The Artisan's Rest was its usual bustling self that afternoon, with the clinking of plates, the murmur of conversations, and the occasional melody from a bard who had claimed the corner stage.
Alaric, seated near the window, leaned back in his chair, savoring a warm cup of spiced tea.
Across the table, Iridelle was absorbed in her work, her delicate hands tracing intricate patterns over a fresh set of runes on parchment. Her lips moved soundlessly, likely murmuring arcane calculations to herself.
A courier approached their table, his boots scuffing slightly on the wooden floorboards. "Young Master Alaric?"
Alaric glanced up from his musings, noting the man's slightly disheveled appearance. "That would be me," he replied, his tone easy but alert.
The courier handed him a folded letter sealed with dark blue wax. The emblem was unmistakable—Drustan's. Alaric nodded his thanks and tossed a silver coin into the courier's palm before turning his attention to the letter.
