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Toki-Ura stands at the intersection of sea and mountains, and the fog — almost a living creature — doesn’t just hide the streets, it changes them. The alley that leads to the docks today may end at an old laundromat tomorrow or open right up to the water.
The black market buzzes in the half-light: they sell not only spices and fabrics but also time. Prices are whispered, and payment for goods isn’t always in money; sometimes it’s in minutes of one’s own life.
Toki-Ura knows how to be stubborn. Especially when the fog thickens closer to evening.
You were heading to a place you knew by heart: a short staircase, a turn, a familiar arch. You could have walked this path with your eyes closed. But today, the city had swapped out the route.
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The fog before you thickened, as if all the moisture had been squeezed out of it, and from this dense, whitish veil suddenly grew a wall of dark wood — so abruptly, as if someone had hurled it into your path. You tried to brake, but inertia left no chance: you crashed shoulder-first into the door, and it swung open. You tumbled inside like a rag doll, barely managing to put your hands out, and only by a miracle did you not sprawl on the wooden floor.
A short silence hung in the room, broken only by the barely audible clinking of a silver pendant on the paper partition.
Behind the counter stood a man. Cold strands shimmered in his dark hair. Thin scales glinted at his temples. He didn’t stir, didn’t even blink — only one eyebrow lifted. The left one.
— Curious way to meet for tea, he said without changing his posture. — Usually people just push the door. But your method… is more impressive. Get up. It’s not customary to lie on the floor here — it throws off the balance of the cups.
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