Cold has settled into Oliver's bones as he rides through the shadows of the capital's high, ancient walls. His skin has been scraped by icy wind and sharp snow. His shoulders curl forward, the lethargy that clings to his muscles making it difficult to stay in the saddle.
He never thought he'd be glad to see the capital, but the allure of a hot bath and a glass of whiskey has him lifting his chin and feeling palpable relief at finally reaching the walls.
The relief is bitter, left to wither in his chest as he remembers what he's left behind. A week he's travelled for. A week of distance between him and Alicia.
He shakes away thoughts of her and nudges the horse forward lest he turn back.
Riding into the tunnel, Oliver notes the lamps lighting his way. The horse's hooves clatter on the gravel, bouncing off the stone. Ahead the gate is open, figures situated amongst the glow of sunlight.
Before he leaves the tunnel, Oliver's hand settles on the revolver tucked in the holster under his arm, hidden beneath his thick coat.
"Halt!" one of them call, raising a hand. A rifle is slung over his shoulder from a strap. He's not wearing any sort of uniform, the wool coat cheap and flecked with snow.
Oliver doesn't recognise any of the men with him. Tugging the reins, Oliver brings the mare to a stop and keeps his hand settled on his gun.
"What business?" the same man asks, his hand moving to his rifle.
"Are you daft, man?" another speaks up, clapping the fellow on the shoulder. "That's Oliver fucking Narovich." The man straightens, raises a hand, and salutes.
Oliver tries not to wince and he thinks he succeeds.
"Captain Narovich. War records say you're dead."
"Gentlemen," Oliver says, his voice rough and raw in his throat from disuse. "Are you going to turn me away or let me in?"
"Right," the one who recognised him says and shoves the other man out of the way. "Welcome home, Captain."
Oliver just offers a stiff nod and keeps riding.
Having already been recognised, Oliver can't waste a moment. Word of his presence in the capital will reach the Ronavics soon enough.
He rides through a city that hasn't been familiar to him in a long time. The war took him away from this place, through marshlands and into rocky hills and treacherous mountain-passes where black powder had been needed to get their railway through.
The capital is just as treacherous, but in an incredibly different kind of way.
If it isn't nobles taxing the poor and robbing land from the Travellers, then it's the gangsters that think themselves a breed apart from the cutthroat vultures that perch in the palace.
Oliver has been amongst them both. He cares little for either.
He rides east where the town houses are fashionable enough for the wealthy to admire, but not nearly lavish enough for those stiff-spined nobles. Tenements rise three and four storeys high, neatly lining the cobblestone roads wide enough for carriage and horse to pass abreast. Built with sturdy brick and iron, the east survived the fires that had once spread through the capital in the first weeks of the Reaper's Curse. The occupants of these houses are starry-eyed individuals clawing for a place in the world.
He once called the east of Muovea home.
The town house he approaches is lit like a beacon, lanterns blazing on its terrace as the sun dips below the western skyline.
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The Grey Blood #2
Fantasy❝ We must be prepared to sacrifice the few to save the many that will come after us. ❞ [book 2] The Grey Bloods may have dwindled in number, but the creatures still gnaw at Muovea, threatening the small measure of peace that was won when the Grand D...
