We left the inn early the next morning, before the sun had fully risen over the horizon and painted the sky in shades of pink and gold.
The streets were still mostly empty, just a few early risers opening their shops or heading to work. Our breath misted in the cool morning air as we made our way through the quiet town.
Now we stood at the edge of the riverside settlement, watching wagons and carriages being loaded for various routes.
Drivers shouted instructions to their helpers, horses stamped and snorted, cargo was secured with practiced efficiency.
I approached a driver heading west, a weathered man with sun-darkened skin and callused hands that spoke of years on the road. He was supervising the loading of what looked like textiles and pottery.
"Need passage west," I said. "Three passengers. How far are you going?"
He squinted at us, evaluating.
