The capital smelled like perfume and rotting fruit.
I hadn't noticed it when I lived in the Bureau's basement, mostly because the basement smelled entirely like toxic ash and damp earth. But after breathing the crisp, sharp pine air of the North, the capital's thick, humid atmosphere felt like breathing through a wet silk blanket.
Our carriage, pulled by Akira's massive black spectral-wolves, rumbled over the perfectly paved stone roads of the outer city.
"The architecture here is so incredibly pretentious," Yuki complained from the opposite seat.
The twelve-year-old cat-boy was currently fanning himself with a painted silk fan, looking out the window at the towering pagodas and sprawling, gold-leafed estates. "Look at those roof tiles. That much glaze is just tacky. And don't get me started on the spiritual energy! The leylines here are a complete mess. It's giving me a migraine."
