Roald woke warm.
The mattress held its shape. The blanket lay heavy and brushed smooth. No draft slipped through warped shutters. No damp scent of river-mist crept along the floorboards.
For a moment, he did not remember where he was.
Across the room, Sir Wilkinson was already seated at the narrow table.
Not armed.
Not alert.
Simply awake.
His coat hung neatly over the chair back. His boots were aligned beneath the bed. His satchel lay open, instruments returned to their sleeves with habitual care. Before him sat a blank page.
The candle beside it had burned low.
"You didn't sleep," Roald said.
"I did," Sir Wilkinson replied.
It was the kind of answer that ended a subject.
They dressed and descended to the common room.
Warm oat steam and woodsmoke filled the air. Merchants spoke in moderated tones. Even the laughter at the far table felt measured — never rising too high, never falling too low. The inn did not feel lively.
It felt arranged.
Breakfast was brought:
Rye bread, still warm.
Goat's cheese, firm and pale.
Salted herring split open and glistening.
Stewed apples dark with spice.
Oat pottage glossed with honey.
Watered ale.
Roald ate eagerly.
Sir Wilkinson ate because it was sensible to do so.
His movements were precise, economical. He chewed without tasting. Once, he paused with bread still in hand, eyes unfocused — not scanning the room, but replaying something.
"The ruler seemed pleased," Roald offered.
Sir Wilkinson swallowed.
"Yes."
A pause.
"He spoke well."
"Yes."
Another pause.
Roald waited.
Sir Wilkinson set the bread down carefully.
"He spoke," he said at last, "as though he had practiced."
Roald frowned. "Is that strange?"
"For a craftsman?" Sir Wilkinson replied quietly. "Yes."
He wiped his fingers slowly.
"There were no hesitations. No searching for words. No interruptions from advisers. Even his questions arrived in order — as though arranged beforehand."
He did not sound impressed.
"In my experience," he continued, "real interest is rarely so tidy."
Roald considered that.
Sir Wilkinson's gaze drifted toward the window, but not to look outside — only to avoid looking at nothing.
"The chamber," he added, almost to himself, "was positioned for sound. Every answer carried. Every gesture was visible. It was… balanced."
Balanced.
He did not say the word staged.
He did not need to.
Roald shifted uneasily, though he did not know why.
"Is that bad?" he asked.
Sir Wilkinson exhaled slowly.
"I prefer wood that shows its grain," he said. "Not wood painted to resemble something it is not."
That was all.
He rose.
"I have business this morning," he said. "It may take some time."
"With the ruler?" Roald asked.
"No."
The answer came too quickly to be careless, but not quickly enough to be rehearsed.
"You will remain here," Sir Wilkinson continued. "Do not wander far. And listen more than you speak."
Roald nodded.
Sir Wilkinson placed coin upon the table and departed without finishing his ale.
The door shut behind him.
The inn's rhythm resumed.
Roald lingered over the last of his pottage, then waved the innkeeper over with a grin that belonged more to Honeyburrow than to Dillaclor.
"You've watered this less than yesterday," he said solemnly, lifting the mug. "I can nearly taste something in it."
The innkeeper snorted. "If you could taste properly, you'd complain more."
"I am complaining."
"You're smiling."
Roald leaned back in his chair. "That's because I haven't yet seen what you charge for it."
A brow lifted. "You eat like a dockhand and pay like a scholar."
"I aspire to balance."
"Balance doesn't keep the hearth lit."
Roald lowered his voice conspiratorially. "You could always claim I'm a visiting dignitary. Raise the price. I'll nod gravely and say nothing."
The innkeeper studied him for a moment — really studied him — then shook his head. "Dignitaries don't scrape bowls clean."
Roald looked down at his empty dish. "Waste is a northern sin."
"So is talking too much."
Roald grinned wider. "Then I'm half-forgiven."
A flicker of something softened in the innkeeper's expression — familiarity not yet earned, but not refused either.
"Eat while it's warm next time," the innkeeper said. "And don't let the city sand the edges off you."
Roald blinked at that.
"I've rather grown fond of my edges."
"Good," the innkeeper muttered, collecting the bowl. "Keep them."
Roald watched him retreat behind the counter.
And then —
He felt it.
Attention.
In the far corner of the room sat a man in worn leather and dark wool. Travel-scuffed boots. Hands lined with old scars. A wooden cup resting between them.
He was watching Roald.
Not with hostility.
Not even with intent.
With curiosity.
As though observing something unfinished.
Their eyes met.
The man tilted his head slightly.
And this time —
He did not look away.