Meanwhile… From Avange's perspective…
The attendants at the Grand Bathhouse, where Avange was taken, moved with such a smooth motion. Their smiles were very wide and bright. Avange followed them down a corridor that seemed so damn clean after the dust of the plains. Polished tiles had a soft glow, and the air was filled with scents of exotic flowers, minerals, and expensive oils that no normal person would actually buy.
Accompanied by this luxurious environment, soft harp music played in the background, through the quiet murmur of voices and the gentle splash of water from the fountain nearby. It was a world away from the blood and grit he knew. Completely.
He felt out of place—too out of place. His clothes, though cleaner than when Rodrigo found him, were still roughspun and utilitarian. His boots felt so loud and so heavy on the shiny floor. He walked so stiff that the other formal guests would look at him in disgust as he walked. His shoulders were tight despite the supposed promise of relaxation ahead.
These attendants were men and women alike dressed in simple but elegant white wraps, and they seemed sculpted from smooth stone. Avange had that feeling where their cheerfulness was just a layer of bright paint that didn't quite cover something else.
It felt… brittle.
"Right this way, honored guest," one of them said calmly as he gestured towards a doorway draped in shimmering royal-blue fabric. "The Grand Therapist will see you momentarily."
Avange nodded curtly, offering no smile in return. Honored guest? No damn way. He was battlefield scrap, barely held together, as if his own well-being were forced to stick by some super glue.
He wondered if Rodrigo was getting this same treatment, or if this was some strange privilege tied to that silver token he carried.
The room beyond the curtain was smaller, more intimate, dominated by a central pool of steaming, turquoise water for the purpose of a jacuzzi. He saw more attendants in the room bustling quietly. Some were arranging towels, and some were adjusting the light for preparation. Avange didn't expect this premium of a treatment. Too much for him.
A woman approached, older than the others, her hair graying but styled impeccably. She wore a slightly more ornate version of the white wraps, and her eyes looked pretty intelligent, since it assessed Avange in a single sweep.
This must be the Grand Therapist.
"Welcome to the Grand Bathhouse," she said, her voice smooth and professional, lacking the forced brightness of her staff. "Master Juno informed us of your arrival. A special guest requires special attention, of course!" She consulted a small, crystalline slate in her hand. "We have assigned Beatrice to oversee your treatment today. She is one of our finest. Please, prepare yourself. She will arrive shortly."
Special guest. Special attention. Finest. The words felt like weights. Felt like one of those prank shows on TV.
Avange swallowed. He didn't like being singled out, especially not when he felt like recyclable garbage. But arguing seemed pointless, since it'd likely just invite some scrutiny he didn't want. He simply nodded again and watched as the Grand Therapist swept away, leaving him with two junior attendants who began indicating where he should disrobe and enter the preparatory steam room.
He moved mechanically, just following the instructions of the attendants. He folded his rough clothes carefully on a provided bench. The steam was hot, with the scent of fresh eucalyptus that instantly clung to his skin. It was supposed to be cleansing, relaxing, but Avange felt exposed, vulnerable. He wasn't really used to this kind of comfort.
He was used to the dirt, the blood splattering on his face as the wars continued, the sweat on his skin drying, sticking to his soldier uniform.
But in any case, he closed his eyes, trying to focus on breathing, trying to push away the ghosts that always lingered at the edges of his mind. There was the flash of a rebel blade, the thud of bodies falling, the chilling emptiness of waking up alone in a world that wasn't his.
When an attendant gently tapped his shoulder, indicating it was time, he followed numbly into the main treatment chamber. It was warmer here, dim but had light from flickering candles set in the wall. A padded table stood in the center, draped in soft linen. This time, the scent of sandalwood hung in the air.
And then… she entered.
Beatrice.
She moved with a motion that silenced the room even when it was already silent. Tall and slender, her dark hair was intricately braided, with small, pearl-like beads that caught the candlelight. She wore a silk robe of deep emerald-green that hinted at the curves beneath without being too revealing.
Her face was just… yeah.
She had high cheekbones and full lips, her eyes dark and deep. She offered a small, professional smile as she approached.
Avange felt a flush creep up his neck. He quickly averted his gaze, focusing on a point on the far wall. God, she was beautiful. In another life, in another world, perhaps… He cleared his throat, feeling clumsy and rough. "Ma'am," he managed, the word so stiff, so out of place. He shouldn't have said that.
"Please, call me Beatrice," she said, her voice a low murmur, like a melody. "And you must be Avange. It is a pleasure to assist you today. Please, lie face down on the table. We will begin with your back and shoulders. I understand the journey here can be… taxing."
He very well obeyed, settling onto the surprisingly comfortable table. He couldn't imagine himself not obeying to this… piece of art.
The linen felt cool against his skin. He heard her moving nearby, the soft clink of glass bottles, then the gentle pour of oil. He tensed instinctively as he felt her hands, warm and slicked with fragrant oil, first touch his shoulders.
But the tension melted almost instantly.
Her touch was… divine. It wasn't just 'skilled' or 'talented'; it felt imbued with something more. She found knots he hadn't known existed in his back, and she was pressing and kneading with a strength that belied her elegant appearance. His legs slightly trembled by this overwhelming pleasure. He didn't mean to do that.
It was firm but never painful, each movement flowing into the next with hypnotic rhythm. He could feel years of battlefield stress, the gnawing ache of old wounds, the sheer exhaustion of wandering lost, all begin to dissolve under her ministrations.
His mind, usually a wasteland of fractured memories and guilt, began to quiet after years. The scents, the warmth, the almost magical touch? It was profoundly calming. He compared it internally, ridiculously, impossibly, to how ancient myths described the touch of a goddess smoothing away mortal cares, pressing peace directly into bone and sinew.
He let out a long, slow breath, his head turned to the side, eyes closed. Maybe… maybe Blissford wasn't so bad after all. Maybe this place, this strange city of dreams, could actually offer some respite. He felt himself drifting, sinking into a state of relaxation deeper than any sleep he'd had since before the final battle.
The City of Pleasurable Dreams?Well goodness, it definitely feels like a pleasurable dream.
He was vaguely aware of her moving down his back, working on the tight muscles along his spine, then his legs. Time seemed to blur, but he'd never noticed. The clock hung just in front of him, but the pleasure… No, he couldn't check it. His body was too relaxed to glance at it for just a second.
The candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows. The sandalwood scent felt like a warm blanket. He was almost asleep, lost in a haze of pure physical relief…
But then—
Something cold trickled down his shoulder blade.
It wasn't oil. It felt like… water? Wait, a tear perhaps?
It was so sudden, so contrary to the warmth and comfort, that it jolted him from his near slumber. His eyes snapped open. Instinct, honed by years of war where the smallest anomaly could mean death, took over. Slowly, carefully, he turned his head just enough to see. Finally, he could control himself.
Beatrice was leaning over him, and her expression was hidden by the angle and the fall of her hair. But for a split second, as she shifted, he saw her eyes reflected in a polished brass bowl on a nearby stand.
They were red. Not bloodshot, but filled with a deep crimson light.
And her smile, the professional, serene smile she'd worn, faltered. It trembled at the edges, threatening to break, revealing something pained beneath.
Then, as if she realized he was looking, it snapped back into place, like a mask perfectly reapplied. But he'd seen it all. He'd seen the crack in the facade.
He shifted slightly on the table and pushed himself up gently onto his elbows, careful not to make any sudden moves. The abrupt end to the blissful relaxation left an odd vacancy in his limbs.
"Beatrice?" he asked so low, but rougher than he intended. "Are you… alright?"
She froze. Her whole body went rigid, her hands hovering just above his skin. He could feel the tension radiating from her, pure contrast to the soothing energy moments before.
Her head remained bowed.
"Please," she whispered, the word barely audible, tight with fear. "Don't… don't make me get caught. Just lie back down. Please. Just let me finish."
Huh? What?
Caught? Caught doing what? Crying? Showing emotion?
The plea hung in the air, heavy and desperate. Avange felt a chill that had nothing to do with the tear that had landed on his skin. Something was deeply wrong here.
He slowly lowered himself back down, but the spell was broken. Utterly shattered. The room felt different now. The candlelight seemed harsher, the shadows deeper. The scent of sandalwood felt suffocating, like a placebo effect.
Her hands resumed their work, but the magic was gone. Her touch was still technically proficient, hitting the right spots, applying the right pressure, but it felt… hollow. Distant. Empty.
The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Avange lay there, eyes open, staring at the floor beneath the table, his mind racing now as usual. What had he seen? What did her plea mean?
This city, Blissford, with its gleaming towers and perfect smiles… it felt increasingly like a beautiful, intricate trap. Maybe his hunch was right after all.
He couldn't relax at all. Every muscle that had loosened moments before now felt coiled and ready. He was a bit aware of her presence, not as a healer, but as someone trapped, someone afraid. The rest of the massage passed in this strained silence.
When she finally murmured, "We are finished," Avange pushed himself up quickly, swinging his legs over the side of the table. Beatrice stepped back, avoiding his eyes, already beginning to tidy her station with quick, efficient movements.
She held out the crystalline slate he'd seen the Grand Therapist use earlier. A feedback form glowed on its surface, asking him to rate the service on a scale of one to five stars.
He took the slate, his fingers brushing hers, and her skin felt cool. He hesitated, his gaze flicking towards her averted face. He saw the slight tremor in her hands as she folded a towel—his towel. He thought about the flash of red, the desperate whisper.
Then, deliberately, he pressed the fifth star.
Beatrice looked up, seemingly surprised. A smile touched her lips, widening slightly. But damn. It was the saddest, most broken smile Avange had ever witnessed. It remained shadowed with something similar to despair.
It was the smile of someone praised for pretending, rewarded for hiding their pain.
"Thank you," she murmured, her voice regaining some of its professional composure. "Thank you for checking in at the Grand Bathhouse." She gave a small, formal bow, the emerald silk of her robe shimmering, then…
She turned and glided out of the chamber, leaving him alone.
Avange sat there for a long time, the lingering scent of sandalwood and oil clinging to his skin. He stared at the flickering candles, the luxurious fabrics, the gleaming surfaces of the room. It was paradise, designed for pleasure, for forgetting. That was what the city of Blissford was about, right?
But all he felt was a deep sense of wrongness, a cold certainty that beneath all this gold and perfume, something was festering.
It felt off. Terribly, fundamentally off.
And he had a sinking feeling he and Rodrigo had just walked right into the thick of it.