The innkeeper—a stout man with ruddy cheeks and sweat blooming at his brow despite the chill in the air—swallowed hard.
His hands twisted together in a nervous knot before him, and his voice, when it emerged, bore the fragile tremble of one recently made aware of his misstep.
"I—I beg your pardon, my lord," he stammered, eyes darting like those of a cornered animal. "I failed to recognize your station at once. The finest seat in the house… it was—regretfully—it was given away earlier. I had not expected another guest of such standing today."
Lord Cedrik's gaze, narrow and gleaming with restrained ire, fixed itself upon the innkeeper with the weight of a blade drawn but not yet swung.
"And to whom," he asked, his voice low and sharp as the winter wind slicing through the eaves, "did you give what was mine?"
With the pitiable dignity of a man who knows he cannot undo his own undoing, the innkeeper lifted his chin, just slightly, and extended a tremulous hand toward the upper gallery—a modest alcove adorned with fading brocade and garlands past their prime.
"To the young Lord Aren, my lord."
At that name, Cedrik's expression soured as milk curdles in neglect.
He turned, slow as a clock's hand in its most damning minute, and cast his eyes upward.
They passed over the iron sconces, where the firelight danced with more spirit than the conversation below, and came to rest upon the tall, arched windows high above—where pale daylight bled like ghosts into the room.
There, framed as if by providence or mischief, sat Arion.
Young in years, but carrying the indifference of one far older. He did not deign to glance down, nor to acknowledge the brewing tempest beneath him.
One elbow rested upon the sill; the other hand cradled a cup as though its contents were of such immense philosophical importance as to warrant his full devotion.
It was not arrogance in the usual sense—it was worse. It was dismissal. It was as though Cedrik did not exist.
That, more than any slight or spoken insult, ignited the fury within him.
"I see," Cedrik murmured, barely more than breath.
And without another word—without even a flare of his cloak for dramatics—he began to climb the stair. Each footfall was a proclamation: I am coming. I am not to be ignored.
The boards groaned beneath his boots, a protest or perhaps an omen. Patrons below turned their heads, guards stood immobile, and Arion—ever still—did not shift, did not blink.
Only when Cedrik's shadow stretched long across the table did Arion finally glance up.
"Oh," Arion said, without looking up at first. Then, as if noticing Cedrik properly, he added with quiet curiosity, "Took a wrong turn, did you? I was beginning to wonder if you'd gotten lost."
Cedrik did not answer. He sat, uninvited, his back straight and proud. His eyes found the bottle on the table, considered it as one might consider the offerings of a lesser kingdom, then dismissed it with a faint curl of the lip. His guards remained at the base of the stair, silent as statues, forming a barrier between noble arrogance and common gaze.
"You seem quite at home in this filthy place," Cedrik said at last, his contempt as thick as the inn's stale smoke.
Arion shrugged lightly. "Filthy? I think not. They clean it regularly, I presume. Or perhaps your standards are… uniquely royal."
He sipped from his cup—unhurried, unconcerned.
"And I do hope you'll forgive me," he added, "if this is the only such establishment I'm willing to escort you to."
Cedrik's smile was the kind that should never reach a man's eyes—and, indeed, it didn't.
"Even if I fail to understand your reasons," he said with syrupy warmth, "I'm more than delighted to explore your backwater city without your supervision."