The old man's hideout was as uninviting as ever. Nestled deep in the underbelly of the city, the place smelled like damp stone, burnt wood, and old books, a combination that might've been nostalgic if it weren't for the constant feeling that I was going to get my ass kicked with another one of his ridiculous lessons. I couldn't help but wonder why someone of such skill would tuck himself away in the slums, but I paid him to not ask questions and it would be hypocritical of me to ask questions of him.
Ronan and I stepped into the dimly lit chamber, the flickering torchlight barely doing anything to cut through the oppressive gloom. The old man sat at his usual place, hunched over a worn wooden table littered with parchment and half-melted candles. His gnarled fingers traced the spine of some ancient tome, a scene I had observed almost every single time I arrived here.
He didn't look up when he spoke. "Took you long enough."
