The inn smelled like old firewood, fried something, and indecision.
Lindarion made it to the common room half a step behind Ashwing, who burst through the swinging door like a noble conqueror who had just woken from a nap and remembered food was a thing.
The dragon didn't walk. He pranced. Tail high, wings slightly out, claws tapping like he had a soundtrack only he could hear.
Lindarion followed, scarf half-twisted, boots slightly uneven, and dignity bleeding out of his posture one step at a time.
Ren was already seated at the nearest table, trying to balance a buttered roll on Meren's head.
Meren looked dead inside.
"Is this breakfast," Lindarion said flatly.
"It's performance art," Ren replied.
"You should be arrested."
Ashwing made a noise that sounded like approval.
Lira and Ardan sat at a corner table. Quiet. Not together, but coordinated in that way people get when they've seen things explode and no longer expect nice things to happen in public.
