A scent that made you wrinkle your nose immediately: sour wine, sweat, and the stale stench of low-life taverns.

It was him. Daeron.

He didn't look like a prince. His beard was unkempt, his silver hair looked like dirty straw, and his violet eyes were bloodshot, blinking heavily against the candlelight. He looked at you, and for a second, a spark of guilt flickered in his expression before a languid, clumsy smile crossed his face.

My sweet... he took a false step and had to lean against a post for support. Don't look at me like that. The road from the inn was... curiously longer than I remembered.