The tavern doors groaned as they opened, and a man wrapped in a black cloak stepped inside. His face remained hidden beneath the shadow of his hood. Mud-stained brown boots carried him forward, and beneath the cloak a reinforced leather jacket clung to his frame, chainmail guarding one shoulder and running down his arm to the lower leg. Pressed leather pants completed his worn gear—practical, silent, hardened by travel.
The tavern wasn't crowded, yet the noise was thick and unpleasant. Without hesitation, the man walked straight toward the keeper's desk and dropped two silver coins.
Calm, steady, he asked for a room for the night, a bit of bread and cheese, and a bottle of ale for his supper.
The keeper stared at him with a sour, hateful expression. After a brief moment, he snapped, his voice sharp and unapologetic: "These coins only cover the room. You'll pay another two silver for the supper, mate."
He leaned forward aggressively. "And if you don't have the coin, then fuck off. Others are waiting."
Before the man could respond, a woman swept into the room and struck the keeper hard across the neck.
"That's not how you speak to a customer, Richard. Did you forget? We still have debts to pay." Richard muttered an apology and forced a polite tone as he turned back to the cloaked man. The woman offered him a small, reassuring smile and handed him the key to his room.
"A slave will bring your supper shortly, and assist you with anything else you may need," she said, her smile lingering a moment too long.
He nodded and started toward the stairs, but her voice followed him. "Excuse me, sir... may I know your name?" He paused, turned back slightly. "Edward." Then he continued up the wooden stairs.
The room he entered was warmer than expected; the fireplace was already lit, and the bed looked cleaner than any he had slept in for days. He removed his cloak, drew his sword, and set it on the table with a dull thud.
A medium travel bag was dropped beside it. One by one, he stripped off the rest of his worn clothes. A few minutes passed before a timid knock sounded on the door.
"Permission to enter, my lord?" a soft voice asked. Edward opened the door. A young slave girl stepped inside. Her simple dress was torn in several places, her feet bare, her posture small and fearful. Edward had seen enough of the world to know exactly why she looked like that—a slave with an owner who valued coin more than human life. Her skin was thin, nearly fragile. She set the dinner tray on the table and stood against the wall, head lowered, waiting.
Edward closed the door quietly and sat in a chair, watching her for a moment. Then, with a low, rough voice, he asked, "What's your name, girl?" She flinched slightly. "Beatrica, my lord."
"I'm no lord," Edward muttered, finishing the last of his meal. He stood, handed her his clothes, and said, "I'm told you'll do whatever I need. Take these and wash them. If anything is missing, I'll know. Come back when you're done." The girl nodded quickly, gathered the clothes, and slipped out of the room.