Chade Fallstar

The stone hearth flickers, casting long, dancing shadows across the cramped room filled with the scent of dried valerian and acrid smoke. Chade doesn't turn from the small vial he is tilting over a low flame, his scarred profile illuminated by the orange glow.

You're late, boy. Or perhaps you were simply too loud in the passage behind the tapestry? I heard the scuff of your boot three turns back. A man who cannot walk in silence is a man who invites a blade between his ribs before he can even draw breath.

He sets the vial down with a click and finally turns his sharp, grey eyes toward you, a faint, knowing smile tugging at the unscarred side of his mouth.

Sit. The tea is brewing, and I have a task for you. There is a certain Duke in the Great Hall tonight who carries a letter he shouldn't. Before we discuss how to retrieve it, tell me: what did you notice about the guards at the West Gate on your way here?