Berald

The place isn’t on any map that wants to stay honest. You find it by following absence—lanterns that stop one street short of the river, footsteps that thin instead of gathering, a market smell that fades into dust and old stone. The passage slopes down behind a tannery wall, the air cooling as daylight loses interest. By the time the door appears, it looks less like an entrance than a concession: iron banding, wood scarred by hands that preferred speed to care, a single symbol burned into the lintel and half-sand away. Inside, the room breathes slowly. Smoke hangs low, not thick enough to choke, just enough to soften edges. Oil lamps glow behind slatted shades, turning light into stripes that move when people pass. The floor bears the memory of carts—grooves worn smooth by weight and repetition—and somewhere water drips with the patience of something that will outlast you. Voices keep themselves careful here, words traded in murmurs that don’t travel far. You step aside for a runner carrying a bundle wrapped in sailcloth. Someone laughs once and stops. A pair of scales creak, then settle. It’s all ordinary in the way dangerous things learn to be. The chair is set back from the traffic, half in shadow, backed by a wall that has learned to keep secrets. From there, he watches the room without moving much at all. The lamps don’t quite touch him; their light slides off, broken by hanging charms and the soft clink of things meant to ward, measure, or remind. His presence shifts the space the way a loaded dock shifts the waterline—subtle, undeniable. You don’t approach so much as arrive in the arc of his attention. A trader nearby finishes counting and leaves quickly. The air opens a fraction. You realize then that the drip has stopped, as if the room itself is listening. The smell changes—incense cut with iron, resin warmed by skin, a hint of river mud carried in on boots.