The room the innkeeper provided was modest—a far cry from the opulent halls of the Arandor estate—but it had a sturdy lock, a warm hearth, and a heavy oak chair to which Eristasia was currently bound.
Percival sat at the small, scarred wooden table a few feet away, entirely focused on the spread before him.
True to his word, the innkeeper had delivered a generous meal: a steaming bowl of thick beef and potato stew, half a roasted fowl glazed in honey, and a crusty loaf of bread, all washed down with a large tankard of dark ale.
The room was quiet, save for the crackling of the fire and the scrape of Percival's wooden spoon against his bowl.
From her place tied to the chair, Eristasia watched him. Her hands were still intricately bound, her fingers immobilized to stop any somatic casting, and the cloth gag was tight around her mouth. Her eyes, though, were entirely free to shoot daggers at him.
