While things were getting complicated in the south, Azenike was walking through the city's most deserted, rarely visited streets. With a long hat covering most of his face and a plain yet neat suit, he moved silently through the crowd.
No one turned to look at him. Even though he tried to blend in with his gloves, the shadow hiding his face, and measured steps, his tall and muscular build was enough to draw attention.
A few minutes later, he arrived in front of a fairly large, two-story tavern. He quickly scanned his surroundings; apart from an old beggar crouching in the right corner, there was no one around. This part of the city was usually like that anyway.
When he pushed the door open, a heavy scent of raspberry and fermented grapes filled his lungs. The place was dimly lit. Under a dull yellow light, a few men sat slumped at their tables, surrounded by empty bottles. They were the source of the thick stench.
