By the time we spot the red shingles of the teahouse’s roof, the day has almost ended. A crescent moon hangs low, a silver scythe to cut away the light. The teahouse is a small two-story building with dark columns and a dramatically curved roof ending in splayed talons at each corner. It’s impossible to miss, even in the dark, and a popular stop for travelers in need of refreshment.

We agree that Saengo should remain outside with the drakes to keep an eye out for Jonyah. Unless he took a different route, we should have beaten him here. Before dismounting, I brush my fingers along Yandor’s jaw. He’s panting heavily, but he still leans into my hand.

With the heavy flapping of wings, Millie lands on the nearby hitching post to keep Saengo company. She sets about watering the drakes. I tear the feathers from my hair, along with the distinctive red sash of a Company fourth-year from around my waist. I stuff both into my satchel and retrieve a long gray scarf I’d brought on our journey to shield against light rain. My legs are stiff, and my bruised muscles sting fiercely. But I bite my tongue against the pain as I head inside and send a prayer to the Bright Twin to keep luck on my side.

I wrap the scarf loosely around my hair and neck, taking care to conceal my face and the collar of my uniform. Inside, the low light of a single fireplace and several oil lamps cast the room in flickering shadows. The teahouse is nearly empty. Tables are arranged in a square around an empty platform where the entertainment would perform, likely a musician with a two-stringed lute or a storysinger, who relays old tales through lilting, rhythmic songs.

The earthy scent of firewood is ruined by the curdled odor of the day’s unwashed patrons. A trio of hooded men sit quietly at a corner table, sipping tea or perhaps something stronger. As far as I can tell, none wear crossed swords.

As expected, Jonyah isn’t here. I release a slow, even breath. He won’t be far behind us, though. Hopefully, Kendara’s mystery informant shows up soon. I choose a table with a clear view of the entrance. A short woman with dark brown curls and a round face emerges from a door that I assume leads into a kitchen. She presses her palms to her floral apron and dips her head in a polite bow.

“Anything I can get you?” the owner asks.

“Some hibiscus tea, please.”

She returns a moment later with a tray bearing a steaming ceramic teapot, a small saucer of honey with a dainty spoon, and an upturned cup. Once she’s filled my cup, she leaves the tray and disappears again into the back. I spoon some honey into the aromatic tea and then take a light sip.