The three of them came to a slow stop before the batwing doors of the guild, the worn wood weathered by years of rough boots and rougher fists, its surface scratched and nicked by blades, rings, and time. Redd was the one to reach first, pushing one side of the door open with a steady palm, and it creaked wide on rusted hinges that groaned in protest. The noise was sharp enough to momentarily fracture the low roar of voices from inside.
As they stepped through the threshold, the tavern-like space before them swallowed them whole in light, scent, and noise. The stale bite of old ale mingled with the heavy musk of sweat-drenched leathers. Smoke hung in the rafters, not from cigars but from torches half-doused in lamp oil. A few brass lanterns swayed gently from iron chains, casting trembling shadows over long communal tables and the glinting metal of a dozen sheathed weapons.
Their entrance did not go unnoticed.
