Wincenth's mechanical fingers continued their slow, rhythmic drumming against his thigh as the door clicked shut behind Adam and his companions. The silence in the room was thick, broken only by the groans of the man still cradling his broken wrist on the floor.
'A dragon. In Myrta. Of all the places...' Wincenth's internal voice was cool, calculating. 'And not just any dragon—one who throws himself into the middle of a petty extortion dispute. Either he's genuinely protective, or he's looking for something.'
His voice was smooth, carrying a note of quiet command.
"Bring me the men who visited the blacksmith this morning."
Two of his subordinates moved immediately, disappearing through a side door. Moments later, they returned, dragging three men by the collars—the same thugs who had pounded on Hilt's door just hours ago. They were pale, trembling, their earlier bravado completely evaporated.
One of them dropped to his knees before Wincenth, his voice cracking with desperation.
