When they stepped inside, the noise of the festival seemed to vanish at once.
The place was little more than a wooden shed attached to what looked like the storage space of an inn. It was cluttered with crates and rough tables, with strips of meat hanging from the rafters and the smell of herbs, smoke, and blood clinging stubbornly to the air.
Yet beneath the unpolished appearance, there was movement and purpose. Men and women were gathered there in quiet clusters, some tending to the injured, some sitting with bandaged limbs or bruised faces, and others moving about with the practiced efficiency of people who had long since learned how to survive without waiting for anyone else to save them.
The moment Aveline entered, the room changed.
Heads turned.
Eyes settled on her.
Then the people looked to Aelion, not with hostility exactly, but with silent question, as though asking whether he had truly brought her here of all places, and whether she was safe to be trusted among them.
