The baker's fire was just starting when Lindarion passed by.
The smell of yeast and smoke curled around the frost-packed street. Men were dragging carts out from under canvas tarps. A woman with a bent back swept the stoop of the butcher's stall.
He kept to the edge of the road, coat pulled close. He avoided the center of the square this time. No sign of the knight. No sign of the mage.
It was good.
His body still hurt. Muscles tight. Side aching where the fabric stuck to healing skin.
But his steps were cleaner now.
He walked past a kiln shed just off the main lane. The door stood open, smoke drifting from a wide-bricked mouth inside. Rows of low pots lined the outside wall.
A man sat on a stool beside the entry.
Thick coat. Greying stubble. Arms like stone.
He looked up when Lindarion passed.
Didn't speak.
But didn't look away either.
Lindarion slowed slightly.
The man jerked his chin toward the inside of the kiln room.
"Heat's better in there," he said.
