He turned it in his palm, reading the small brass tag attached.
“It’s from the Black Snake Inn,” he said, rising to his feet.
My breath caught. “That place? It’s known to house smugglers, assassins… the more unscrupulous types in Warriath. It’s not the sort of place that houses a noble—unless he or she is breaking the law.”
Zander’s jaw tightened. “Then he wasn’t just staying there.”
“He has to be corresponding with someone inside the Inn,” Riven added, eyes narrowing. “Or he was using it as a drop point.”
Zander nodded. “Either way, we need to speak with the innkeeper, and the businesses close to it. If he was working for the Crimson Sigil, he may have been staying at the Black Snake… but he was likely conducting business elsewhere.”
Tae glanced over his shoulder, toward the haze of Warriath rising in the distance. “I’m guessing we’re walking?”
He gestured to the narrow forest path that led along the base of the cliffs. “Our dragons can’t get us much closer from this side anyway, not without spooking every villager between here and the upper city.”
Zander gave a quick nod. “Then we walk.”
He turned to the guards still standing near the bodies.
“Clean the site,” he ordered. “Return the remains to the appropriate families. And tell Theron no further action is needed here.”
The guards saluted, already moving with practiced efficiency.
And then we turned, leaving the burned carriage and the bodies behind, walking toward Warriath with ash at our backs and something darker ahead.
The walls of Warriath loomed above us, carved stone rising like the bones of an old god. But as we passed through the side gate and into the lower quarter, it became clear this part of the city had long been forgotten by the crown.
The homes were crumbling, roofs patched with mismatched shingles, shutters hanging loose or missing altogether. Narrow alleys twisted between soot-stained buildings, the air thick with the scent of smoke, sweat, and something sour. The storefronts were dim and shuttered, some barely clinging to the illusion of commerce.
And nestled in the heart of it all was the Black Snake Inn.
It squatted between two slanting buildings like a fat, bloated spider—its wooden sign cracked down the middle, the image of a black serpent barely visible beneath layers of grime. The door creaked even before Zander pushed it open.
Inside, the tavern stank of stale ale, damp straw, and the thick musk of unwashed bodies. Light barely reached thecorners. A few patrons hunched over drinks in the shadows, their eyes tracking us with quiet, territorial suspicion.
The innkeeper stood behind the bar, polishing a glass that hadn’t seen clean water in years. He was squat, wide-shouldered, with a balding scalp, and a mouth that looked like it had long since forgotten how to smile.
Zander stepped forward, holding up the key. “This yours?”
The innkeeper squinted at it, then gave a reluctant nod. “Yeah. One of mine.”
“Do you remember who rented it?” I asked.
His gaze narrowed. “No idea.”
“He was a noble,” I said.
“No noble’s stayed here. That I’d remember,” the innkeeper said.
“He may have been in disguise,” Zander said, calm but firm. “Or using a false name.”
The innkeeper scowled, voice rough as gravel. “I don’t know anything about that. I don’t ask questions. Especially not for people who pay in coin and don’t cause trouble.”
His tone turned colder, almost taunting. “And I don’t take kindly to armed nobles poking around my place like they own the slums.”
Zander held his gaze a moment longer, unreadable, then nodded once. “Thank you for your time.”
We left without another word.
