After a quick trip to a worker’s bathhouse near a factory and a tailor’s, and Tyras stopping at a telegraph office to wire to his wife, the two war veterans took the subway. At the tailor’s Tyras helped his somewhat rougher companion pick out something respectable yet comfortable and settled on a simple dark gray suit with a gold-colored waistcoat and an overcoat which while elegant, very much resembled the dusters he wore in Nyter to protect his cold climate-acclimated complexion from the sand and the heat. He somewhat suspected Tyras had guided him towards this garment in an attempt to make him more comfortable in city clothes. It somewhat worked.
For his part, Tyras shook paws warmly with the foreign accented mongoose tailor and he had another set of clothes provided which were already in store for him. The flowing frock coat, electric blue cravat and jeweled cufflinks in the shape of a sun and strung bow, the symbol of the Osnyan Military, did indeed make him quite presentable before a new landlord.
In short, he looked exactly like what he was: a representative of the new social class which higher society had given the mocking nickname “grandy”, a combination between “grunt” and “dandy”, a term which said “grandies” took in stride and elevated it above its disparaging intentions. With over a million returning veterans, Osnya having occupied a good chunk of Alexandrios and their economy booming thanks to the trade now allowed by their airships, the state could afford to pay generous pensions to its heroes and many former soldiers chose careers which allowed them to use the skills they had fostered during the war, such as bodyguards, constables, sportsmen, firemen or simply remaining in the army, professions which paid reasonably well. This combined income raised many former working class men and women into the upper middle class, and with their rough, direct soldiering manners, high society was naturally quite wary of them. Nonetheless, they had managed to carve out a very considerable niche for themselves in the world of business which had previously been exclusively the domain of noblemen and merchant families.
Despite having traveled far and wide, Achlos had never ridden a subway train before. Having mostly spent his time after the War in Nyter, he\d mostly been a bounty hunter in the Outlands, where technology was by and large set back two decades. He and his unit had once used a station as shelter during the War, and the idea had been floated around to use the trains to move around the city, but their scouts had discovered the rails had been mined, so it was back on foot.
And as the alien whines of the electric engines echoed off the walls, five metal carriages slowly grinding into the underground station, the doors sliding open on their own, not a wisp of steam being emitted anywhere from the train, all he could think was “this thing has been common for some 30 years!?”. They emerged a mere thirty minutes later on the other side of the city.
They were now in one of the many freshly built upper middle class neighborhoods in Ignisdava, the paving stones they stepped over having nary a chip on them despite near constant traffic. The boulevard was massive, each side being three lanes wide, yet even so, carriages, hansoms, bicycles and the occasional automobile fought for the scantest gap they could drive through, several traffic constables wearing white caps, most of them taller Class IIIs and IVs to stand out above the chaos, struggling to maintain some semblance of order, their arms flailing back and forth to stop or allow the flow of traffic and whistles sounding well over the chattering voices of thousands, clatter of hooves and honks of automobiles.
That damned whistle again…
Right after the subway, it was the skyscrapers; turn to mesmerize him. He’d seen them many a time from a distance or from an airship, but it was completely different to be right at the feet of the titans. Having to crane his neck up to see the top of a building was a disturbing feeling. Out in the Outlands, if a building had more than three stories, it was a true landmark, and the cities he’d defended or invaded during his service to the Osnyan Army were much the same, the few structures exceeding that being reduced to piles of rubble littering the dead streets.
A single one of those monolithic structures looked like they could accommodate three, no, four average Outlands towns, with shops, saloons, hotels and all. And judging by the vivid glow visible through some of the countless windows, they were equipped with electric lights.
Achlos tried to imagine how much energy was necessary to provide electric power for a single apartment, then a floor, then a building, then thought of how many skyscrapers he’d seen… he stopped after his head began to hurt.
“That is the one. Apricot Orchard, Candlelight Boulevard No.2.” Tyras pointed with his cane to a triangular building built on the corner left by two larger towers. It was of no less than twenty stories tall, yet looked downright tiny next to its two neighbors flanking it. Nonetheless, it was instead much more ornate and equally as imposing, the edges being downright sculptural in appearance, ornate fire bowls being set at regular intervals between windows, multicolored flames burning merrily away to ward off heathen magic (or so the Fakonans believed). A stone dragon stood over the roof, jaws wide and wings spread in a silent attack upon whatever malevolent forces tried to harm the tenants of the building. Amazingly, smoke poured out of its open jaws, and Achlos realized that it was where the various chimneys of apartments fortunate enough to have a fireplace met and expelled their residue. A very clever solution to the issue of having hearths in apartments which turned an engineering problem into an imposing decoration.
The metallic suspended rails of the city’s skytram system bent down level with the building’s roof. Since there were hundreds if not thousands of tenants in each building, most with jobs they had to commute to, a station had been erected right on the roof. The taller buildings had masts several dozens of meters tall to moor entire airships. Achlos had to admire the sheer practicality of it.
The two men crossed the busy street, a clouded leopard wearing prominent goggles breaking her motorcycle hard, then speeding away with a growl of the engine after they were past, gracefully weaving between carriages and automobiles. Achlos watched it go. For now, they were toys for the rich and tools for militaries, but the motor would soon replace the equistilio, perhaps even the dragon. He pondered what this would spell out for the billions of beasts of burden that their more evolved cousins have been using for tens of thousands of years. And would mean for the previously unshakeable link between Bestia Sapiens and the ferals that had dutifully plowed their fields, defended their herds, died for them in fields of battle or simply been faithful companions. He shuddered at the possibilities, more bleak than optimistic.
They entered through the towering double doors into a massive lobby. The walls were painted a cozy forest green and the ground was dark hardwood, which gave the peculiar sensation of entering a forest. Osnyans do love their wilderness.
Of course, this illusion was shattered when one noticed the newsagents, tobacconist, greengrocer and dispensary which took up the ground floor. Several mammals were sitting on the many sofas, chatting, reading the broadsheets or gazettes or smoking. Their clothes were elegant and well kept, but far from opulent. This was a middle class dwelling. There were two sections in the lounge, one for Class Is and IIs, the other for III and IV. It was unfortunately necessary not only for comfort of the various sizes of mammal, but for sheer safety, as the risk of a Class IV accidentally stepping on one of his shorter compatriots was not nil.
Tyras looked around, and the moose could tell from when his eye ceased all movement that he was using his Forte to look through the crowd, most likely for his family. He then checked his watch and clicked his tongue.
“Oh, dash it all! We’re two minutes late. That means my wife has already been here for seventeen minutes.” He clicked the cover back on his watch and replaced it in his waistcoat. “As a medical woman, when someone says ‘be there at two o clock’ to her it means ‘be there at a quarter to two.’ No doubt the landlady has already shown her up.” He tried to sound annoyed, but he couldn’t help but maintain a contented smirk. This was a new chapter in his life. A new city, a new position. And Achlos supposed it was for him as well. It was all still difficult to believe. He followed his comrade at first out of desire to escape whatever lingering scent the law still had of him, then simply as a walk with his friend. It very rarely crossed his mind that he was walking towards a new life, one that he’d accepted on a moment’s notice while bruised and covered in trash.
Part of him was screaming at him to make his excuses and walk away. Why the Gehl was he agreeing to receive employment and move in with someone whom he barely knew, and more than that, someone who had all the reasons possible to arrest him and possibly get a commendation?
But the other part was louder, yet more soothing. He didn’t “just know” this maneless lion. They’d saved each other’s lives and worked together as if they’d fought together for years. And they had. He could have even been in the same trench as Tyras and never even known.
They both entered one of the elevators marked “Size III or IV” and Tyras pressed one of the buttons near the top. After a few seconds, they emerged into a brightly lit floor, large windows allowing light both natural and from the colored fire bowls around the building to enter, bathing them in warm colors. Everything was pristinely clean and the air smelled of some type of wood polish. Down the hall was a figure he’d already seen: a gold-furred steppe lioness in a burgundy long skirt, matching shirt and beige waistcoat who launched herself at Tyras in the airdock. His wife no doubt, and Achlos had cowardly used that moment to slip away from any awkward introductions.
Well, there was no escaping now. For only a moment he wondered if he could have escaped the constables on his own and gone on with his life like he always had, keeping contact with other mammals at a bare necessary minimum.
A cub of about seven or eight was clutching her paw, his fur color mostly inherited from his father, down to the black tips of his ears, yet his gold coloring present around his muzzle and his lavender-colored eyes were clearly inherited from his mother. A baby carriage was next to her, a thin antelope woman in a simple ashen dress crouched over it and distracting the baby with a rattle, so Achlos couldn’t see anything of Tyras’s second child. Doubtlessly a governess, more evidence of Tyras’s small but comfortable wealth.
His wife was animatedly speaking with an older stout tahr woman, her horns polished to an almost blinding shine which matched her ever-present warm smile of a welcoming grandmother.
The boy turned towards the newcomers and his eyes widened in delight.
“Papa!” He shouted, closing the distance to his father in a flash, running a long, loping stride of a child well accustomed to outdoor games and sports. Tyras for his part opened his arms wide, bent down and expertly scooped up the smaller version of himself into his long thin arms, giving him a peck on the cheek and tightly squeezing him to his chest. His wife and governess likewise joined, the former joining the embrace, while the latter kept a respectful distance but looking nonetheless pleased to see her employer again.
“Hey, you little rascal!” Tyras allowed his son to return the kiss and set him down. “What have you been up to while I was gone, Cyprian? Kept up with your lessons and practiced fencing with Sergeant Brasus, I hope?”
The little one looked indignant. “What have I been doing? Momma told me you fought pirates! Did you get hurt? You saved everyone, didn’t you?” He looked up at his father with wide lilac eyes which spoke of the eagerness and fear a child feels when they ask their parents for an exciting bedtime story. Not that Achlos would have known anything about that. To him parental love was as distant a concept as simple domestic life.
Tyras smiled indulgently and patted his son on the head.
“Yes, sport, don’t worry, everyone who was on the ship is as healthy as an equistilio. Can’t say the same for the pirates.” He said with a smirk. His wife gave him a sharp look, which Achlos supposed was to warn him to spare any of the gory details in the story he would tell his son. “But I couldn’t have done it without my new friend, Achlos Dribas. I speak no dramatism that were it not for him, I likely wouldn’t be standing before you all, safe and sound, at this moment.” He gestured to Achlos.
The eyes of Cyprian, Tyras’s wife, the antelope governess and even the landlady looked upon the towering moose as if they had only now noticed him.
Achlos stifled the sound of him sucking in a breath and tried to control his heartbeat. “Curse you, Tyras. I thought we were friends.”
At that very moment he’d have preferred facing down the squad of furious constables once again. Fighting for his life he could handle. But socializing and small talk beyond simple greetings was mostly beyond him. Especially with civilized folks such as these. Outside the war he’d never had someone he could steadfastly call “friend” and any chatter was mostly limited to accepting ‘commissions’ from clients, hiring ladies of questionable morals and drunkenly singing and cursing with fellow pub dwellers after a job well done.
“Pull yourself together, just do what you saw everyone else doing… what do gentlemen always do when they meet ladies in novels?”
“An honor to meet you, Ms. Maloko. I am Achlos Dribas.” She offered her hand. Okay, that was good. He gingerly grabbed her fingers and approached his head to the back of her palm, but never actually touched lips, unsure if that was appropriate in the presence of her husband, especially since he’d seen said husband rip a giant bear’s throat out with his bare claws. Or was not kissing disrespectful? Gods-dammit, why did the novels starring gentlemen never talk about the minutia?
She chuckled as he straightened back up. Was that a good or bad thing?
“Please,” She said with a warm smile. “Call me Rhodika. A friend of my husband’s is a friend of mine, especially with how highly he’s spoken of you.” Things were going well so far.
“How did you met my Papa?” The young boy piped up.
“Well, we had a bout on the ship.” Rhodika’s eyes narrowed and Tyras coughed uncomfortably behind him. Shit, he wasn’t supposed to say that. “Normal people don’t talk about how they met by beating the crud out of each other, dimwit!”
“What’s a ‘bout’?” The young boy asked in confusion.
“Uh… sparring.” Achlos clarified. Cyprian was the son of a soldier, he assumed he knew what ‘sparring’ meant.
Cyprian’s eyes widened with excitement. “So you two fought? Did you hit my papa?”
“Nononononono!” Achlos blurted out. “I mean, yeah, I mean… he was the one to propose it, so… he kinda wanted to get hit?”
In that very moment, Achlos prayed to every god he even vaguely believed in for the ground below him to open up and swallow him whole. They apparently didn’t care much for his prayers, for nothing happened.
To his relief, the corpulent old tahr landlady stepped up and gave the group an amiable smile.
“Darlings, I believe the maids are done preparing your dwellings. Would you like to see them?” Achlos made a mental note to buy the heroic old lady an expensive plumed hat.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Rhodika broke into a smile at the moose.
“I apologize for my husband, he loves getting hurt needlessly for cheap thrills.” She glared at her husband who suddenly seemed very interested in his cufflinks. “Who won?”
For a moment, Achlos was taken aback by the question.
“Uh… I did.” he answered, not sure if that was the right decision.
She gave a wide grin. “Good.”
----------------------------------------
The party was shown into Apartment 442D, Achlos having to crouch slightly so his horns didn’t scratch the doorframe. He made a mental note for the 500th time to shorten the damned things, which he knew he’d forget within the hour.
The sitting room was a warm, large, cheery room with flame-colored patterned wallpaper, the hue amplified by the merry fire crackling away in the mantelpiece, which filled the chamber with the inviting homely smell of burning wood. The fireplace was faced by a large sofa and two armchairs. A furred carpet made of what looked like mammoth pelt, the larger feral cousin of the elephant, separated the sofas from a massive dining table with eight chairs, six on each side and two at the narrow edges. Like most apartments, it seemed like the sitting and dining rooms were one and the same. The two bookcases lining the walls were mostly empty, save for a few dictionaries, old novels and outdated broadsheets and gazettes.
A painting depicting some Augustan-Era battle or another against barbarian tribes stppd above the fireplace, the Augustan soldiers easily identifiable by their segmented armor and large rectangular shields. A modest flowerpot on the coffee table opposite the sofa completed the only ostentatious decorations in the mostly empty room, evidently meant to leave the tenants to add their own ornaments in accordance with their tastes.
The large window allowed a large amount of natural light in, especially since they were at a higher level than the buildings opposite. A bowl of blazing flame two stories below turned the sunlight from comforting to radiant.
Something you knew within five seconds of entering a Fakonan-majority city, Fakonans loved their light.
Next to the window was an easel, at which Tyras’s son gave a squeal of joy.
“You guys have an easel!?” He ran through the room, nearly knocking over the vase, and looked in marvel at the painting instrument. He looked into the basket next to it and retrieved several brushes and unopened water colors, looking at them with pure adulation.
“Actually, young man,” the landlady said with her grandmother's smile. “It was your father who had it delivered this morning.” Cyprian turned around and looked up with absolute gratitude at his father, hugging his midsection, muttering thank yous and promising that he would use it to draw wonderful things, his father crouching down to embrace him properly.
Achlos subconsciously drew away, feeling like an interloper peering into the family’s happiness. He tried to imagine himself in Tyras’s place, married with a good woman, with loving children. He couldn’t. He was an outsider in such civilized premises, as ill-fitting as a cockroach in a beehive. He once again felt the need to leave, to make up some excuse or another of why he couldn’t move in with Tyras and split the rent, yet seeing the sheer absolute joy on the family’s faces, Tyras beaming with pride at his son, with love at his wife and glancing around the home which was certainly an improvement over whatever he’d had before, the little one’s wonder and eagerness to live in that mysterious place and Rhodika joining the embrace, attempting to maintain the stoicism of motherly responsibility, yet failing and tears sliding down the fur of her cheeks, he couldn’t bring himself to leave and let them awkwardly pack up and leave tail between their legs after no longer affording the costs.
He had a debt to Tyras, not just for saving his life on the airship, or from the constables, but for doing so in a deeper, more meaningful way, by pulling him out of that dreadful vicious cycle of trading blood for coin.
His thoughts were interrupted by two burly bull workers stepping in, one carrying a gramophone alongside a small box, the other carrying luggage, which Achlos assumed was the rest of the little Tyras’s family had brought for what they thought would be a short stay.
“Ah, yes!” Tyras acknowledged the two men. “Leave the luggage wherever, the gramophone, over there, by the window… no, a little closer to the bookcase… perfect!” He beamed down at the brass instrument and tipped the workers a silver Krata each, which they accepted without false reluctance then discretely slipped away from the room.
It was a fine instrument. The wooden box was finely carved with floral patterns and polished to a mirror shine, the brass horn itself looking like a blooming flower.
“I wished for music to fill the house the moment we settled in.” Tyras explained contently, opening one of his suitcases, revealing several records. He picked out two.
“Which do you like better, my dear fellow, Predimir Nestovik or Ruedi Schalker?” Tyras asked.
“Uhhh… whichever you prefer, I like both equally.” Achlos replied. Since he had never heard of either composer, it wasn’t exactly a lie. Tyras’s smirk communicated that he knew. Damn him…
“Schalker it is, then. I’m more of a Nestovik man myself, but his themes are a bit too martial for the current situation. This is a time for joy.” He opened a brass cap on the machine and took out a needle, which he installed on the tone arm with practiced ease. He then took the vinyl out of its sheath and Achlos noted that it was well used, the sticker at the center yellowed out and frayed and the disk was covered in minor scratches. These weren’t new, they had been in Tyras’s luggage. Did the man just carry vinyls with him wherever he went?
He carefully placed the vinyl on the machine, wound up the crank, then gently placed the tone arm’s needle onto it. There was a very slight initial scratching sound, then the sweet, gentle clap of the white notes on a piano filled the air. Violins joined the almost timid tune with their whine, until the piano’s cadence gradually became more allegro, at which point, the bellowing hums of the cello joined, like a baritone voice singing a duet with a soprano.
Achlos recognized the song. He’d heard it played many a time in the hotels, clubs and saloons he frequented. He just never bothered trying to put a name to it.
“Just so you know, dearies,” The landlady began. “The walls to the adjoining apartments and the windows are soundproof. Discretion is one of our establishment’s most prideful distinctions. So you may play and sing to your heart’s content regardless of the hour!” She explained with her seemingly eternal smirk. Tyras returned the joyful smile.
“Wonderful, that is a feature of our new abode which will come in most handy! A lot of neighbors at my previous dwellings complained about my late night opera rehearsals, as I have no other time to practice, given my profession.” Tyras said.
“Wait a minute…” Achlos interrupted. “You… sing opera?”
“Of couuuurse, my good siiiiiiiir!” Tyras replied in a voice that was suddenly more powerful than the gramophone with a dramatic flutter of a hand like a conductor’s wand. His family gave a chuckle and a sincere clap. “Only at amateur events, of course. For charity and such. I’d need to quit my day job otherwise, which, as much as I enjoy being an amateur tenor, I’m not as talented as an artist as I am a constable.”
Achlos tried to imagine the man he’d seen take out nearly a dozen pirates with barely a scratch to show for it up on a stage, in the queer last-era fashion of a powdered wig, voluminous sleeved shirt and banyan coat, singing his heart out before a crowd. Try as he might, he couldn’t fully, but the mental image did make him snort with laughter, which helped him somewhat lose some of his previous tension.
His thoughts were interrupted by a slight tug on his sleeve. It was the landlady.
“Mr. Dribas, your companion, Mr. Maloko, had wired me some special instructions for your room before your arrival. If you could join me so I may ensure that all’s as bright as Light?”
Achlos frowned in confusion. What “special instructions”? Tyras hadn’t known him long, yet he must have already figured out that the moose was a man of very regular habits and with very few requirements for a comfy stay. If a room had four walls, a roof and a mattress, it was fine by him.
“Uh… sure.” He followed the tahr woman down the flat’s hall into a medium sized room.
A large bed sat diagonally across the chamber between a wall and the window. The reason was evident by the fact the bed was very ample compared to the rest of the furniture. It was a Class IV bed in a room made for Class III mammals. He could sleep in Class III beds just fine, even if his shins hanging off the frame was irritating.
The window gave a wonderful view of the building’s garden below, with winding stone cobbled walkways between thickly maned trees and a fantasia of multicolored flowers, some species he couldn’t name standing as tall as the horse who was having a picnic with his family as his fawn was chasing a rolling hoop through the small park.
He remained transfixed on the scene for but a minute, feeling a strange peace wash over him. He looked down at the bed. It was a fine piece. Solid oak frame, the mattress was soft yet rigid enough to allow a restful sleep.
“Mr. Maloko thought you’d need something better suited for your… well, anatomy.” She said with a timid chuckle. “The chair at the desk is adjustable, so it should suit even someone of such impressive constitution as yourself, but should you need it changed, do let me know. If you need anything at all… food, your bed made, to order something or other, press this button near the light switch and one of my maids will arrive shortly. Just know that each use has a certain cost depending on the service which will be added to your rent.” She explained. The arrangement was not much different from a hotel, he thought, only more permanent. From what he understood, in buildings such as these each floor was owned by a different landlord and they each operated it however they saw fit. He guessed the floors above and below him were managed in vastly different ways, and perhaps not as pleasantly or expertly as this welcoming old lady.
He nodded.
“Thank you,” He told the woman, genuinely meaning it. There was a strange warmth in the room that had nothing to do with the temperature. “Miss?”
“Ungularis. Diana Ungularis.” She said with her ever present smile. He gently gripped her hand, after which she gave a small bow and left.
After closing the door behind his new landlady, he sat down on the bed, groaning as the pressure was finally taken off his legs, only now realizing how tired he was. He hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep after the battle waged against the pirates alongside Tyras, and after getting chased by Ignisdava’s Finest through foul smelling back alleys which ended with him face first into a dumpster, he was spent.
He laid down on his bed, only bothering to kick his shoes off, not even thinking of making the extra effort of changing into pajamas or a dressing gown. His bed. It felt strange to think of it that way.
He’d never had “his'' bed. As a child, his parents’ mercenary band always moved from place to place and he slept in tents and inns, never forming any bonds to any particular place. It had been the same during his military service. Dig a trench, roll open your bedroll (or just lay down in the mud should you lack one) and sleep, next week we advance or retreat somewhere else. Then as a bounty hunter in the Nyterian Outlands he’d hardly ever spent more than a night in any establishment. Well… except when he was taking a self-appointed two week vacation in a “pleasure palace”, but that was different, he thought with a blush and a smirk.
He looked around the simple, comfy room. The elegant desk was already equipped with a typewriter, sheets of paper, inkwells and pens. He’d continue his journal later, he sure had a lot to write about now, he thought with a wry smile.
The room was a little barren, however. He began daydreaming on how to improve it. A sword rack above the desk would spice it up nicely and fit the portrait of a Late Third Era Knight that was next to it quite well.
His small yet colorful collection of adventure novels and Penny Dreadfuls would brighten up the austere bookshelf which had only a few old frayed brown and black spined books.
And his two medals, framed and never touched, somewhere at the bottom of his luggage, would sit proudly there overlooking the room.
And there was some dead space off in the corner. Maybe he could turn it into a gun bench? He knew how to tinker with firearms well enough, but never got the chance to do so on his own terms, always bribing a gunsmith or other to use his tools.
And that drawer looked a bit off center. He’d push it closer to the door later. And also-
His train of thoughts braked hard. He’d never done this before. Look around a room and imagine how he would like it best. Because it was never his place to do so.
However, this banal 20 square meter room was his. All his. The thought was overwhelming. This most mundane and pedestrian aspect finally entering his life filled him with a joy and relief that he never knew. Most people took something like this for granted and daydreamed about the kind of adventurous life Achlos had.
They read Penny Dreadfuls and Illustrated Adventures as they rode cabs and trains to their monotonous jobs, imagining themselves as the daring, swashbuckling heroes who traveled from one exotic dangerous location to the next, having a new sweetheart in each book…
Meanwhile, he read books about gentlemen warriors and detectives, who had adventure aplenty, but always had a secure place to return to. An ancestral home with a faithful butler, an apartment with a loyal friend, a simple home with a loving wife or husband. His ideal was altogether more pedestrian and laid back. Boring. But for the first time in a long time, he didn’t know what life would bring. Just a few days ago, his sole hope in life was to find another contract to eliminate some scoundrel or other to maintain a semi-luxurious lifestyle, then repeat. It had become his very own 9 to 5 that most people loathed.
But now… he finally had uncertainties back in his life.
What kind of “special” team was Tyras forming? What would his role be in it? What other members would he recruit? How would he take part in it when he’d have to spend months in the police academy? What would it be like living with other people in the same rooms day in and day out?
He felt like an explorer who’d embarked on an unknown ship manned by a captain who never told him the destination, yet the journey was taken through wondrous lands and rested on strange islands.
And with those thoughts, Achlos Dribas fell asleep before he made the conscious decision to close his eyes, still dressed in his new suit, the Fakonan Knight immortalized in the portrait peering down on him, floating into a land of dreams more restful and devoid of any adversity than he’d had in years.