Dinner was a surprisingly quiet affair. The inn's common room was now even more crowded than before, the air thick with the murmur of hushed conversations and the rustle of turning pages. The scholars and mages were a dedicated lot, it seemed.
The stew was as good as Elara had promised, a hearty, savory concoction of root vegetables and tender meat that warmed Emily from the inside out. They sat at a small, secluded table in the corner, a silent, united front against the curious, prying eyes of the other patrons.
Adrien, ever the diplomat, was making polite, but pointedly vague conversation with a portly, bearded scholar who had cornered him by the hearth. Kieran was a silent, imposing presence, his back to the wall, his gaze sweeping the room, a constant, vigilant watch.
