Eugene and Qlaark walked side by side, their feet kicking up dust as they entered a sprawling neighborhood that stretched as far as the eye could see. Unlike the dazzling districts they had passed through the previous day, this part of the city felt... forgotten.
Crumbling stone buildings leaned against each other like exhausted drunks, their facades streaked with soot and grime. Narrow alleys were cluttered with broken barrels, scraps of fabric, and stray bits of parchment that fluttered in the occasional breeze. The air smelled faintly of damp stone and something vaguely metallic, like rusted iron.
Eugene rubbed the back of his neck, glancing around. “Huh,” he muttered. “I expected the beast races to be the poor ones, not the so-called normal races.”
Qlaark clicked his beak in amusement. “Normal?”
Eugene shrugged. “You know. Elves, dwarves, humans... the standard fantasy package.” He gestured at the scene around them. A group of dwarves sat on the steps of a dilapidated house, nursing mugs of something that looked far too thick to be beer. Their faces were lined with weariness, their clothes patched and faded. Nearby, an elven woman with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes stirred a pot over an open flame, shooing away a pair of scrappy children who seemed to be more bones than flesh.
Qlaark tilted his head. “And why exactly did you expect us to be the ones struggling?”
Eugene sighed. “I dunno. It’s just... where I’m from, people make assumptions. And beast races—er, I mean, people who look... well, not human—they usually get the short end of the stick.”
Qlaark flapped his wings thoughtfully. “Ah, stereotypes. A tale as old as time.”
Eugene looked around. “So what’s the deal here, then? Why are these folks struggling?”
Qlaark waved a wing. “It’s not about race, Eugene. Not really. Sure, certain communities tend to stick to certain trades, and some of those trades aren't as lucrative as others. But when it comes to wealth? It’s about connections, choices, and—most importantly—who gets the best opportunities.”
Eugene frowned. “So there are rich dwarves and elves out there?”
“Of course!” Qlaark said, hopping onto a low stone wall as they walked. “You’ll find dwarves running half the city’s forges, and elves managing some of the grandest libraries in existence. But,” he motioned at the squalor around them, “not every dwarf gets to own a forge, and not every elf gets a cushy library position.”
Eugene watched as a group of tired-looking dwarven men emerged from a mine entrance, their soot-covered faces etched with exhaustion. “So, it’s less about race and more about circumstance?”
“Exactly,” Qlaark said, his voice taking on a preacher’s cadence again. “And don’t get me wrong—old habits die hard. Some industries do end up dominated by certain races. The minotaurs run security, the halflings do a lot of farming, and the goblins...” He trailed off with a smirk. “Well, let’s just say goblins have their own way of making money.”
Eugene smirked. “Let me guess—scams?”
Qlaark waggled his fingers. “They prefer to call it creative enterprise.”
Eugene chuckled, but his smile faded as he watched a group of elves gathered around a bonfire, their faces shadowed with quiet desperation. “But what happens when people start blaming each other for all this? It’s gotta get ugly.”
Qlaark sighed, ruffling his feathers. “Oh, it has. It does. But as long as the different communities stay unique and independent, things usually work out. The City thrives on diversity, Eugene. Everyone has their niche, their purpose. No one wants to lose that.”
Eugene nodded slowly. “But that’s gotta make it hard to unite the city under a common goal.”
Qlaark gave him a sharp look. “And that is when things become dangerous.” He hopped down from the wall, walking beside Eugene again. “Whenever some fool tries to unite everyone under one narrative, one vision, it falls apart. Or worse.”
Eugene raised an eyebrow. “Worse how?”
Qlaark’s expression darkened. “Let’s just say the City doesn’t take well to forced unity. It thrives on controlled chaos. People don’t want one set of rules, one way of thinking. They want their own ways, their own gods, their own lives.”
Eugene thought about that, his fingers unconsciously brushing against the lantern hidden under his coat. He wondered where Cozimia fit into all of this. Did being a warlock mean he was now locked into someone else's vision? The thought unsettled him.
"I get that," Eugene finally said. "Back where I'm from, people try to force unity all the time. Doesn't really work out the way they want."
Qlaark nodded. "Because real unity comes from respect, not control." He gestured toward a dwarf helping an elven woman carry a heavy sack down the street. "See that? They don't need some grand idea of unity to help each other. They just do it because it makes sense."
Eugene sighed. "Sounds almost... hopeful."
Qlaark chuckled. "It is. But don’t get me wrong—this city’s a powder keg. Always has been. Some people don’t like the way things work and try to change it. Sometimes they succeed. Most of the time, they just end up with a knife in the back."
Eugene glanced around at the weary faces, the struggling families. "And what about these folks? What do they do?"
"They survive," Qlaark said simply. "Same as everyone else."
Eugene mulled it over as they continued down the road. He wondered, not for the first time, if he could really carve out a place for himself here. Did he want to? Or was he just another outsider, destined to wander through the city’s tangled streets without ever belonging?
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Eugene rubbed his aching feet. "Alright, Qlaark. We need to find a place to sleep. Preferably one that doesn’t smell like garbage this time."
Qlaark grinned. "You're in luck! I know just the spot."
They found themselves at another modest inn, not too different from the one before. As they stepped inside, the soft murmur of conversation greeted them, mingled with the comforting scent of stew and stale ale.
Just as Eugene reached into his pouch for the remaining gold, his ears caught snippets of a conversation from a nearby table.
"...swear it was a monster... ate him whole, left nothing but his legs."
Eugene's heart sank, his grip on the coin tightening. He glanced at Qlaark, who had gone suddenly quiet, his feathers puffing up slightly.
"So," Eugene muttered under his breath. "Guess we’re gonna be hearing about that for a while."
Qlaark sighed. “Yeah... yeah, we are.”
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Six days.
Six long days of walking, wandering, and weaving through the ever-shifting chaos of the City of Cities. Eugene’s boots, once sturdy and comfortable, now felt like they were made of lead. His legs ached, his back protested every time he shifted his pack, and most of all, his mind—so eager to make sense of this place—was starting to crumble under the sheer scale of it.
"Why," Eugene muttered, trudging beside Qlaark, "is everything so far apart? I swear we’ve been walking in circles."
Qlaark, who had somehow maintained his cheerful demeanor through the endless journey, flapped a wing dismissively. "The City is what it is, Eugene. You can’t rush it."
Eugene shot him a look. "I’m out of money, Qlaark. I’m rushing it."
Qlaark patted his shoulder reassuringly. "Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered."
True to his word, every evening when they stopped to rest, Qlaark would set up on a street corner, in a marketplace, or in the center of a plaza and launch into one of his fiery sermons about second chances and salvation. His voice boomed across the cobblestone streets, drawing crowds of all shapes and sizes—some seeking redemption, others just curious. By the end of each sermon, an invitation for shelter, a loaf of bread, and sometimes even some gold coins found their way into Qlaark's outstretched wing.
Eugene watched in both awe and mild envy as the toucanfolk spoke with the kind of confidence he himself lacked.
"You’re good at this," Eugene had muttered one night while they bunked in the loft of a tavern in exchange for Qlaark’s sermon earlier that evening.
"Well," Qlaark had responded, laying back and folding his wings behind his head, "when you believe in something, the words come easy."
Eugene wasn't sure he believed in anything anymore. But right now, he believed in not sleeping outside and getting robbed—or worse. The weather here might be perfect, cool breezes during the day, pleasant nights, no rain to speak of... but even paradise had pickpockets and worse lurking in the alleys.
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By the sixth day of travel, Eugene had enough.
"Okay," he said, stopping dead in his tracks and rubbing his temples. "I can't keep walking without at least understanding how big this place is."
Qlaark blinked. "Big," he said simply.
"Not good enough," Eugene snapped, dropping his pack and pulling a stick from the ground. He knelt and began scratching rough math problems into the dirt. "Alright, let's work this out. What's the local unit of distance?"
Qlaark peered down at the lines Eugene was drawing, his beak clicking thoughtfully. "Furlings."
Eugene paused. "Furlings?"
"Yep," Qlaark said proudly. "One furling is about... well... this far." He spread his wings wide.
Eugene sighed. "That’s not helpful. How many furlings in a mile?"
Qlaark scratched his head. "Mile?"
Eugene groaned and got to work, comparing units, converting measurements, and working through rough approximations with Qlaark’s help—or lack thereof. They spent an hour crouched in the middle of a dusty street, Eugene scrawling equations while Qlaark cheerfully threw out numbers, half of which seemed suspiciously like guesses.
When Eugene finally stepped back and looked at the scratched-out figures, his face went pale.
"This... this can’t be right," he muttered.
Qlaark peered at the numbers and shrugged. "Looks right to me."
Eugene stared at the final calculation: 40,000 square miles.
His brain refused to process it. "That’s... that's like... the size of a small country!" he blurted out.
Qlaark looked unimpressed. "Sounds about right."
Eugene stood, rubbing his face in disbelief. "Two hundred miles across? Two hundred miles? It’s a city, Qlaark. A city shouldn’t be that big!"
Qlaark gave him an amused look. "Eugene, my featherless friend, it’s The City. Not a city. There’s a difference."
Eugene shook his head, pacing in a circle. "It doesn't make sense! There's no way a place this big can function. Transportation, food, water, government—it should be chaos!"
Qlaark nodded sagely. "It is chaos. Beautiful chaos."
Eugene stopped and pointed at him. "But how? How does it not just fall apart?"
Qlaark chuckled. "Because people know their place, Eugene. We’ve got our districts, our communities, our gods. Everyone does what they do best, and things keep moving."
Eugene exhaled slowly. "This place is insane."
"Correction," Qlaark said, grinning. "You’re just thinking about it too much. Most folks don’t worry about how big the city is, they just live their lives. You’ll drive yourself crazy if you try to fit it into neat little boxes."
Eugene stared at the ground, his thoughts spinning. If Qlaark was right, then this city wasn't something you understood. It was something you just accepted.
His fingers brushed against the coin in his pocket. It still pointed them forward, ever onward. Krungus had sent him on this wild goose chase, and now he was stuck in a sprawling labyrinth the size of a country.
Eugene sighed and stood up, wiping the dirt off his hands. "Alright. Let’s keep going."
Qlaark beamed. "That’s the spirit!"
As they resumed walking, Eugene couldn’t help but glance around at the towering spires in the distance, the vast network of streets and alleys stretching to the horizon. He thought about the gods Qlaark spoke of, how they influenced everything in the city. It all seemed so normal to the people here, but to Eugene, it felt like a trap.
If gods are real here, and they expect obedience... where does free will even come in? he wondered.
His thoughts drifted to Cozimia, the warmth of her presence and the promises she had made. He had accepted her power, but was it truly his choice? Or had he just fallen into another system, another layer of control disguised as benevolence?
He glanced at Qlaark, who strode confidently through the streets, smiling and waving at familiar faces. The toucanfolk seemed perfectly content with his place in the world.
Eugene, on the other hand, wasn’t sure he even wanted a place.
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As the sun dipped low in the sky, Eugene and Qlaark found themselves standing before another modest inn, the Winking Basilisk, where Qlaark promised they could stay the night in exchange for another sermon.
Eugene sighed. "You sure your sermons are good enough to get us a free room every night?"
Qlaark grinned. "They've worked so far, haven’t they?"
Eugene shook his head and followed him inside, already preparing himself for another night of strange looks and whispered rumors.