The Cold Apple Inn, contrary to its name, had a hot, almost suffocating atmosphere.
The inside was filled with the pungent smell of woodsmoke, spilled ale, sweat, and roasting meat.
The crackling of the fire in the corner hearth mingled with drunken laughter, bellows, and the dull melody of a lute being clumsily strummed by a bard.
This place was a heart where the filthy blood flowing through Veythral's veins collected; a sanctuary for mercenaries, outlaws, weary merchants, and all manner of souls who had been dealt a bad hand by fate.
As Cassian stepped through the door, there was a momentary pause in the inn's general hum.
A few fleeting, appraising glances turned towards a newcomer like him, but seeing no threatening edge, they quickly returned to their own affairs.
In this city, no one cared what another was doing, as long as it didn't spell trouble for them.
