While Northreach remained oblivious to the events unfolding here, Roland counted the days.
He stood before the second-floor window of the inn, gazing at the streets still slick from last night's drizzle. Laborers trudged toward the factories with slumped shoulders. Merchants opened their stalls one by one. No one bothered to look up.
His white shirt had been freshly laundered by the inn staff. The wound on his left shoulder had fully scabbed over. His hair was neatly combed.
Ten days had passed since the second audience.
The room's door swung open without a knock. Rianor stepped inside wearing a grimy gray shirt, his cracked glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. The bracer on his left arm remained dead, looking like nothing more than scrap metal.
"Those glasses," Roland remarked without turning around. "It's been two months, and there's a new crack in them."
"I have other priorities," Rianor replied, slumping into a chair near the window. "Tonight?"
"Tonight."
