At last, Charles's carriage rolled into the district known as Old Town. The scene before him looked like a different world from the rest of the city. Most of the houses here were little more than shacks and crumbling huts. Some had been scorched by fire until only charred skeletons remained, while others were half-collapsed. The walls bore grimy stains, as though no one had cleaned them for years.
The uneven roads were littered with trash, filth, and pools of murky water. A putrid stench filled the air, mingling with the sour tang of cheap liquor that drifted from a roadside tavern. Echoing now and then were fierce arguments, drunken shouts, and the occasional scuffle.
The people who inhabited this quarter seemed just as dismal as their surroundings—many wore tattered, threadbare clothes, their faces grimy and etched by hardship. Some appeared half-mad, others staggered around in a stupor, too inebriated to walk straight. Anger smoldered in their eyes, as though they might lash out at any outsider daring to enter their domain uninvited.
Charles forced himself to take a steadying breath, lifting a scrap of cloth to cover his nose and mask some of the reek. He glanced around warily and then instructed the driver to stop the carriage. With deliberate caution, he stepped down, scanning his surroundings for potential threats.
"How long will you be, sir? You'd best finish your business quickly. This place ain't safe," the driver muttered, voice trembling. He didn't even attempt to leave the carriage; his eyes darted about in dread, as if expecting danger to spring upon him at any moment.
"Might be a while—could take me a few hours," Charles replied in a subdued tone. He pulled out coins from his pocket, handing the man one crusédo plus forty denarius. It was a hefty fee, but Charles knew it was only fair given that they'd ventured so deep into one of the most dangerous parts of town. He also tipped generously for the driver's willingness to come this far.
"Here. That's the fare and a little extra. Thanks for bringing me all this way," Charles said.
Clutching the money with relief, the driver urged the carriage forward and rattled off without so much as a backward glance, leaving Charles alone in this unsettling place—a zone steeped in tension and menace.
Charles sighed, reminding himself of the goal at hand: to gather leads on Michael Berg.
Where do I begin looking for clues? he wondered. His gaze roved the shabby streets.
He ventured deeper into the cramped alleys of Old Town, alert to anything unusual. In the back of his mind, though, he remained worried about being tailed. He needed to confirm whether or not someone truly was following him, so he could better focus on his investigation.
Spotting a dark, narrow dead end snaking between buildings, Charles made a quick decision: he would duck inside and see if anyone tried to pursue him. Once in there, he could attempt to slip away and catch a glimpse of his pursuers in the act.
After winding through the maze of alleyways for nearly half an hour, Charles found the perfect spot for both watching and hiding—a place behind a massive pile of garbage, next to a rotting wooden post and the decaying wall of a derelict house. From this vantage, he could remain out of sight, scanning the ground carefully for signs of footprints.
Sure enough, he soon noticed footprints that struck him as peculiar. There were three main sets, fairly close together yet spaced in a manner suggesting they belonged to different individuals.
He crouched down for a closer look. One print was large and deeply pressed into the muddy dirt, implying a person of considerable weight. Another was smaller, made by what appeared to be a decent leather shoe—a detail rarely seen in common folk around here. The final set looked strangely uneven, as if the person who left it was staggering or unsteady on their feet; the imprints were oddly shaped and unevenly indented.
Charles concluded that at least two or three people might be shadowing him, including a heavyset man and someone wearing better-quality footwear. The third set might have belonged to a drunk or an ailing individual—less likely part of the group shadowing him, but it was hard to be certain.
At least now he had proof: there were, indeed, watchers on his trail, lurking somewhere close by. The questions abounded: Who were they? Why were they following him? Did they have something to do with Michael Berg's disappearance?
Another sigh escaped him. He had to remain vigilant at all times, yet he also needed to find leads about Michael. Perhaps he could locate someone in this district who was trustworthy enough to share any sightings of a tall, dark-haired doctor carrying a brown bag. Someone might have seen him—particularly since Michael had reportedly been coming here often.
Just then, Charles tensed. Two men appeared at the mouth of the alley. They scanned the shadows as though searching for something. As soon as Charles caught sight of them, he was almost certain they were the ones who'd tailed him from Michael's house. Their expressions were grim, every movement alert like predators hunting prey. Their eyes darted around until they landed on Charles.
They froze momentarily, surprise flashing across their faces before they relaxed—possibly realizing he had spotted them, but also that he was cornered. Charles understood in that instant that his attempt at stealth had failed. They knew he was onto them, and he had nowhere to run.
Without warning, the two strangers rushed toward him, as though intent on seizing him then and there. Their pace was swift and determined.
Charles had no intention of fighting two attackers singlehandedly, especially given the narrow space. He turned on his heel and sprinted away, weaving into the deeper recesses of Old Town, hoping to lose them in the labyrinth of cramped streets. Heavy footsteps pounded behind him, echoing off the grimy walls, fueling his rising dread.
He tried every trick—taking sharp turns, ducking into side passages—anything to shake pursuit. But these pursuers evidently knew the terrain well, matching his moves with disconcerting ease. Adrenaline pumped through Charles's veins; his legs burned, breath catching in his throat, but he forced himself onward, refusing to slow.
Finally, to his dismay, Charles rounded a bend and found a dead end. A tall, crumbling brick wall blocked any further progress. He skidded to a stop, breathing hard, then turned to face the men who quickly closed in from behind.
They halted a short distance away, bodies tense with hostile intent.
"Who are you?" Charles demanded, posture defensive. "Why are you following me?"
"We only want a word," said the bigger man, his tone firm but nonchalant. "No need to get all worked up."
"A word about what?" Charles snapped.
"About your recent visit to Michael Berg's home," the other man said, eyes narrowing.
"I was merely hired to look into his disappearance," Charles answered, trying to keep his composure. "If you need answers, I'm willing to cooperate. That is, if this is truly official business."
"Then you shouldn't mind coming with us to discuss it further," said the bigger man. "We've got a carriage nearby. Let's sit and talk. Make it easy."
Charles darted a glance around. This cramped alley afforded no escape. Nobody was around to help him, and Old Town was the last place he could expect random goodwill from strangers. The men's vague wording and refusal to show any identification set off warning bells in his mind.
Though Charles tried to appear calm, their eyes flared with growing hostility. One of them stepped forward. "Quit stalling. Come along peacefully, and nobody gets hurt."
Charles felt tension coil in his shoulders. If he refused, they would attack immediately. He backed up until his shoulders brushed the wall, fixing them with a resolute stare.
"Sorry, but I'm not going anywhere until I know exactly who you are. If you want me to cooperate, show me authorization or credentials."
In an instant, both men lunged, evidently done with conversation. Charles reacted on instinct, raising his arms in a defensive stance. He might be tired, but he was no novice at hand-to-hand combat. His fist connected with the jaw of one attacker, sending him staggering back.
"Damn it, he can fight!" the wounded man growled, while the other came at Charles from the side.
Although Charles managed to block and counter with remarkable skill, he was outnumbered, and fatigue soon began to slow him. Meanwhile, he kept glancing around for a possible third assailant. Those suspicious footprints from earlier had indicated at least two, but could there be more waiting in the wings?
Time was running against him. The longer he struggled, the worse his odds of escaping became. Summoning his last reserves of energy, Charles feigned another block and then hurled himself forward, shoving the nearest foe aside and vaulting past him in a desperate bid for freedom.
But the other attacker hissed an incantation Charles had never heard before—"Hréoda!"—accompanied by a violent thrust of his hand. Charles felt a wave of force whistle by, missing him by inches.
"What the—?" he gasped, eyes wide in alarm. The raw power behind that invisible blow was terrifying. Before Charles could recover, the spell was cast again. This time, it struck him square in the chest with staggering force.
A spike of pain roared through him, as if he'd been slammed by an enormous battering ram. His muscles screamed, and he collapsed onto the dirty ground. Vision blurred, heart hammering, Charles tried to cling to consciousness but felt it slipping away.
In his final moments of clarity, he glimpsed the perpetually overcast sky and the two men closing in on him, exchanging panicked, urgent looks—clearly unsettled that they'd had to use whatever unnatural power that was. Then darkness swallowed him whole, and he knew no more.