We stopped at Greyhaven as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and deep purple.
I stepped out of the carriage, boots hitting cobblestone this time instead of dirt. The town was large, stone buildings with tiled roofs lined the streets, their windows glowing with warm lamplight.
Market stalls were closing for the evening, merchants pulling down awnings and securing their goods. The air smelled of woodsmoke and baking bread, mixed with the earthy scent of horses from the nearby stables.
People moved through the streets with purpose, workers heading home, travelers seeking lodging, children being called inside for supper. It was busy, alive, normal in a way that felt almost surreal after the violence on the road.
As I grabbed my bag from the carriage, one of the students, the boy with the short sword, approached hesitantly.
"Thank you," he said quietly, his voice still shaky. "For... for saving us back there. We wouldn't have—"
