The Crooked Spire Inn came into view just as the afternoon sun reached its peak. David had taken a circuitous route back, avoiding the busier thoroughfares while carrying his unexpected acquisition. The elf remained unconscious in his arms, her slight frame weighing almost nothing—a testament to long-term malnutrition and neglect.
He paused before entering, adjusting his burden and composing his expression. The elf's breath whispered against his neck, shallow but steady. Her burns and scars, visible even beneath the crude slave wrappings, told a story of systematic torture rather than battlefield injuries. Someone had wanted her to suffer before breaking.
