There wasn't much use for a real estate agent in Braavos back in the day. People stayed in the same ancestral homes for generations—houses handed down like old coats, slightly worn but still good enough. The rich avoided having too many kids to prevent inheritance fights, and the poor? They crammed into tiny rooms or shared squalid spaces where the walls practically oozed despair. The only time property changed hands was when someone kicked the bucket without an heir, and even then, it was more of a headache than a sale. But now? Oh, now I'm living the dream—because the Edenites have arrived.
These perfect, glowing specimens decided that Braavos was the next hot thing. Why? Well, it turns out their Supreme Leader, in his infinite and slightly bonkers wisdom, had ordered the construction of a colossal replica of an ancient city-state called Venice. Apparently, some of the Edenite aristocracy got it into their heads that Venice might have been the birthplace of Mark Lantrun, their god-in-human-form. Never mind that no one knows where Mark Lantrun really came from—his past is about as well-documented as a ghost sighting. What matters is that Braavos looked a lot like Venice, and it had that "ancient but not falling apart" vibe the Edenites loved.
Suddenly, the rich and famous from Eden flooded into Braavos, bringing their ridiculous fashion sense with them. The first wave of Edenites dressed as if they'd escaped from a circus troupe —sequins, feathers, holographic jackets, and shoes that made it hard to tell if they were trying to walk or levitate. For the first few weeks, Braavosi locals were both horrified and entertained, watching them clomp around the canals like peacocks lost in a funeral procession. Fortunately, after a bit of time in Braavos, the Edenites toned it down. They started wearing slightly muted versions of their costumes—less glitter, more linen, though still a bit whimsical, like someone trying to wear pajamas but making them fashion.
That's when the real estate boom started. See, Edenites adored anything old and full of history, probably because their own culture was as new as yesterday's bread. They loved houses with stories—something Braavos had in spades—and they wanted properties that screamed ancient luxury. And that's how I ended up getting a call from the agent of an Edenite pop star who went by the name Black Berry. Yes, really.
Apparently, Black Berry needed a vacation home—a quiet little getaway from the madness of her usual haunts, like Londonium and Hollywood, Eden's own entertainment hubs where the paparazzi stalked her every move. Naturally, I jumped at the chance to show her one of the finest properties in Braavos, a historic estate with all the bells and whistles: marble floors, frescoes older than the Free Cities, and a wine cellar that could outlive an apocalypse.
When I met her at the estate, she was already halfway through a bottle of something expensive. The woman strolled in with the kind of confidence only the ultra-rich could manage, sipping directly from the bottle like it was a designer accessory. Her hair was perfectly styled, her clothes were both ludicrous and expensive, and she looked me up and down like she was appraising a particularly dull painting.
"Let's make this quick," she said, waving the bottle. "I've got a shoot later, but I need to vibe with the space, you know?"
Sure, I thought. Vibe with the space. That's what people say when they're paying obscene amounts of money for a house they'll visit twice a year.
We wandered through the estate, her tottering in heels that could double as weapons, while I rattled off details about the house's history. I told her about the original owners, some noble family whose name was long forgotten, and how the ceilings still had their original Venetian plaster. She nodded along, sipping her drink, but it was clear her attention was elsewhere. Halfway through the tour, she started talking about her new boyfriend.
"He's kind of a big deal," she said with a grin. "Works high up in the Inquisition."
Now, Edenite relationships are usually their own brand of strange, but this? This was new territory. The Inquisition was no joke. They weren't exactly the kind of people you wanted to cross—or date. But Black Berry seemed blissfully unaware of the implications.
Then, her phone buzzed. Without so much as an apology, she answered the call right there in the middle of the estate, her voice turning syrupy-sweet. "Hey, babe!" she cooed into the phone, her words echoing off the marble walls. I tried my best to look interested in a curtain rod while she flirted shamelessly with whoever was on the other end.
That's when I heard it: Orin.
The name hit me like a brick. Orin Lantrun. The High Inquisitor. The adopted son of the Supreme Leader and Saint Clara. One of the scariest, most powerful people in Eden. And here she was, chatting with him as if he were just some boyfriend who worked in HR.
I froze, my mind dragging me back to a memory I'd tried very hard to bury. Years ago, before I became a respectable real estate agent, I had dabbled in... less legitimate professions. My mother had fallen gravely ill, and the only thing that could save her was an Edenite medicine so expensive it might as well have been made of diamonds. Desperate, I joined a smuggling ring that ran contraband across Eden's borders, including the highly illegal narcotic Evening Shade.
Everything went wrong during a run to New Qarth. Our ship was intercepted by Eden's border patrol, and we were arrested on the spot. The Inquisitors didn't waste time—they lined up my fellow smugglers and shot them without ceremony. I was next in line, staring down the barrel of a gun, when the door burst open, and in walked Orin Lantrun himself.
The other Inquisitors snapped to attention, saluting him like he was the Emperor of the Universe. Orin glanced at me for a brief moment—just a flicker of interest—and then, out of nowhere, he ordered them to spare me. Just like that. No explanation, no reason. He didn't even stick around to see if they followed through.
Not only did they let me live, but I was given a permit to buy the medicine I needed at a discount in Londonium. That was the day I walked away from smuggling for good, swearing never to get involved in anything shady again. And now, years later, here I was, listening to an Edenite pop star blabber about her fling with the same man who had saved my life.
The tour ended, and Black Berry seemed pleased with the house. Before she left, she gave me a conspiratorial wink. "Keep it quiet, okay?" she whispered, as if I were about to run to the tabloids with the scoop of the century.
I nodded, keeping my expression neutral, though inside, I was screaming. As she sauntered off in her absurd heels, I stood there, dumbfounded. The universe had a twisted sense of humor, no doubt about it. Somehow, I'd gone from smuggling drugs to selling real estate to pop stars who were casually dating Inquisitors.
And honestly? I wasn't even sure which job was more dangerous.