The nearest lodging Damon's men had secured was a modest inn at the edge of the nearest village. It was a place that catered to traveling merchants and the occasional minor official, but surely not an Emperor. So, you could imagine how modest it was.
It was a two-story timber building with a steeply pitched roof and a sign that creaked in the wind, its painted letters so faded they were barely legible.
Damon's room was on the second floor, the best the inn had to offer, which meant it had a window that closed properly and a hearth that had been recently swept.
The walls were whitewashed plaster, cracked in places, and the floorboards were uneven, worn smooth by decades of boots. A single oil lamp burned on the nightstand, casting long, flickering shadows across the room.
The bed was small. A bit too small for a man of his height. But the linens were clean, and the mattress, when he pressed a hand to it, was stuffed with fresh straw.
