The rooms were bathed in the soft, steady amber glow of countless candles. The furniture—minimalist in design but massive and built from solid, expensive wood—reeked of quiet wealth. But it was the scent that hit Dmitry hardest. It was the smell of sterile cleanliness, seasoned wood, and pure wax, a jarring contrast to the rot and acrid peat smoke that saturated every cubic centimeter of air back in Nordcross.
"Cloaks and weapons on the rack," the guard rumbled, his voice like grinding stones.
The trio disarmed in a heavy silence. Shedding their mud-caked cloaks, they hung them on stag antlers bolted deep into the stone walls. Their primary weapons followed. Dmitry, maintaining a mask of clinical detachment, carefully racked his Benelli. He didn't even glance at the holster concealed beneath his jacket; he had no intention of being left defenseless in this alien, unpredictable environment. Pragmatism and a deep-seated distrust of strangers dictated his every move.
"Shoes off," the goliath commanded.
As Dmitry wrestled with his fasteners, the guard produced three pairs of soft leather slippers and handed them to Hans. Swapping heavy combat boots for light moccasins, the travelers waited. The giant scanned them with an evaluative gaze, as if calculating their odds of surviving the night, and threw a curt:
"Follow me."
They passed through a side room that served as a guard post. A single oil lamp flickered over an open book and the remnants of a sparse dinner. A massive mug steamed nearby, and a cot with a coarse wool blanket leaned against the wall. Everything here breathed functionality and disciplined order.
A cramped staircase led upward. The guard, forced to hunch nearly double due to his gargantuan height, led them to the second floor. The wood groaned under the combined weight of four grown men. At the end of a short corridor, the giant checked the first door, cursed under his breath, and slammed it. At the second, he leaned in:
"Master Bruno, Baron Cohen has arrived."
After a silent confirmation, the giant threw the door wide, ushering the trio into the money-lender’s inner sanctum.
Cohen entered first, his shoulders squared with a ghost of his former pride. Dmitry followed at a tactical distance, with Hans anchoring the rear.
The office was the most luxurious space Dmitry had seen in this world. The grey despair of Nordcross stopped at the threshold. Polished wood gleamed under layers of lacquer, mirroring the flames of dozens of candles. Intricate carvings—delicate filigree and complex patterns on the table legs and armrests—spoke of a master artisan whose time cost a fortune. The brass candlesticks were polished to a mirror shine, and the candles themselves were translucent, made of the highest grade of pure beeswax.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, packed with leather-bound tomes and heavy ledgers. To Dmitry, this wasn't just a library; it was an arsenal. In a world of illiterates, information was the ultimate weapon, and Bruno was well-armed.
A plush sofa sat in the corner, flanked by an elegant side table holding a crystal pitcher, a single goblet, and a basket of large grapes—an unthinkable luxury in this climate. But it was the window that drew Dmitry’s eye. Wide and fitted with real, if slightly distorted glass, it looked out over the city, making the hovels below look like a child's toy set.
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At a massive desk stood a frail old man in a dressing gown. His back was to the light, but his gaze was razor-sharp, scanning the guests and lingering for a fraction of a second on Dmitry’s face.
Bruno smiled—a soft, paternal expression that felt entirely calculated—and rose to meet them.
"Greetings, my boy!" The money-lender’s voice was dry, yet infused with practiced warmth. "How you’ve grown, Cohen Prast! I remember you when you were only this high..." He leveled a palm with the desk's edge. "Please, come in. Sit."
With a sweep of his hand, he gestured toward the sofa. As the travelers sank into the cushions, their boots silent on the thick, expensive carpet, Bruno called into the hall: "Claude! More glasses!"
He circled back, his sharp eyes dissecting their ragged appearance, Hans’s makeshift splint, and finally, Dmitry’s specialized gear.
"Tell me, dear Baron," he began, perching on the edge of his desk. "Whom should I thank for this unexpected visit?"
A heavy silence filled the room, punctuated only by the crackle of a candle wick. Cohen sat rigid, his spine straight as if the aristocratic steel of his ancestors still resisted the rot of his circumstances.
"Urgent matters, Master Bruno," Cohen said. His voice was firm, but Dmitry caught the underlying tremor—that precise note of desperation that no title could camouflage. "I require funds to... resolve certain difficulties."
Cohen stopped, locking eyes with the old man. Dmitry watched Bruno closely. He knew the type; men like this didn't read minds—they read micro-expressions, shifts in posture, and the weight of pauses.
Bruno’s expression remained a polite mask. He kept smiling, but his eyes were as cold and transparent as the glass in his window.
"I have heard of your troubles," Bruno replied, his voice tinged with a shallow grief that masked cold calculation. "The city talks. They say Hoof has the 'Snowy Lion' by the throat. Your house is in a precarious state, my boy."
He let the words hang, letting their weight sink in. Then he tilted his head like a curious bird of prey.
"But... I fail to see how a humble money-lender can help. If Hoof has decided to crush your crest, gold is merely a temporary bandage on a terminal wound."
Dmitry internally noted the surgical precision of the metaphor. The old man wasn't just discussing a loan; he was performing a triage on a dying patient. And the prognosis was grim.
Cohen swirled the wine in his glass, trying to project a lightness that felt utterly hollow. "It is a matter of overhead," the Baron said, staring past Bruno. "I need five hundred crowns to settle immediate debts, and a further sum to... revitalize the barony."
"Is that all?" Bruno’s smirk was sharper than a scalpel.
The old man stood and paced the room, his slippers silent in the deep pile of the carpet. He stopped at a bookshelf, his back to them. "Five hundred crowns. No small sum. But it isn't the number that concerns me. Hans has already sold me everything of value from your halls—from the family silver to the tapestries. You have no collateral left."
He turned, his gaze hardening. "A loan without backing... that isn't an investment, Baron. That is charity. And I am not nearly rich enough for charity. Furthermore," his voice dropped, "interfering with Hoof’s business is a lethal risk. The man does not let go once his jaws are locked. Even hosting you tonight is a threat to my operation."
The air in the room felt thick, pressurized. Dmitry saw Hans tense in the corner. Bruno was right: Cohen was trying to sell a ticket on a sinking ship at a premium price.
The patient is more dead than alive, Dmitry thought, watching the pale Baron. And Bruno has no intention of paying for the funeral.
The silence became unbearable. Cohen’s eyes darted to Dmitry—a silent, screaming plea. It was the look of a drowning man realizing his last hope was a stranger in a tactical jacket.
It was time. Dmitry took a steadying breath, suppressing the surge of adrenaline he always felt before a high-stakes surgery. He rose from the sofa, his armored silhouette momentarily eclipsing the candlelight.
The ambassador’s medallion warmed against his chest, bridging the linguistic gap.
"I would like to speak with you in private, Master Bruno," Dmitry said, his voice cold, dry, and heavy with authority.
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