As expected of the depressing town, the morning sun in Oldmarsh didn't so much shine as it did filter through the grime of the inn's windows.
From its poor light, long, sickly yellow streaks were cast across the floorboards. Feeling the scene of an early day's breeze hovering around his nose, Percival slowly began to peel his eyes open.
But then something felt wrong and he opened them instantly—the habit of a man who'd spent too many nights in Gate Worlds and dangerous towns.
At first, he didn't move a muscle, but his gaze shifted to the corner of the room.
Eristasia was awake. She was hunched over, her hands—still tied in that specific, magic-binding knot—straining against the wooden rungs of the chair.
Her face was flushed with effort, her teeth gritted as she tried to use a sharp splinter on the chair's frame to fray the cloth gag.
"You're going to give yourself a splinter," Percival said, his voice gravelly with sleep.
