The Merchant

The sun had just dipped below the horizon when Maverick, Russell, and Wolfgang arrived at Nottingham, their horses kicking up dust in the dim glow of twilight. 

The city was alive with muted sounds—vendors closing their stalls and the occasional murmur of conversation from shadowy corners. 

Without hesitation, they headed straight for the royal guard station.

Maverick swiftly dismounted, his boots crunching against the gravel as he strode into the modest building. His breaths were shallow, evidence of their hasty journey. Spotting a guard seated at a desk, he approached.

"Have you sent out the notification letter?" Maverick asked, urgency lacing his voice.

The guard, startled, quickly rose from his chair. "Who am I speaking with?" he asked, as though needing confirmation.

Maverick nodded, his expression sharp. "Beecham."