Inside the inn, it felt as though the building itself held its breath. The faint flicker of lanterns hanging from the wooden walls cast trembling shadows, their dim light painting the room in hues of gold and amber. The silence was thick enough to cut with a knife, save for the occasional creak of old timber beneath their feet.
Nyxander sat like a king on an unclaimed throne, his figure relaxed yet commanding. His right leg was crossed over his left, forming a loose figure-four lock, while his left arm draped lazily over the armrest of the wooden chair. His right hand, however, was anything but idle. The steady, rhythmic tapping of his fingers on the chair's armrest echoed through the tense room, each beat a metronome of silent authority.
