The inn was dimly lit, its wooden beams creaking faintly under the weight of years. Smoke from the open hearth curled through the rafters, carrying with it the scent of roasted meat, spiced ale, and the faint tang of sweat from beastmen fresh off the road.
The murmur of voices and the shuffle of heavy boots created a background hum, blending seamlessly into the tired groans of travelers seeking warmth and shelter.
Kael sat near the entrance, still a little stiff from the long trek. His icy boots, enchanted to slide and glide across frozen terrain, had finally been swapped for sturdier shoes that Valkar had practically forced onto his feet.
The dragon was always like that—overbearing, protective, and entirely convinced that Kael could not so much as walk three steps without his interference. And perhaps, Kael admitted reluctantly, he was right this time. His feet ached from skating half the day, and the warmth of the inn felt like heaven.
