In the underground town, it was never clear whether it was day or night.
The lights were always on, and most of the people had different sleep rhythms, some sleeping during the day and some at night.
The small inn, right under the shadow of the gray castle, had a slanted roof with a chimney poking through the top. The roof was made of wood shingles that were weathered and worn, giving the inn a charmingly rustic appearance.
At the current moment, on the inn's top floor, Ambrose was twirling a knife in his hand, seemingly deep in thought.
The lantern on the table flickered, which lit up the room with a warm, golden glow. Without that, the room would be shrouded in utter darkness, as the light from the street lamps didn't quite reach this part of the inn.
'This crystal…'
