The sun had started to creep into Ashveil with that washed-out late-morning light—the kind of brightness that doesn't warm a damn thing but still serves to remind you the world keeps spinning, even when you're about to make some highly questionable decisions in another city.
Sitting on the creaky chair in Marlow's office, I extended my hand like I was asking for the keys to an empire. In reality, I just wanted a few coins and a halfway decent coat.
Grumbling curses in dialects not even the gods could decipher, Marlow vanished down a hallway and came back minutes later with a neatly folded cloth bundle and a worn leather pouch—heavy enough to be more than decorative. He tossed both at me with the grace of a man feeding a prize pig.
"Don't ask for shoes. I've only got flip-flops."
"You definitely have more shame than fashion sense," I muttered, already getting up to change clothes.
