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“Don’t say it again,” the innkeeper hissed. “And whatever you do, don’t take it to a window.”

The old inn sat hunched against the moors like a forgotten tooth, its sign— The Wanderer’s Rest —creaking a lullaby in the salt-licked wind. Llyr had found it by accident, chasing the last smear of sunset across a map that hadn’t been updated in fifty years.

“Found that, did you?” The man’s voice was gravel wrapped in wool.