The inn was dark, the timber beams creaking gently under the weight of years. A wreath of smoke from the open fire curled up through the rafters, carrying the scent of roasting meat, spiced ale, and the pungent smell of the sweat of beastmen off the road.
The murmur of voices and the stamp of heavy boots served as a background murmur, going well with the fatigued groans of travelers seeking comfort and shelter.
Kael rested against the door, still slightly stiff from the grueling travel. His icy boots, magic-locked to slip and glide smoothly over cold ground, had finally been replaced by more durable footwear that Valkar had more or less jammed onto his feet.
The dragon had always been so—dominant, protective, and utterly convinced that Kael could not walk three paces without him inserting himself into the situation. And perhaps, Kael grudgingly accepted, he was correct this time. His feet ached from having skated for half a day, and the warmth of the inn was blissful.
