Once washed, changed, and rested — a rare thing — we left the inn, slipping into the streets of Zagnaroth, where night never killed activity.
The city pulsed, even under the stars.
The forges kept hammering. The burning markets remained open.
Shadows wandered between red lights, and the air, always warm, carried the scent of molten metal and roasted meats.
We walked, silent.
In search of something good, for once. A meal. A real one.
And there, around a curved alley, we saw it.
The storefront.
A luxury restaurant.
A low, circular building, embedded in an ancient vein of polished basalt.
The facade was carved directly into the stone, inlaid with elegant demonic symbols, interwoven with strands of red copper pulsing slowly like magical breathing.
Above the entrance, a flaming arch bore a name in forged letters, glowing hot in the center and blackened at the edges: "The Broken Shield."
