The House of Bells looked, from the outside, like the kind of place built to intimidate and comfort at the same time — an architectural feat only achieved by places that mix healing with death.
Tall, symmetrical, made entirely of polished stone and oxidized copper details, with pointed arch windows and unmoving bells hanging like sleeping sentinels. If I were a respectable citizen, I'd walk in through the front door, announce my arrival with a dramatic sigh, and maybe even a rose between my teeth.
Unfortunately, the respectable citizen in me had been handcuffed, insulted, and thrown into a damp cell a few hours ago.
So… window.
From where I stood, I could see three windows on the building's west side. One on the ground floor, decorated with vines and surrounded by clay pots that looked more like ceramic traps. Another on the second floor, partially open. And a third, higher up, shut tight, with heavy curtains hiding any clue of what might be inside.
