The wagon that bore Prince Adam and his loyal band rolled to a slow, deliberate halt before a modest inn tucked away along the busy arteries of the Merian capital.
It was an unremarkable place to say the least. A Low roof and a faded signboard swaying lazily in the evening breeze.
It was a structure meant to be overlooked, and it was perfect.
Adam stepped down first, boots meeting the ground with quiet authority. His disguise still clung to him, the false beard and mustache shadowing his features, dulling the sharp edges of a face far too recognizable in the wrong light.
He pushed open the creaking door of the inn, and earmth spilled out to meet him. The scent of roasted meat, old wood, and spiced ale curled through the air like a lazy invitation.
Behind the counter stood a stout, round-bellied innkeeper, his small eyes flicking up with practiced indifference that quickly sharpened into interest the moment Adam approached.
