The carriage rattled to a stop outside a modest inn on the quieter edge of the capital's merchant district. The sign creaked in the night breeze: "The Silver Quill." Seraphine paid the driver with coins from Oliver's pouch—efficient, emotionless—then hoisted the three drunks like sacks of flour. Oliver mumbled incoherently, Isolde giggled into her mug (which she'd somehow kept from spilling), and Ariana snored softly against Seraphine's shoulder.
The innkeeper, a portly man with a mustache like a broom, raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Adventurers were weird; money was money. He handed over a key to a second-floor room—spacious, with two beds, a washbasin, and a window overlooking the alley.
