A village had appeared on the horizon just before dusk. Small, unremarkable, the kind of place that didn't make it onto maps unless someone had reason to look. Smoke curled from chimneys in lazy gray ribbons. Lantern light was already beginning to bloom in windows as the sun sank behind the treeline.

The inn sat at the edge of the village, a two-story structure of dark timber and whitewashed plaster that had seen better decades. A wooden sign creaked overhead, painted with a fox curled around a goblet—the paint faded and cracked from too many seasons of weather.

The door groaned when it swung open.

Warmth hit first, then noise. The low murmur of conversation, the clink of cups, the occasional burst of laughter. The inn was busy—not packed, but comfortably full. A fire crackled in a stone hearth at the far wall, casting dancing shadows across worn wooden tables. The air smelled of ale, bread, woodsmoke, and something savory bubbling in a pot somewhere in the back.

Behind the bar, a man with heavy shoulders and graying stubble glanced up. He dried a cup with a rag that might have been white once, his eyes scanning the newcomer with the practiced assessment of someone who'd learned to judge travelers by the state of their boots and the weight of their coin purse.

The innkeeper set the cup down. His voice was rough, but not unfriendly.

The floorboards creaked underfoot. The fire popped. Somewhere in the back, a dog barked once and then went quiet.