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My words hang in the air like smoke from a dying fire, and for a heartbeat that feels like an eternity, nobody speaks. The common room’s background chatter seems to fade as Garrett Ironarm studies me with those storm-gray eyes, weighing something I can’t name.
Then, slowly, his weathered features crease into what might have been approval.
“Well now,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “That’s not what I expected to hear from someone wearing festival clothes.” He gestures toward an empty chair, and I sit. Then he glances at his companions, who are watching our exchange with varying degrees of skepticism. “Most people who come looking for adventure want glory or gold. You’re the first one I’ve met who just wants to stop being afraid.”
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