"My Lord, you may come!" the servant's voice called out from the distance. He stood at the entrance of the inn, the door slightly ajar.
"A lord?" one of the men standing in line in front of the inn muttered, his expression twisted in disgust.
Unfortunately for him, Zayden heard. His head turned slightly, his crimson eyes glinting beneath the falling snow.
The murmur in the crowd died almost instantly, the air thickening with something heavy—a silent warning that demanded obedience.
"Did you say something?"
His voice wasn't raised. It didn't need to be. The man's smirk faltered, his confidence draining away as quickly as it had come.
"N-No, my lord," he stammered, taking a step back.
Zayden's gaze lingered for a moment longer before he looked away, adjusting his gloves as if the man had never existed.
"Good," he murmured, his tone indifferent—almost bored.
He stepped forward, brushing past the silent crowd, his long jacket trailing behind him like a shadow.
