Tumo had been feeling like something was off lately.
Business at "Brother, Boar & Brew" had, for some inexplicable reason, exploded.
His tavern, which wasn't spacious to begin with, was packed with people from noon until late into the night.
Customers were everywhere—by the wooden tables, in front of the bar, even standing in the corners holding mugs of ale.
The air was always thick with the aroma of roasted meat, the tart sweetness of ale, and the clamor of conversation, creating a sweltering warmth that kept the winter chill at bay.
This should have been a good thing.
But the people who came were a bit odd.
"Boss, another plate of roasted sausage!" shouted a clerk from the Lord's Mansion. Several of his colleagues were seated beside him.
Tumo recognized them. They used to come in for a drink occasionally, but never like this—showing up almost every day. They hardly drank, ordering full meals instead, which they devoured with great relish.
The strangest part was their eyes.
