Helena arrived at the edge of a sleepy border town called Dunmarrow, nestled against the looming shadow of Blackthorn Forest. The sun had just begun to dip below the tree line, painting the horizon in bruised purples and dying gold. Dust clung to her boots, her thighs sore from riding all day without pause, but her mind was sharper than ever. She couldn't afford mistakes.
The town was quiet, but not dead. Lanterns flickered to life one by one as vendors packed up their stalls. She tugged her hood lower and wrapped a dark cloth over the lower half of her face. Her long hair was already hidden beneath a loose cap, and she wore a faded brown riding coat over a plain tunic and trousers—masculine enough to draw no questions, but humble enough to blend in.
She guided her horse to the nearest inn—The Crooked Acorn, a squat stone building that smelled of smoke, ale, and wet wood. A few drunk voices echoed from inside, but nothing unusual.
