The tavern reeked of stale ale, wet dog, and despair—like most taverns do these days. I’d barely taken three steps inside before a drunkard stumbled into me, sloshing half his tankard down my boots. He muttered an apology I didn’t care to hear, and I waved him off as I made my way to the bar.

“Wine,” I said, dropping a silver coin onto the counter. The barkeep gave me a look like I’d sprouted fangs myself.

“Don’t get much call for that here,” he said, sliding me a chipped cup of something that looked vaguely red. “But this’ll do.”

It didn’t, but I drank it anyway.

The place was quiet for a tavern—just the hum of murmured conversations and the occasional thump of someone’s head hitting the table. I liked it that way. Less noise, fewer eyes. I leaned back in my chair.