The Hollow Chalice stank of burnt oil and desperation. Kael sat in a corner booth, his back to the wall, while Lira slouched across from him, her boots propped on the table.
A cracked lantern swung above them, casting jaundiced light over plates of griddlecakes congealing in grease.
The tavern's other patrons—haggard scavengers, guild dropouts, and a trio of Razor Teeth thugs sharpening knives—kept their distance. Something about Kael's stillness, the way his eyes tracked every flicker of movement, warned them he was not a man to trouble.
Lira stabbed a fork into her breakfast, syrup dripping onto the table like amber blood.
"You ever NOT look like you're planning a murder?"
Kael ignored her, tearing a strip of griddlecake with his fingers. The food was bland, but edible. A luxury after weeks surviving on determination.
