"Of all the fleabag places in all the riverside cities," Jolthar muttered to himself as he slouched in the shadows of barely holding structure, "he had to pick the one that smells like pickled fish and broken dreams."
He'd been tracking Roblan through Hamrasa's winding streets for the better part of the day, following whispers and batting his eyelashes at various serving girls who seemed all too eager to point him toward the baron's son.
Not that Jolthar could blame them – even he had to admit that Roblan's reputation for devastating good looks hadn't been exaggerated.
When he finally spotted his quarry in the tavern's darkest corner, Jolthar nearly rolled his eyes at the melodrama of it all. He was able to be recognised by the pictures shown by his mother.
