It was late, almost midnight. The city was plunged into silence, broken only by the steady footsteps of the guards. Dylan had finally made it back to the inn; his muffled steps glided over the creaky floorboards as he made his way down the hallway leading to his room.
When he reached the door, he carefully tried to unlock it, not wanting to disturb the neighbors. But after a few seconds of effort, he sighed, shrugged, and knocked three sharp raps before taking a step back.
This was definitely his room—he knew it—but he distinctly remembered not locking it when he left. He had left his two companions inside, deep in conversation. So there was a good chance one of them was still there.
A creak proved him right. The door swung open abruptly, making him jump slightly.
A spear floated in the air, its tip pointed straight at his throat, held by an invisible force. In the shadow of the doorway stood a broad-shouldered figure, menacing despite the darkness.
