By the time they found the inn, night had already blanketed Marlingdon in a cool hush, the streets lit only by flickering lanterns and the occasional torch-bearing patrol. The inn they chose stood at the corner of a narrow street not particularly grand, not exactly sturdy-looking, but it had a sign that swung lazily in the breeze, painted with a mug of ale and the name The Sleepy Stag.
It was three stories tall, mostly made of old wood that creaked when the wind hit it just right. The kind of place that smelled like ale, smoke, and the faint memory of wet boots. Definitely the cheapest inn they'd seen. But that was intentional.
"If we book something expensive," Leo muttered as they stared up at it, "El will kill us."
"Not scold," Matthew added. "Actually kill us."
They nodded in solemn agreement and entered.
