Briefly, the true face beneath stood revealed in the pale light, laced with deep scars—marks of countless battles. Fingers moved without thought across an old, raised welt on one cheek. He inhaled sharply, forced the memory aside, and drew the hood of his cloak low.
A small pouch found its place at his belt. Then a hand rested upon the spider's neck. The creature stilled, as if understanding the unspoken command, and slipped soundlessly into the tall grass. Only when it had vanished from sight did Sylvian cut a sturdy branch from a nearby tree to serve as a walking staff.
The journey continued on foot—back bent, steps measured, gaze fixed on the road south. At a crossroads he paused briefly. To the left, the road led into the Glorious Valley; to the right, toward the village of the Raging Hordes. Neither turn was taken. The straight path led forward until the outline of a tavern rose ahead—the trade station of Irkaar.
He checked the hood one final time. Head lowered, Sylvian approached the building. One hand closed around the cold iron latch. Assuming the posture of a crippled wanderer, he pressed the handle down with deliberate care. As the door opened, the smell of smoke and spilled mead struck him hard. Stillness held on the threshold, ears catching voices within. His gaze passed through the room—patrons measured, escape routes noted. Then he entered fully and closed the door quietly behind him.