The morning rush was already gathering by the time Taryn set out.
The tavern street was filled with pre-dawn merchants opening their stores, their shouts sharp and rhythmically metered as they yelled prices at passing customers. The scent of fresh bread baking and meat roasting filled the air, driving out the wet of the night's rain. Taryn cinched up her belt, rolling her shoulders to drive the stiffness from her muscles. Her boots sucked softly on the wet stones, and her shirt — clinging unpleasantly to her back — was still damp from where she'd washed it out the previous evening.
It was fine.
She'd dealt with worse.
The leather of her armor was scuffed, her boots worn thin at the soles, and her shirt… well, her shirt was barely holding together.
But it wasn't falling apart yet. And that was good enough.
"Morning, Warrior," Lucien's voice called lazily from the doorway.
