The sun sat dead center in the sky when Roland's silhouette appeared at the end of the dusty street.
The wooden door of The Silver Bell welcomed him with its familiar creak. The moment Roland crossed the threshold, an instant hush swept over the room. Every pair of eyes locked onto him.
Clink. The teaspoon in Adul's hand froze mid-stir, dangling rigidly over his steaming cup. Naya's fingers, which had been rubbing a velvet cloth over her dagger's blade, went static. In the dim corner, Dom stood as solid as a gallery statue, his unblinking grey eyes pinned to Roland. Near the window frame, Eva slowly turned her head, waiting in silence.
Rianor was the first to rise from his wooden chair.
Without a word, Roland reached into the inner pocket of his coat. He withdrew a scroll of thick parchment, sealed with a dollop of bright red wax in the shape of the seven-rayed rising sun. Roland raised the scroll.
