The Drunken Badger Tavern looked like it had survived more cave-ins than celebrations.
Its stone walls were blackened with soot, patched unevenly with different shades of rock, as if repairs had been made with whatever was closest at hand.
The wooden sign above the door creaked softly in the heat, its carving crude but unmistakable, a badger sprawled on its back, tankard clutched in one paw, tongue lolling out in defeat.
Unlike the forges outside, no open flames roared here. Instead, warmth seeped from within, steady and heavy, the kind that settled into one's bones.
The scent that had drawn Robert in grew stronger. Roasted meat, thick stew, spilled ale, and something faintly metallic, as if even the food had absorbed the town's nature.
The door itself was reinforced with iron bands, scarred with dents and scratches that suggested it had been slammed shut more than once, possibly during a brawl rather than a storm.
