landed on Donovan’s halberd.

"Roads are rough," Jonas replied quickly, keeping his tone even. "We ran into some gangs. Just keeping ourselves safe. We don’t want trouble. Just a roof and a bit of peace."

A second guard approached, shorter, but with a sharp gaze visible through his raised visor. He inspected the cart silently, nudging a sack with his halberd to see what lay beneath. His eyes fell on the old man’s black loaf.

"What’s this?" he asked, his voice higher-pitched. He pointed his halberd at the dense bread.

Jonas felt his stomach knot. Marisse clenched the reins tightly. Maggie’s fingers drifted closer to the concealed butt of her rifle.

"Bread," Jonas answered, as neutrally as he could. "Bought it from an old guy on the road. We haven’t dared try it yet. Looks... solid."

The small guard snorted—maybe a suppressed laugh. "Solid’s one word. That’s Old Grumel’s bread. Been wandering the roads for years." He gave the loaf a sharp tap with his halberd. A dull, wooden thump rang out. "Hard as sin, and just as bitter, they say. But it fills you up. And it brings luck, according to the superstitious." He shrugged, seemingly losing interest.

The first guard, after a heavy pause, nodded. "Alright. Entry’s two silver a head. One more for the cart and animals." He held out a gloved hand.

Jonas exchanged a glance with Marisse. It was steep. Very steep. They rummaged through their meager reserves, scraping together the demanded coins. The metallic clink of silver dropping into the guard’s palm felt ominous.

"Move along," the guard ordered, pocketing the money. "Avoid the Foundry Quarter at night. And keep your weapons sheathed. The Guard is watching."

They passed through the massive gates, from the grey light of morning into the dimness of a vaulted tunnel carved into the thick wall. The air inside was cold, damp, echoing with distant noises—shouts, rumbling carts, hammers striking anvils. The smell was intense, almost choking: smoke, sweat, rancid grease, and that persistent note of warm bread, now tinged with rot.

When they emerged on the other side, the shock was immediate. Martissant swallowed them whole.

Narrow, twisting alleys climbed and dipped in every direction, lined with tall, dark buildings whose upper floors nearly touched, forming an oppressive maze. Clotheslines sagged between walls, heavy with rags. Makeshift stalls offered dubious wares: rusted metal parts, wilted herbs, grey meat of unknown origin. The crowd surged around them—soot-faced workers, hollow-eyed beggars, hard-faced women hauling buckets of water, ragged children darting through legs. The noise was deafening: shouting, arguments, rough music from a tavern, and always, in the background, the rumble of forges.

Jonas instantly felt lost. Marisse tightened her grip on the reins, struggling to guide the spooked horses through the chaos. Dylan looked around, open-mouthed, his humor lost in the palpable misery. Maggie had pulled her coat tighter, eyes scanning rooftops and alleys with razor focus.

Élisa moved like a ghost, her bare feet avoiding suspicious puddles and trash, her gaze fixed straight ahead, but her flaring nostrils catching scents invisible to the others. Donovan behind her seemed to swell, his presence a shield against the crowd that jostled them.

They moved forward slowly, desperately searching for somewhere to stop—a stable, an inn, any kind of shelter. The city, vast and hostile, seemed to reject them. The promise of safety behind the walls had vanished, replaced by a tangible oppression.

Dylan inhaled, turning to Élisa, a strained smile distorting his face.

"At least we’re far from that damn forest, right?"