“The silence before the dawn is not empty; it is the space where a warrior sharpens his resolve for the coming storm.”— Seneca Leaving the bustling hall of the Adventurers’ Guild behind, Riven stepped into the cool evening air.
The sun was sinking below the rooftops, casting long shadows across the crowded streets of the frontier town.
He needed two things before morning: food and somewhere to sleep.
He made his way through the lower district, passing noisy taverns and smithies that filled the streets with smoke.
Most of the larger inns were out of his price range, so he kept walking until he spotted a sagging, two-story timber building wedged between a tannery and a grain merchant.
A rusted iron plaque hung above the front door.
The faded painting on it depicted a sleeping hound.
Riven pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The taproom was dim and crowded.
The smell of cheap ale, roasted vegetables, and unwashed bodies hung in the air.
A few patrons sat at the tables, talking loudly over their drinks.
Behind the counter, an innkeeper in a greasy apron wiped down a wooden table.
The man paused when he noticed Riven.
His eyes moved from the oversized sword at the boy’s side to his worn clothes and dirty face.
He studied him for a moment before speaking.
“Bed’s fifteen coppers a night.
Includes stew and bread.
No refunds, no fighting in the halls, and if you bleed on the mattress, you’ll pay for the wool.” Riven reached into his pocket and counted out fifteen copper coins.
He slid them across the counter.
“One night.” The innkeeper grunted and swept the coins into a leather pouch.
He then tossed a heavy iron key onto the counter.
“Room twelve.
End of the hall upstairs.
Food’s coming out now.” Riven took the key and headed toward an empty corner of the taproom.
A bowl of stew was placed in front of him shortly afterward.
It was mostly turnips and a few pieces of mutton, floating in a thin, greasy broth.
The bread was stale and hard but better then when he was a slave, he didn’t complain.
He ate slowly, making sure not to waste anything.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough to quiet the hunger that had been bothering him since the afternoon.
Once he finished, he collected his belongings and headed toward the back of the inn.
A small courtyard sat behind the building.
A stone well stood beside a stack of firewood, and a wooden washbasin had been placed against the wall.
Riven lowered a bucket into the well and hauled it back up.
The winch squealed as he pulled, and the cold water sloshed inside.
He carried it over to the basin and set it down.
His clothes were filthy.
The rags he’d worn since escaping the slave camp were stained with dirt, sweat, and old blood.
He had been meaning to get rid of them, but he hadn’t had the money or the opportunity until now.
After setting his sword aside, he removed the rags and began washing himself.
The water was painfully cold.
He dipped a cloth into the bucket and scrubbed the grime from his arms, chest, and legs.
When he reached his shoulder, he slowed down.
The wound had closed, but the skin was still tender.
Even a little pressure made it ache.
He gritted his teeth and continued.
It took longer than he expected to get himself clean.
The dirt had worked its way into every crease of his skin, and the old blood was stubborn.
By the time he finished, his hands were numb from the cold.
He dried himself as best he could and changed into the clothes he’d bought earlier from a makeshift market stall.
After an hour of haggling he finally got it down to 40 coppers.
A black shirt, a pair of grey cargo pants with reinforced knees, worn leather boots, and a heavy black cloak.
None of it was new, but it was sturdy enough to last him a while.
The shirt fit reasonably well, though the pants were a little loose around his waist.
The boots were worn but stayed on his feet, and the cloak was large enough to cover most of his small frame.
He pulled the hood over his head and adjusted it until it shadowed his face.
It was a simple thing, but he preferred it that way.
The fewer people who paid attention to him, the better.
After gathering his belongings, he returned inside and climbed the stairs to his room.
The hallway was narrow and poorly lit.
He followed it to the end, found the door marked twelve, and unlocked it.
The room was small and bare.
A narrow cot with a straw mattress stood against one wall, and a little wooden table sat beside it.
There wasn’t much else.
Still, it was better than sleeping in the forest.
Riven closed the door and locked it.
He checked the latch twice before setting his sword against the wall beside the bed, close enough to reach if he needed it.
He sat on the edge of the cot and looked down at his hands.
They were still rough from the work he’d done in the mine.
His shoulder ached beneath his shirt, and his body felt heavier than it had that morning.
Tomorrow, he would be meeting Boulder and Gorn.
The two men had offered him work at an old quarry, clearing out goblins and burrow-rats.
The pay wasn’t much, but he needed the money.
More importantly, he needed experience.
He would have to be careful.
Riven lay down and pulled the cloak over himself.
The straw mattress was uncomfortable, but after everything he’d been through, he wasn’t about to complain.
His integration ring gave off a faint hum as he settled into the darkness.
He stared at the ceiling for a while, listening to the muffled noise from the taproom below.
Tomorrow would bring another problem to deal with.
For now, he needed sleep.
He closed his eyes and let exhaustion take over.