Rianor stood by the window of his room, observing the streets below.
This inn wasn't a cell. It was a two-story stone building tucked in the corner of the eastern district, far from the bustling markets and the clamor of the factories. The windows had thin iron grates, and the steel doors weren't deadlocked. Two Praetorian Guards stood watch outside, not inside.
Laborers began crowding the sidewalks, carrying their packed lunches, marching briskly toward the factories. The steam-lamps lining the streets had just been lit. The sun had yet to fully rise.
Rianor's gray shirt was still grimy, his cracked glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. His left arm hung limply with its completely dead Bracer, while his right arm still bore dried lacerations. But his eyes were sharp, mapping every single detail below.
Two guards, rotating every four hours.
