The warded kitchen of the River Lantern Inn smelled of boiled brine, elderberry wine, and fresh pine shavings.
Outside, the seventh bell had finished its slow toll from the belfry of St. Jude, its bronze vibration fading into the steady roar of the swollen river weir. Inside, the heavy oak shutters were barred with three-inch ash pins, and two tallow rush-lights burned in iron wall brackets, casting long, wavering shadows across the pine worktable.
Four people sat around the scarred timber board.
Sir Cael Ardent sat with his back to the cold hearth, his white silk cloak thrown over the bench, his polished steel breastplate unbuckled and resting on the floorboards between his boots. He had stripped off his chainmail coif; his golden hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his pale forehead. His collar was pulled open, revealing the inflamed, purplish rim of the ancient necrotic wound where the Returner seal was grafted into his collarbone. The flesh around the gold ring was weeping pale, watery ichor, smelling faintly of sulfur and ozone.
Across from him sat Lady Signe Lorr, her fingers resting lightly on the bound cylinder of the Common Charter. Beside her, Alden Bram leaned his heavy forearms on the table, his leather apron grey with stone dust and drying hydraulic lime from his morning work beneath Vannic Dorr’s cellar.
