Gwen reappeared with a wrap around her shoulders and led them across the street to The Rose and Thorn. In the shadows of an alley, Hadrian spotted movement. Figures slept huddled amid piles of trash. Unlike Royce, who easily passed for human, these shabbily dressed creatures bore the unmistakable angled ears, prominent cheekbones, and almond eyes characteristic of elves.

“The army didn’t want them,” Royce commented, seeing Hadrian’s stare. “No one wants them.”

Dixon, the bartender and manager, was taking chairs off the tables when Gwen unlocked the doors. A tall, stocky man, he had lost his right arm several years earlier in the Battle of Medford.

“Hadrian!” he shouted in his booming voice. Hadrian instinctively held out his left hand to shake Dixon’s. “How are you, lad? Gave them what for in Ratibor, eh? Where you been?”

“I stayed to sweep up,” Hadrian replied with a wink and a smile.

“Denny in yet?” Gwen asked Dixon, stepping past him and rummaging through a drawer behind the bar.

“Nope, just me. I figured, why bother? All of you want breakfast? I can manage if you like.”

“Yes,” Gwen told him, “and make some extra.”

Dixon sighed. “You keep feeding them and they’ll just keep hanging around.”

She ignored the comment. “Did Harry deliver the ale last night?”

“Yup.”

“Three barrels, right?”

As Gwen talked with Dixon, Royce slipped his arm around her waist and gave her a gentle squeeze. That he loved her was no secret, but Royce had never even held Gwen’s hand in public before. Seeing him with her, Hadrian noticed that his friend looked different. It took him a moment to realize what it was—Royce was smiling.

When Gwen followed Dixon into the pantry to discuss inventory, Royce and Hadrian resumed the task of pulling chairs off tables. Throughout the years, Hadrian had likely sat in each one and drunk from every wooden cup and pewter tankard hanging behind the bar. For more than a decade The Rose and Thorn had been his home, and it felt odd to be just visiting.

“So, have you decided what you’ll do now?” Royce asked.

“I’m going to find the heir.”

Royce paused, holding a chair inches above the floor. “Did you hit your head during the Battle of Ratibor? The heir is dead, remember?”

“Turns out he’s not. What’s more, I know who he is.”

“But the nice priest told us the heir was murdered by Seret Knights forty years ago,” Royce countered.

“He was.”

“Am I missing something?”

“Twins,” Hadrian told him. “One was killed, but the midwife saved the other.”

“So who’s this heir?”

“Degan Gaunt.”