Ethan pushed open the heavy wooden door of the inn, moving like a man half-dead. His bones
felt made of lead, his breath caught in ragged gasps. The innkeeper—a balding fellow with a
crooked mustache—peered at him over the counter, blinking in surprise.
"Room for one?" the man asked.
"Yeah," Ethan rasped. "Quietest you've got."
He dropped a silver coin onto the counter. The innkeeper took it, wide-eyed at the grime and
blood still streaked across Ethan's cloak.
"Er… second floor, last door on the left."
Ethan climbed narrow stairs that groaned under his weight. He staggered into a small room with a
single bed and a washbasin, slammed the door shut behind him, and let himself collapse facedown onto the mattress.
For a moment, he lay there, panting. His muscles twitched in small spasms from leftover
adrenaline. His fingers still itched for his sword hilt. But no matter how exhausted he felt, he
couldn't resist the pull of the glowing blue screen flickering in his vision.
