The group moved quickly, elves loading the last of the supplies into the carriages while Lucas reluctantly followed Sylmira toward one of the wagons. Inside, folded neatly, was a dark, worn-out cloak—stained, rugged, and undoubtedly once owned by an actual slaver.
Lucas picked it up with two fingers, scowling. "This thing stinks."
Sylmira smirked. "Good. It'll make the disguise more convincing."
Lucas groaned. "I swear, if this thing has lice—"
"Put it on," she ordered, ignoring his complaints.
With a sigh, Lucas draped the cloak over his shoulders. It was heavier than expected, and the faded emblem on the chest—a twisted insignia resembling chains intertwined with an eye—made his stomach churn. He had no love for slavers, but if this was what it took to blend in, so be it.
He adjusted the cloak, pulling the hood over his head. "So, how do I look?"
