The Edge of the Old Wolf Tavern
The sun hung low over Vellore, streaking the sky with molten orange and crimson. Out where they walked, the capital spread out before them in seemingly endless sequence, cobblestone streets and vibrant squares tangled together, every corner thrumming with voices, footsteps, and the distant rattle of carts. Leon and his friends moved with measured intent, gliding through the crowd as if they were shadows themselves among the living. Their cloaks brushed elbows and shoulders, provoking passing glances from fascinated passersby, but no one dared get close. The city pulsed with life, but beneath it all was a taut, unspoken pressure pressing against them—an automatic warning that this grandeur, this energy, was that of strangers, not trespassers.
