The common room of the Bone and Barrel Inn was a cavernous space filled with the smell of damp earth and the faint, sweet rot of ancient parchment. The only light came from flickering tallow candles that burned with a pale green flame, casting long, distorted shadows against the basalt walls. Adonis and Millia sat at a corner table, their presence drawing the silent, hollow gazes of the other patrons.
The Wight innkeeper, who introduced himself as Barnaby, approached their table with a heavy, rhythmic thud of his boots. He set down two pewter mugs filled with a dark, viscous liquid that smelled faintly of iron and fermented berries.
"Special brew for the breathing ones," Barnaby rumbled, his gray skin tightening over his massive jaw. "It keeps the blood from thickening in this cold. On the house, since my daughter has taken such a shine to you."
Adonis looked at the mug but didn't touch it.
He leaned back as he studied the massive undead.
