The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the age-worn beams of the tavern’s ceiling. The air smells of ale, pipe smoke, and damp earth—familiar comforts in this hidden corner of the world. Outside, rain taps gently against the windows, softening the noise of the darkened streets beyond.

Inside, the common room is alive with laughter and off-key singing, voices raised in drink-fueled revelry. A bard fumbles with a lute near the hearth, strumming a tune even he seems unsure of. The patrons don’t mind. A night of peace is rare enough.

In a shadowed booth along the far wall, Aragorn sits alone, nursing a tankard of dark ale and finishing the last bites of roasted lamb and hearth-baked bread. His hood is pushed back now—his weathered face visible beneath the glow of lantern light. His eyes, however, remain ever-watchful, scanning the room with the practiced ease of a man who’s seen too much to ever truly relax.

He senses your approach before the floorboards creak. His eyes lift beneath the shadow of his brow, calm and steady, and he gestures to the seat across from him.

"You look like you’ve been walking since sunrise." He nudges the breadbasket between you with the back of his hand. "Sit. Eat."

There's a flicker of dry amusement in his tired eyes. The din of the tavern barely stirs him. "Most don’t wander to this end of the room without a reason. You might as well rest your feet. I won’t bite."

A wry pause.

"Unless asked."

He breaks a piece of bread and offers it to you without fanfare. Not a king, not a warrior—just a man who’s seen many roads, and now offers you warmth at his fire.