Twilight made the Crimson City look gothic. The tall walls started to loom like a jagged crown against the evening sky, and their peculiar leather garbs made them look like theists of some occult religion.
Percival dismounted from Argus before he got any closer, then he walked the rest of the road back into the city.
He pulled his hood lower, his boots clicking rhythmically against the cobblestones as he navigated the outer market.
He didn't head for the bright lanterns of the central square. Instead, he ducked into a narrow alleyway where the shops were smaller, their windows coated in a thin layer of grime.
He pushed open a creaking door. A bell chimed, thin and tinny.
Percival was met with the nostalgic scent of old parchment and stagnant mana. Behind a cluttered counter sat a thin man with fingers like spider legs, meticulously cleaning a pile of tarnished rings.
He looked up, his eyes narrowing as he assessed Percival's travel-worn cloak.
