The street was nearly empty, except for one or two drunks arguing philosophy with the cobblestones. I kept my cloak pulled over my face, trying to pass as just another miserable nobody—the trick was to walk fast enough to look busy but slow enough not to draw attention. Antoril wasn't the kind of city that asked questions, as long as you didn't offer answers.
Lina's tavern sat wedged in an alley that smelled of stale yeast, crushed garlic, and damp firewood. The lights were low—a sign the main room was closed to the public or, more likely, that she didn't want to be bothered. The wooden sign swung in the cold wind, creaking like a warning for the curious to fuck off somewhere else.
But I wasn't curious.
I was stubborn.
I didn't go through the front door. I wasn't stupid. I turned down the side, into an alley narrower than a bankrupt noble's pride. The smell was worse there—mold and fish scraps tossed by someone who believed "organic waste" was an excuse for olfactory crimes.
