The bounty notice promising one hundred gold pieces was more than just information; it was a necessity. Brannok's coffers were almost empty. The expenses of the journey, food, the horse, the inn room... it had all devoured his remaining funds. The hunt for the "Children of the Serpent" was no longer a mere curiosity or a personal quest; it had become a matter of economic survival. The hunt was now truly on.
He left the tavern not through the door, but by a more discreet and elevated path. With an agile step, he leaped onto a stack of empty barrels, then used a pile of wooden crates as a stepping stone to reach a window ledge. His fingers gripped the stone, and with a powerful pull, he hauled himself onto the inn's roof.
The cityscape opened up before him, a maze of tiles, chimneys, and beams. Without hesitation, he began to run. It was a fluid and efficient dash, a series of measured leaps and instinctive rolls that carried him across the rooftops like a feline. He was parkouring without even thinking, his body far more accustomed to this mode of travel than to fighting through crowded alleys. His goal: to reach the low, flat roofs of the tanners' quarter and find an ideal observation post.
After several minutes of this aerial traverse, he found what he was looking for: a wide, open roof overlooking a strategic crossroads where several alleys converged. The view was perfect. But the smell... It was unbearable. The acrid stench of rotting hides, tanning baths, and chemicals rose in a permanent, nauseating wave. For an ordinary man, it would have been an ordeal. For Brannok, with his heightened senses, it was sensory torture.
He had to concentrate, to mentally filter out this parasitic stench. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking deep breaths, forcing his mind to analyze the olfactory flood rather than endure it. He identified the smell of rotting leather, of chlorine, of mold, the blandness of human misery.
Then, he got to work. Hour after hour, immobile as a statue, he sniffed the air, tracking the slightest discordant note in this fetid symphony. His nose, initially assaulted, gradually began to adapt, his brain sorting and classifying the smells.
That's when he perceived it. A particular odor, cloying and persistent, that returned intermittently. It wasn't the smell of the tanners. It was the smell of cheap incense. A scent he knew well. Zarekh sometimes used it in the circus, to mask other odors or to create an exotic atmosphere during certain shows. He had also smelled it on charlatan fortune-tellers or, more sinisterly, in the dens of minor cults.
But here, it wasn't a single source. Several individuals, mainly beggars he saw passing below, carried this same fragrance. This was no coincidence. Poor people who smelled of incense were as suspicious as fish that smelled of roses.
A cold smile stretched Brannok's lips. He had his trail. The beggars were either recruits or messengers. They had to lead to a nest eventually. All he had to do now was wait, patiently, for his prey to show itself. The hunt for the man – or the serpent – had just begun.