The "hour or so" stretched into a long, twilight ride as the road climbed into wooded hills. Just as the last of the sun's light bled from the sky, we reached the waypost.
It wasn't an inn as I knew them—no welcoming lanterns, no blooming window boxes. It was a squat, stone fortification built into a hillside, a remnant from an older, bloodier time. A high wooden palisade surrounded a central yard, and the main building had narrow, slit-like windows. Smoke curled from a central chimney, the only sign of life in the gathering dark. A sign, bleached by weather, creaked on its post: The Stone Sentinel.
Kaelen gave a sharp hand signal. Two knights trotted ahead, hammering on the heavy gate. A shutter slid open in a watchtower, a face peered out, and with a shout from within, the gates groaned open.
