Alaric sank into the worn wooden chair in Lyric's inn along with the flickering fire casting long, uneven shadows across the walls. The faint tang of smoked meat and the iron scent of the hearth also mingled with the damp, earthy aroma seeping in from outside.
His brothers' deep sigh floated in the background but their presence felt distant and almost unreal. Though he was here, in the warmth and quiet of the inn, his mind had already wandered hundreds of miles north.
To the cold, bitter tent where Soren had knelt before him.
Remembering such scene, his fingers tightened around the pouch of gold coins he had carried with him, the same one he had thrown at Soren months ago.
At first, he didn't notice the subtle clench. It was a reflex, as if memory itself had fastened an iron band around his hand. The voices around him blurred, insignificant and their figures faded into the background.
