They left the plaza as the lanterns were being lit, golden squares blooming one after another in the windows above the street. The market crowd thinned to families lingering at food stalls, voices soft now, tempered by the promise of rest. For Inigo and Lyra, the day had felt long enough to be two, but the prospect of a meal together drew them forward like a magnet.
"Where?" Lyra asked.
"You're the one with standards," Inigo said.
She arched a brow. "Says the man who thinks silog counts as diplomacy."
"It worked, didn't it?"
"It bribed me into not killing you," she said, but the corner of her mouth tugged upward.
They chose a tavern just off the square, one of the older buildings where dark beams crisscrossed the ceiling and the smell of smoke clung comfortably to the plaster. Tables were already filling, but a serving woman recognized Lyra with a flicker of familiarity—hunters and adventurers built reputations—and steered them toward a corner table by the shuttered window.
