“I’m going downstairs to speak with the innkeeper,” I said, brushing my knuckles over his cheek. He looked up from his book. “I won’t be long, but don’t do anything too strenuous while I’m gone, alright? That includes building a blanket fort next to the fire.”

“Dammit.” He gave me an exaggerated pout. “There goes my afternoon. What about cartwheels in the hall?”

“Don’t pretend you weren’t thinking about it.”

He sniffed derisively and returned to reading, flipping the page. “Haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”

With a laugh, I kissed his temple before leaving the room. Cee was pacing the hallway, and I called her over, requesting an update on Rathe and the scouts we’d sent ahead. There had been no word from the palace as of yet; however, there had been sightings of more reapers several towns over, seemingly docile, but we couldn’t be certain of that at a glance.

“Our best interrogators are on the job,” she assured me. Her face covering was lowered, so I saw the slight smirk twitch at the corner of her wide mouth. “I suspect you’ll know of their intentions before the evening is out.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said before excusing myself and heading downstairs. Thankfully, the inn was still as empty as it had been when we’d arrived last night. Either the owner had cleared the place out for the sake of our privacy, or it wasn’t a popular spot. I couldn’t tell, and I wouldn’t insult them by asking, though I found the latter hard to believe.

I hadn’t spent much of my spare time frequenting taverns in the Otherworld—hadn’t the time as a youngling—but by my standards, this was by far the most presentable. These types of places were often much the same—the same ale smell, same wooden benches, same food on the menu. They were pit stops for weary travelers passing through, or locals wishing to get drunk and enjoy an evening of live entertainment. They served a purpose, much like the lounge I’d built in the human realm, and I couldn’t find fault with that. Though it was refreshing to not have my boots sticking to the floorboards, or the scent of vomit clinging to my nostrils. Whoever ran this establishment did so with pride, care, and attention to detail, and it was especially reassuring to feel the vibration of defensive wards by the door.

There was an older naga behind the bar, humming a simple tune, a cloth in one hand and a tankard in the other. I wasn’t sure who she was in relation to the place, as we hadn’t left our room since sneaking in through the back door yesterday evening. I knew nothing of our hosts, hadn’t had the presence of mind to probe Cee or Gary for details, and I felt somewhat guilty about it.