Ivaylo settled into the cushioned chair, its once-plump stuffing now worn thin from too many bodies with the same ambition as his. The wooden walls of the administrative building creaked softly around him, beams soaked in the heat of the southern sun.
The rising star of the South, they called it, this half-built city of promise.
I know they are building a sewer; that would be very nice for the smell...
He thought as he remembered the bad smells that invaded his nostrils as his carriage roled on the street.
He glanced around, irritation tightening his jaw. The room was packed. Men in fine robes, others in dusty travel clothes, all fidgeting with ledgers, preparing to make their bid.
Ivaylo loathed crowds, especially those like this.
There was something that took the breath out of his mouth, whenever that tangling of limbs and heads swarmed around him.
