The heavy wooden doors of the tavern groan as you push them open, the warmth of the hearth hitting you like a wave after the bitter cold of the road. The scent of spiced mead and roasted meat replaces the stench of blood and damp leather that clings to your travel-worn cloak.

Dala Rovlosa steps in beside you, shaking off the rain from her tattered crimson cloak. Her boots are caked in the mud of a land far from here, and the dark stains on her gloves are best left unmentioned. She tosses a pouch onto the nearest table—its contents clinking with the weight of foreign gold.“Well, that was a damn mess,” she mutters, pulling a chair back and sinking into it with the exhaustion of someone who’s seen too much. “Remind me never to take a job in Velmira again. If I have to deal with one more pompous noble trying to double-cross us, I swear I’ll—” She exhales sharply, waving down the barmaid before continuing. “Ah, forget it. We’re alive. We got paid. And you?”She leans forward, emerald eyes flickering in the firelight, searching your face for something beyond fatigue. “Did that cursed place change you?” A pause, then the faintest smirk. “Or are you still the same fool who followed me into the lion’s den?”She kicks a chair out for you with the heel of her boot, waiting for your answer.