The entire day felt like a celebration. The transition from balcony to street was a victory lap. Every few steps, a hand reached out to clasp mine — rough, calloused hands of laborers, the delicate, cool fingers of elves, and once, the massive boulder-like palm of a troll who gave my whole arm a squeeze.
As the sun began to sink, Fenn led us to a tavern. “To the Stumbled Stone!” There was a joyous skip in his hooves, and I couldn’t help smiling.
The tavern was a cavernous structure built into the side of a limestone hill. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of roasted hops, cedar smoke, and the earthy musk of Grimholt traders.
“Reeve on deck!” a voice boomed from the bar.
The room erupted. Gisela merely raised a hand, a practiced, royal gesture. She led us to a trestle table n
