A tavern sat carved into the mountain's belly, its walls rough stone lit by lanterns burning with faint silver flame. The air was thick with smoke and sweat, the press of bodies louder than the crack of mugs on wood. Refugees had poured in as soon as the gates opened, and the place had swollen with their voices.
Lucian pushed the door open, his hood shadowing his face. Lucy followed, calm as ever, her cloak brushing the floor. Karl ducked his head low, smirk hidden but not gone, the smell of spilt ale already curling in his nose.
The tavern stilled for half a breath when they entered. New faces always drew eyes now. But the weight of exhaustion was stronger than suspicion. The crowd soon turned back to their drinks, to their hushed arguments and raised voices.
