The first night behind the grey stone walls of Sanctum felt far more oppressive than the rustic silence of Whitebridge.
The Silver Bell was by no means a luxury establishment for nobility. Its stone walls were dusted with a thin layer of moss, and the wooden floorboards emitted a sharp creak... creak... with every footstep. The dining tables were illuminated not by mana-powered holy light orbs, but by the flickering glow of ordinary candles melting in tarnished glass holders. Yet, the aroma wafting from the clay bowls before them was enough to dismantle any complaints. It was a rich, savory meat stew, laced with the warmth of exotic spices that bloomed deep in their chests.
"Best soup in all of Sanctum," claimed the innkeeper—a bald man whose smile stretched so wide it bared rows of teeth. "A secret recipe passed down through generations. My great-grandfather was the one who first brewed it."
