He didn't need them to perform his father's last rites — but he wanted them to. Because having people from your home there… that was tradition. That was ritual.
His father had dedicated his life to the village. In death, the least they could do was show him some kindness.
And while Damon had made some less-than-subtle threats, it was the village head who had been the first to shed any semblance of cordiality.
Damon had gone to bed with these thoughts circling in his mind.
He didn't bother doing anything else — just got himself a room at the inn and slept. There was no reason for him to worry. He wasn't in a rush.
The inn was modest. A small room, far from luxurious. Even though he had paid the innkeeper, Lana, double the amount, she still only gave him the bare minimum.
That was fine.
He didn't mind that the bed felt like stone, or that the pillow was more like a crumpled rag. He was on the upper floor, with a nice view of the village, and that was enough.
