Hotel Sunrise was far from the worst establishment where Ruban had ever spent the night, despite the damp walls and the peeling paint. It was also very far from the best, though. They had been driving for about eight hours by the time the sun went down and it became too dark to continue safely on the remote highway almost completely unarmed. They had left Ragah behind nearly four hours ago; and while the capital and its immediate surroundings had become considerably safer over the last decade or so, the same could not, unfortunately, be said for the hinterlands of Vandram.

Ruban had expected Ashwin to resist the idea of going to Surai with him. He had thought the Zainian would want to stay in Ragah, in the thick of things. Ruban often suspected that Ashwin wanting to be involved with the investigation into the SifCo case had as much to do with the young man’s warped sense of adventure as with him wanting to set the world to rights by foiling those ‘evil Aeriels’, as he called them.

He didn’t know Ashwin quite well enough, apparently, for the Zainian had just shrugged and nodded when Ruban told him about the trip. Perhaps Ashwin had had enough of the whole mess after all. Not that Ruban was complaining. The other man’s unexpected pliability certainly had made life easier for him, and they had set out that afternoon itself – Ruban telling Simani to keep him posted in case they uncovered any leads on either Reivaa or Tauheen.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Upon nightfall, Ruban got off the highway and drove up to one of the many hotels and inns lining the NH130. After registering themselves at the counter, they’d been shown by a rather malnourished young bellboy to their room on the second floor. Sparsely furnished with two single-beds – one nightstand between them – and a single writing desk tucked into a corner, the room appealed to Ruban a lot more than many of the more floridly decorated ones often found in such establishments. To him, austerity was by far preferable to fake ostentation.

“You can go in now, if you’d like,” Ashwin said, walking out of the attached bathroom in embroidered cotton pajamas; long, wet hair dripping onto the concrete flooring. Ruban sighed. Speaking of ostentation…

“Order something for dinner,” he told the Zainian, throwing him the menu-card he had been perusing while waiting for his turn in the washroom. “We haven’t had a morsel since we started. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”