The Grey District did not welcome strangers, and it certainly did not welcome knights. To survive here, one had to breathe in the scent of stagnant river water, coal dust, and desperation until it became a second skin. On this night, the moon was a sickly sliver behind the smog of the Capital, illuminating enough light to the rotting eaves of the "Bottom Bell" tavern.
Zachren stood before the sagging, two-story building, his reflection lost in a puddle of oily water. He wasn't wearing his polished Aldenar plate or his signature white-and-gold cloak. Instead, he was draped in a heavy, stained wool tunic that smelled of cheap tobacco and stale ale. A fake hump sat beneath his cloak, and a tangled, salt-and-pepper beard was expertly glued to his jaw, masking the youthful vigor of his face. He leaned heavily on a gnarled wooden staff, a staff that hid a thin, lethal blade of Northern steel within its core.
