Chapter 101: Laron's Castle
I'd known Laron was a merchant. I'd known he dealt in "ethically sourced artisan crafts" and talked to Patrons. In my head, that meant a nice townhouse. Maybe a shop with a upstairs apartment. Comfortable, not extravagant.
I was wrong.
The address led me to the "Gilded Quarter," a part of Torak I'd only ever skirted the edges of. Here, the streets were wider, quieter, paved with smooth, fitted stone. The buildings weren't just buildings; they were statements. Manors of dark timber and pale plaster, surrounded by high walls of wrought iron or ancient, creeping ivy.
I found the number. The wall was ten feet high, topped with polished spikes. Beyond it, I could see the peaks of a roof that looked more like a small castle. A pair of heavy, black iron gates barred the way. And standing in front of them, looking about as approachable as stone gargoyles, were two guards. They weren't City Watch. Their armor was finer, their posture rigid, their eyes scanning the empty street with a professional disinterest that vanished the moment I stopped in front of them.
Both sets of eyes locked onto me. I was distinctly underdressed for the neighborhood.
"State your business," the one on the left said, his voice devoid of inflection.
"I'm here to see Laron," I said, trying to sound like I belonged. It came out sounding like a question.
The guard's gaze didn't waver. "Your name."
"Kaizen, Kaizen Vale."
A flicker of something, recognition, or maybe just the confirmation of an expected nuisance passed between the two guards. The one who'd spoken gave a curt nod. "The Master is expecting you. Follow me."
The gates swung open without a sound on well-oiled hinges. The guard turned and started walking up a gravel path that cut through a lawn so green and perfectly manicured it looked painted. A fucking lawn. In the middle of a city that had just survived a beast siege. The sheer, absurd wealth of it was staggering.
I followed, my boots crunching on the gravel, my eyes taking in the scale of the mansion. It wasn't just huge; it was ancient and elegant, with tall, lead-paned windows and creeping vines that looked centuries old. I'd been picturing a rabbit in a burrow. This was a warren fit for a king.
The guard led me through a massive oak door into a reception hall with a floor of black and white marble. The air smelled of lemon polish and old money. We walked past tapestries and suits of armor that probably had more combat experience than I did, down a corridor lined with dark wood paneling, before stopping outside a set of double doors.
From within, I could hear the murmur of conversation. Laron's voice, earnest and slightly nervous, and another, older, more gravelly voice.
The guard knocked once, then opened the door just enough to speak. "Master Laron. Your guest, Kaizen, has arrived."
"Ah! Send him in, please," Laron's voice called out, followed by the sound of chairs scraping.
The guard pushed the door fully open and stepped aside. The room was a library, or a study. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves groaned under the weight of leather-bound volumes. A fire crackled in a huge hearth. By a large, ornate desk stood Laron, looking small and out of place in his own grand setting. Seated in a high-backed chair was an older human man with a sharp, assessing gaze and a well-trimmed beard. And standing by the window, arms crossed, was Elara. She looked profoundly unimpressed.
"Kaizen!" Laron said, a genuine smile lighting up his face as he hurried over. "I am so glad you are here. Please, come in."
The older man stood, giving me a polite but distant nod. "Our business is concluded, Master Laron. I will be in touch regarding the… artistic commission." He spared a glance for Elara, who pointedly looked out the window. "Good day."
He swept out, leaving the three of us in the quiet of the library.
"An old associate," Laron explained, his ears twitching. "A curator. I was speaking to him about finding Elara some provisional work. Something dignified, to utilize her skills."
Elara finally turned from the window, her nose wrinkled. "The man is a philistine. He smelled of mothballs and cheap wine. He wanted me to paint portraits of wealthy merchants' dogs. Dogs."
"It is a start," Laron said patiently. "A way to establish yourself here while we… regroup."
I looked between them. "How's Briza?"
"Resting," Laron said, his expression softening with relief. "The physiker you recommended from the Guild came. He said whatever was done to her was… unorthodox, but it stabilized her. The fever broke last night. She's weak, but she will recover. She's in the east wing."
A weight I hadn't fully acknowledged lifted from my shoulders. She was going to be okay. That was one disaster averted.
"Good. That's… really good," I said. I looked around the opulent room, then back at Laron. "Look, I just wanted to check in. Make sure you were all in one piece. I'm at the Mikaelson Inn if you need me. For anything."
Laron nodded, his earnestness returning. "Thank you, Kaizen. Truly. We would not be here without you. I will send word if there are any developments."
Elara just gave a noncommittal "hmph," but her gaze lingered on me for a second longer than necessary. It wasn't gratitude, but the outright hostility was gone, replaced by a wary acceptance.
I took my leave, retracing my steps through the marble halls and out past the silent guards. The iron gate clanged shut behind me, sealing off that world of quiet wealth from the noisy, messy reality of the city.
The walk back to the Mikaelson felt longer. The contrast was jarring. From a mansion with a private lawn to a sturdy, smoky inn. But the inn felt more real. More mine.
I pushed through the door. The evening crowd was starting to trickle in. Erik was at the bar, talking to a supplier. He saw me and gave a slight nod.
I took a stool at the far end. When Erik finished, he ambled over, his long frame casting a shadow.
"Back so soon? Forget something?"
"Just the need for a drink that doesn't come with a side of existential dread," I said.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. He pulled out a bottle, not the top shelf, but the reliable, solid middle-shelf whiskey and poured a generous measure into a clean glass. Then, without a word, he left the bottle on the bar beside me.
I took the first sip, then a longer one, letting the familiar burn center me. I was back at the start. Broke, hunted, and with a clock ticking down over a mission that sounded more like a fairy tale than a job.
But Briza was alive. Laron and Elara were safe behind walls thicker than any I could provide. And for the moment, the only person demanding anything of me was myself.
I poured another drink. The planning, the searching, the training, all of that could start tomorrow. Tonight, there was just the bottle, the quiet hum of the inn, and the temporary, fragile peace of being alone with my own thoughts.