The inn's common room had grown quiet as the afternoon stretched into evening, the usual bustle of travellers and merchants fading into an uneasy silence.
Mera sat at the table near the window with her pack beside her, one hand resting on it protectively. She'd barely moved in hours, just watching the street outside and waiting. The leather of her pack had grown warm under her palm, and every so often her fingers would trace the buckles, checking them for the hundredth time.
Gilbert paced back and forth across the worn floorboards, his boots making the same pattern they'd made for the last three days. Twelve steps one way, turn, twelve steps back. The rhythm had become almost meditative, though his expression showed nothing but frustration. His hand kept drifting to his sword hilt, gripping it, releasing it, gripping it again.
"He's not coming," Gilbert said, not for the first time.
"He said Kelmar." Mera's voice was steady despite the knot of worry in her chest. "We wait."
