I wander through the streets of Millhaven for another ten minutes, taking in more of the town as I search for a place to eat.
The architecture is fascinating in a medieval way—buildings made of stone and timber, some two or three stories tall, leaning slightly as if they've been here for centuries.
The cobblestone streets are uneven, worn down by countless feet over who knows how many years.
Laundry hangs from windows on upper floors, flapping in the breeze.
Shop signs creak on their hinges—a hammer and anvil for the smithy, a loaf of bread for the bakery, a boot for the cobbler.
The people are dressed in practical clothes—tunics, dresses, leather aprons, wool cloaks.
Everyone looks lived-in, real. Dirt under fingernails. Sweat stains on shirts. Calluses on hands.
These aren't NPCs.
They're people going about their lives in a world that existed long before I arrived.
I pass a few more shops.
A tailor with bolts of fabric visible through the window. A general store with barrels of grain and salt outside. An apothecary with dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, visible through the open door.
And then I see it.
A tavern.
The building is larger than the shops around it, two stories tall with a stone foundation and timber upper floor.
The sign hanging above the door is painted wood, showing a wagon wheel broken in half.
Faded letters spell out "The Broken Wheel."
Through the windows, I can see the warm glow of firelight and oil lamps.
Shadows of people moving inside.
I can hear muffled sounds—conversation, laughter, the clinking of mugs.
It looks... normal. Welcoming, even.
I push open the heavy wooden door and step inside.
The atmosphere hits me immediately.
It's warm—almost too warm after the cool outside air.
The heat comes from a large stone fireplace on the far wall, flames crackling and casting dancing shadows across the room.
The smell is a mix of things: roasted meat, fresh bread, spilled ale, wood smoke, leather, and the sweaty musk of too many bodies in an enclosed space.
The tavern is maybe half full.
Wooden tables of various sizes are scattered throughout the main room, most occupied.
The bar runs along the left wall, dark wood polished smooth by years of use.
Behind it, shelves hold bottles and mugs, and a heavy-set woman with graying hair tied back in a bun is wiping down the counter with a rag.
The floor is stone near the entrance, worn smooth, then transitions to old wooden planks that creak under my feet as I walk further inside.
People glance up as I enter.
Some stares linger on my strange clothes—my hoodie and jeans standing out starkly against their medieval attire.
A few whisper to their companions.
But most quickly lose interest and return to their drinks and conversations.
I make my way to the bar, weaving between tables. The murmur of conversation surrounds me. I catch fragments:
"—heard the northern road's been blocked by bandits—"
"—three silver for a sack of grain, can you believe—"
"—saw another dumb one fall for the kid's trick this morning—"
I reach the bar and the woman behind it looks up, her expression neutral but tired.
"What can I get you?" she asks. Her voice is rough, like she's been talking all day.
"Something to eat," I say. "Something cheap."
She looks me up and down, taking in my strange appearance. Her eyes linger on my hoodie for a moment before she speaks.
"Stew and bread. One gold."
One gold. I have no idea if that's expensive or cheap, but it's what I can afford without spending everything.
"Deal," I say, pulling out my coin.
She takes it, holds it up to the light from the fireplace, then—to my surprise—bites it. Testing if it's real, I guess. Satisfied, she pockets it and returns back the change.
"Sit anywhere," she says, jerking her head toward the tables. "I'll bring it out."
I nod and turn to survey the room.
The tables are scattered throughout the space with no particular pattern.
Near the fireplace, a group of four men are drinking and talking loudly—laborers maybe, based on their rough clothes and muscular builds.
At a small table in the corner, an old man sits alone nursing a mug, staring into the fire.
A couple sits close together at another table, speaking in low voices, the woman laughing at something the man said.
I need somewhere I can sit with my back to a wall. Somewhere I can see the whole room.
After everything that's happened today, I'm not taking chances.
I spot an empty table in the far corner, positioned perfectly. I can see the bar, the door, the fireplace, all the other tables. No one can come up behind me.
I make my way over and sit down, pressing my back against the rough wooden wall. The chair creaks under my weight.
The table is scarred with old knife marks and stains from spilled drinks.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and force my shoulders to relax.
I let my eyes wander across the room, watching the other patrons out of habit.
The old man takes a sip of his drink. The couple is holding hands across their table. The laborers burst into laughter at something.
All normal. All safe.
And then my gaze lands on her.
There's a woman sitting at a table on the opposite side of the room, maybe fifteen feet away.
And she's staring directly at me.
My stomach drops.
She's beautiful.
Beautiful in a way that seems almost dangerous.
Her hair is long and red—not auburn or orange, but deep crimson red like fresh blood.
It cascades over her shoulders in thick waves, catching the firelight and seeming to glow. Her skin is pale and flawless, making the red of her hair and lips stand out even more.
Her face is striking. High cheekbones. A sharp jawline.
Full lips painted dark red that curve into a small, knowing smile.
And her eyes—lined heavily with kohl—are dark and intense, fixed on me with an expression I can't quite read.
But it's her body that really draws my attention.
She's wearing a dress that should be illegal.
Deep crimson fabric that matches her hair, cut so low in the front that I can see the inner curves of her breasts, the valley between them, the way they press together as she leans forward slightly.
The dress is tight around her torso, hugging every curve, emphasizing her slim waist and the swell of her hips.
The dress has slits on both sides that go all the way up to her thighs.
She has her legs crossed, and the position reveals smooth, pale skin from ankle to upper thigh. One leg bounces slightly, making the fabric shift, revealing more.
She's not eating. Not drinking. Just sitting there. Watching me.
And smiling.
That smile. It's not friendly. It's knowing. Predatory. Like she knows something I don't.
My blood runs cold.
I know her.
I know exactly who she is.