They moved through the edge of town with easy steps, following the canal as it bent around low-arched bridges. Locals nodded at them in a polite, but not warm manner. A man sweeping his doorstep paused to glance at them, then resumed without a word.
"Let's find an inn near the docks," Gus said, already scanning for signs. "Closer to the ferries means better food."
"You just want to eat," Willow muttered, but didn't argue.
They passed a stall selling dried citrus slices and oiled rope, another stacked high with red clay bowls shaped like shells. A little girl darted out from behind a barrel and nearly bumped into Joren.
She froze when she saw him.
Her smile vanished.
Before he could say anything, she turned and ran, disappearing around the corner. Willow raised an eyebrow. "Kids here sure are jumpy."
"They don't know us," Gus offered.
Joren didn't answer.
They turned down a narrower path, where flower baskets hung from second-floor balconies and the air smelled faintly of lavender and stone polish. Joren kept half an eye on the alley the girl had vanished into, but nothing moved.
Then a voice called out ahead, calm and pleasant. "You three look a little misplaced."
Evening – Dyer's Crossing
A young woman stood beside a short, weatherworn post where a faded ferry schedule hung crookedly.
The young woman stood with her hands loosely folded in front of her, posture easy but composed. She wore a long, soft black coat that fell just above her knees, the edges lined with faint silver stitching like the arc of a crescent moon. Her jet-black hair framed her face in soft waves, parted slightly off-center, just tousled enough to seem unintentional. Round black glasses caught the sunlight as she tilted her head.
Her voice was warm, like she could be a counselor or a teacher. "Not many travelers come through Dyer's this time of year, most people like to keep to the upland roads."
Willow glanced toward Joren, but he was already taking a step forward.
"We're looking for an inn near the docks," he said.
The woman smiled gently. "Then you've already gone too far. Most of the nicer ones are a few turns back, nearer the west canal." She gestured with an open hand, her palms clean and nails unpainted. "Though if you're looking for a place that isn't loud with ferrymen drinking themselves unconscious, I can recommend something quieter."
There was something in the way she held eye contact. It was steady, but not forceful, like she was listening even when she wasn't speaking.
"I've lived here a while," she added, adjusting the strap of the satchel at her side. "I like to help with town records, chapel errands, the little things. Dyer's isn't very big, but there's always something to keep busy."
Willow tilted her head. "Doesn't seem like the kind of place that gets a lot of traffic."
"Surprisingly it does, actually. For a town being on the river, we get a lot of cargo ships and travelers from other regions and nations. Not often do they stay too long, but they do make the town a bit livelier when they come through."
She glanced toward the canal, where a distant ferry horn echoed soft and slow. "Of course, those just passing through don't really see the town," she went on. "Only the docks and maybe the baker's stall if they're lucky. They do love to do a little drinking at the bars though."
She told her story with a little giggle. "My name's Lysaire by the way, how about you guys?"
"Joren," he said, with a slight nod.
"That's Willow, and Gus."
"Nice to meet you," she replied. "You're lucky it's not raining today. Weather can turn fast out here."
She stepped aside from the ferry post and pointed farther up the canal. "If you keep going that way, past the olive stall with the green canopy, you'll find the Thistle Inn. Red shutters, kind owner, quieter than most of the dockside places."
"Thanks," Willow said, already turning her head in that direction.
"Actually," Lysaire said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, "why don't I show you myself? That way I can give you a little tour of the town on the way."
Joren glanced at Willow, who gave a shrug. Gus didn't object either, already adjusting the strap of his backpack.
"Sure," Joren said.
Lysaire smiled and began walking, her steps light over the worn cobblestones. "It's not far. Dyer's has a habit of folding in on itself, so if you don't know the turns, it's easy to walk in circles."
They followed her along a quieter stretch of the canal, past stacked baskets of drying reeds and a man painting numbers on crates. A few townsfolk offered brief nods to Lysaire as she passed, some murmuring greetings. She responded to each by name.
"This part of town used to be the old ferry route," she said, pointing to a narrow channel off to the side. "Before the waterway got rerouted during the spring floods a few years back. That's when most of the dock merchants shifted west."
She gestured to a crooked little bakery as they passed. "Still the best sweetbread on this side of the river. If you're around tomorrow, you should try it while it's still warm."
The scent of flour and smoke drifted from the open window. Inside, a young boy stood on a crate behind the counter, arranging loaves with precise hands. He waved when he saw Lysaire.
"Afternoon, Theo," she called gently, then lowered her voice to the others. "His parents run the place, but he insists on doing the morning prep himself." She laughed a little to herself, then began humming a little of a warm and delightful song.
It felt like a mother's song to her child who had trouble sleeping, comforting and perfect in the imperfect tones. They walked in silence for a moment, lulled by it. Then Lysaire turned down a narrow side street where the buildings leaned inward, and pale blue moss crawled up the bases of the walls.
"Here we are." She gestured to a modest two-story building tucked beside a willow tree, its windows round and its shutters painted an almost burgundy red.
A wooden sign hung above the door, swinging gently in the breeze: The Thistle Inn. The name was carved deep into the wood, and someone had taken care to inlay a little sprig of thistle just beneath the lettering. The scent of old stone and warm herbs drifted from inside.
"It's not fancy," she said, "but it's clean, and the beds don't creak too much when you turn over."
Joren took it in with a quiet nod. Willow stretched her arms overhead, stifling a yawn.
"Thank you, Lysaire" Joren said.
Lysaire stepped back a little, brushing her coat closed with one hand. "You're welcome. I'll be at the chapel courtyard in the morning, if you need anything."
Then, with that same easy grace, she turned and disappeared back down the street. They watched her go until her footsteps faded, then turned toward the door.
Willow exhaled. "She's nice."
"Yeah," Joren said, almost absently. "She is."
Late Evening – Thistle Inn
Inside, the inn smelled of dried rosemary and stone dust. A small lantern burned low near the counter, casting flickers across the walls. The air was quiet but not dead like the stillness of a library after closing.
A man emerged from a side room, his gray hair pulled back into a loose knot. He wore simple attire, a long sleeved but loose fitting shirt and some jeans.
"We're looking for two rooms," Joren said. "Lysaire sent us."
At the mention of her name, the innkeeper's demeanor changed into a smile. "Upstairs," he said, his voice hoarse with age or disuse. "Second and third doors on the right."
Willow collected the keys and offered a quick smile. "Thanks."
The man nodded again, then returned to the back room without another word.
The lantern kept flickering.
The stairs creaked under their boots, but not enough to be annoying. Each room was narrow but neat having two beds, a table beneath a round window, and a small bathroom with a shower.
Willow dropped her bag by the bed and flopped backward onto the mattress. "Soft enough."
In the other room, Joren placed his pack beside the table and tugged the curtain halfway across the window. The view outside showed little more than rooftops and an overgrown trellis draped in night shadow. He stood there for a moment, letting the quiet settle into his bones.
In the other room, Willow could be heard shifting her gear, humming something off-key. The muffled clatter of boots hitting the floor came next, followed by silence.
"Kind of strange how quiet it gets," Gus said, now lying on his bed. "Like the whole town goes to sleep at once."
Joren turned. "Doesn't bother you?"
"No," he said with a yawn. "Feels nice."
He didn't answer, only glanced once more out the window before turning toward the shower. The water was warm and smelled faintly mineral, like stone after rain.
When Joren returned to the room, Gus was already on his side, breathing slow and steady. The night sky was beautiful, plenty of stars to be seen when not obscured by clouds. Joren moved to the bed to lay down, pulling the blanket over his chest, and waited.
Sleep didn't come, but the night moved on anyway.