The Tavern

A low, cavernous space of rough-hewn timber beams and dark flagstone floors, smoke-blackened ceiling sagging under the weight of rushlights that gutter over wooden bowls of thin stew. The air clings with the sour stink of stale ale and boiled turnips, settled into the grain of ladder-back chairs tilted on uneven legs. Shadows pool thick along the grimy window where Ivo once pressed forbidden words into the glass, and the heavy door still carries the ghost of Marta’s son in the jacket he once wore. Cold seeps up from the stones, matching the chill in Ivo’s voice as it drops when Habris’ mud-caked boots cross the threshold with his guards. Villagers cluster around trestles, their voices hushed until Adric asks why they accept the Tower’s cruelty—then the room holds its breath as Habris shatters ritual by seizing Adric without ceremony.