Dawn had fully broken by the time Rhea descended the remaining steps to the ground floor of The Slumbering Stag.
Pale orange light filtered through the small windows along the corridor, highlighting dancing dust motes and drying pools of crimson on the floorboards. The acrid scent of leftover steam-gunpowder still hung thick, mixing sickeningly with the metallic tang of rust from the lifeless bodies.
Behind the reception desk, the innkeeper remained at his post.
The elderly, crooked-horned Beast-kin—the same friendly man who had welcomed them with a warm smile yesterday afternoon—lay slumped over the counter. His head rested sideways on his arm, which lay on the worn wood polished smooth by years of use. A dark, thick pool of blood had spread beneath his chest, seeping into the old grain of the table. His dangling left hand still clutched the brass key to room number three.
Rhea paused before the desk.
