Chatter, hammers clanging on steel and countless footsteps, the commercial district is a cacophonic orchestra. The working day is finally coming to an end. People are still queuing in front of shops and stalls. The jeweler and general merchandiser are particularly popular. Lots of people are conversing in corners; others are stalking Myostosel they admire. Irena is still out. There's a flock following her. It seems they are trying to be inconspicuous but it's a vain effort.

It used to be fun browsing through the shops at the end of the day when the crowd thinned out. I won't do that today. My wages can't afford most of these things so there's no point. The costs to import all these things must be quite high so they can only be intended for the Myostosel. The man running the general merchandiser is from Vishaar and I'm sure some of the other merchants are from Auvatica. Protsvetanians don't have tanned skin like that so they can't be from around here. It's no comfort, there are no allies here.

We've made our way through the crowd. It's amusing how people avoid brushing against me. "Goods delivered." Taisia said it with the same enthusiasm as if it's her first time reporting back. Iosef is slumped over his counter. Drool is trickling down his cheek, forming a little puddle. I feel sorry for those invoices. I'll slap my hand next to his head. A grunt followed. Iosef is staring at us and shook his head. Another grunt, that means we have to go to the storeroom and help the sorting woman finish her work. We gave him our invoices, now for the last task of the day.

These two hours are so tedious. Why should it matter whether the packages are neatly stacked or not? It only matters if they are grouped correctly. The sorting woman thinks otherwise. She says we should take pride in our work. I have no idea how this woman can spend the whole day doing this job. She sorts the new packages, watches the stacks become a mess from us taking them and reorganises the mess, so unfulfilling. Those two men are back; they missed the reorganising.

Iosef grunted. I think that means we can go home. He's giving everyone ten silvers for the day. Best thing about this job, we get paid every day. Taisia is saying her goodbyes slowly. I'll grunt. It's time to leave.

Roaring hearth, the most comfortable of beds, hot baths and never-ending food with a menu featuring dishes from across the continent, if only I could afford to rent a room at the Gotshinisha. That overly-eager promoter must have had an inkling I am not part of the target market. For a moment, I was actually thinking I might be able to rent there. It was too good to be true. That place can only be for affluent foreigners or Myostosel who need an excuse to spend money.

"Halt!" Again? This is getting irritating. "Remove your hood, Patulzak." I suppose something about hoods compels these soldiers to carry out an inspection. I'll oblige, there's no need to make a scene. He recoiled, staring at his hand as if he came into contact with the plague. "Clean yourself up, man!" I'm allowed to pass.

Snow is floating to my shoulders faster. I'm only passing through the capital's main gate. I hope the snowfall doesn't get any heavier; I have quite a way to go. I'll pull my hood low; don't want to catch a cold.

The main road is even less visible than it was this morning, a footpath of footprints. Smoke is floating from those homes in the distance. I haven't been to Orsim. I know it's the only supplier of fruits and vegetables in the country. Compared to Ishtragrad, Orsim is small, frugal and insignificant.

Few people are passing by. They are a rather unusual sight. Except for Myostosel, nobody has reason to be in the capital after dark. Most of them are carrying packages. These must be special orders. I wonder what's under those wrappings. That pair is growing closer to me. They don't seem to be carrying anything. Are they Myostosel coming back from travels? Something about them feels off.

I can see them a little better now. They definitely aren't Myostosel, appearance isn't in character with this area. Both of them are wearing leather instead of furs. One is a man and the other a woman. The man has a strange tattoo across his nose and his head is shaven. The woman's hair is brown and course-looking. They're armed.

The man stopped in front of me. What's his game? I should ignore him. I'll just walk past. He's not going to let me by that easily. "Hand over your wages and you won't get hurt." That was a calm tone. He must do this often.

"I spent it at the tavern." I don't think that came out as gruffly as I wanted it to. My infernal moustache is itching.

"Search his corpse." The woman growled, so intimidating. She seems just as calm as her companion. These people must be bandits. It's a bit strange they left wherever they came from just to carry out petty crime.

Little time to think, both of them look weathered. He has scars all over his arms and she has a nasty one running down her right cheek. These people are no strangers to a fight.

The man drew his hatchet from his belt and pulled himself to his full height. I can't say he isn't good at intimidating his victim. He is so much taller and broader than me. My heart's racing. The group behind just scurried away. Screaming isn't going to help. Nobody will respond. His hand clasped my left arm; my other is already in my coat.

My potential murderer's grip is like a vice. I'm stumbling forward, pulled me like I weigh nothing. The hatchet is raised. He paused; eyes are wide open with shock. Shock turned into a pained expression. His breathe is sharp; the hatchetless hand clutched his gut. Blood is dribbling through his fingers, so much blood. He tried to say something, failed. The body fell. He is dead.