The tavern sat just two streets down from the guildhall, nestled between an apothecary and a blacksmith's shop. By day it served stew and ale to apprentices and wandering traders, but by night, it belonged to adventurers.
Tonight, it was full.
Full of noise. Full of smoke. Full of stories that grew taller with each drink.
And now, it was full of Inigo's squad.
The door swung open with a heavy creak as the group stepped inside, still bearing the grime of battle—some had cleaned their faces at least, others didn't bother. They were too tired, too proud, too alive to care about appearances.
The barkeep, a thick-armed man named Gerren, looked up from polishing a mug. His expression changed when he saw them—equal parts surprise and recognition.
"Well, gods damn," he said. "Thought I heard fireworks. That was you lot?"
Sark grinned. "You could say that."
"I heard you cleared the Ruined Temple." Gerren glanced toward the kitchen and shouted, "Rika! Bring out the big trays!"
