I jerked back into the room and slammed the door, fumbling the lock shut with shaking fingers. Heart hammering against my ribs. What the fuck was that? Monster? Another race? Some kind of demon? Thank god she hadn't looked up when I opened the door.
I dropped to one knee and pressed my eye to the keyhole.
She was still there. Exactly as before—arms crossed, expression unchanging. Waiting.
A few seconds later, the door to her right opened. A human man stepped out—middle-aged, scruffy beard, traveler's cloak. He locked his door, said something low to her, too quiet for me to catch, and she answered with a short laugh. Deep, rumbling, almost amused. Then they turned together and headed toward the stairs, footsteps fading down.
"Was that… a race?" I whispered to the empty room. "Or just a monster?"
I waited another ten seconds, listening. Silence. I cracked the door open again—hallway empty. Good.
I stepped out, closed the door quietly behind me, and followed them down the stairs.
The tavern's main room looked different in daylight. Less smoky, less chaotic. Morning light slanted through the windows, catching dust motes. The tables were mostly empty except for a few early risers nursing mugs of something hot. The strange woman and the man had claimed a corner table near the hearth. They sat close, talking quietly, waiting for their food. She leaned back in her chair, horns catching the firelight like polished bone.
I kept my head down, found an empty stool at the far end of the counter, and tried not to stare.
Whatever she was, she belonged here. And that scared me more than if she'd been some kind of monster lurking in the woods.
Breakfast first. Bath second. Questions, lots of questions, third.
One step at a time.
I walked up to the counter and claimed one of the worn stools, the wood creaking under my weight. Behind the bar stood an old man now—late sixties or early seventies—silver beard neatly trimmed but streaked with stubborn gray, the top of his head completely bald, though a thin fringe of white hair clung stubbornly to the sides and back like a half-forgotten halo. His eyes were distant, fixed on the window as though watching something far beyond the glass; two thick fingers tapped a slow, absent rhythm on the scarred counter.
"Morning, sir," I muttered, voice still rough from sleep and smoke.
He blinked, gaze shifting to me—taking in the mud, the dried blood, the exhaustion. "Morning, kid." His tone was gravelly, neutral. "How can I help?"
"I'm just looking to get some breakfast."
"Ten silver."
I hesitated. "Can we… do anything about the price?"
"No."
"I'm new in town," I pressed, trying to sound reasonable. "Really don't know my way around, you know?"
The old man sighed through his nose, the sound tired but not unkind. "Kid, don't make me feel like a jerk. I don't make the rules. The boss lady says ten, it's ten. So it's ten."
I shook my head, defeated, and slid one of the gold coins across the counter. He snatched it up without ceremony, tossed it somewhere under the bar with a faint clink, then turned and shuffled toward the kitchen doorway.
He paused in the frame, leaning one hand on the jamb. "A breakfast, standard," he called inside. "And make it quick."
From my angle I could see the kitchen beyond—low ceiling, blackened beams, a massive stone hearth dominating one wall. Pots hung from iron hooks; a long wooden table was scarred from years of chopping. A younger man—mid-thirties, sleeves rolled to the elbows—stirred something in a heavy iron pot over the fire. The air carried the smell of oats, smoked meat, and herbs.
The old man stepped back, closed the door halfway, then picked up another mug from the counter and started wiping it with a rag, movements slow. I exhaled, staring out the window at the rising sun. Fucking hell… I'd survived yesterday. Elves, murder, fire, a new race in the hallway. Somehow I was still breathing.
"You smell like horse crap, son," the old man said without looking up. His eyes flicked to the stains on my tunic. "Get yourself cleaned up."
"Don't have gold for that."
"Then earn it, huh?" He cleared his throat, finally meeting my gaze. "Never seen you before. What's your name?"
"Ace."
"Kembeliona." He tapped his chest with the rag. "Nice to meet you. You coming back from The Circle?"
"The Circle?"
"Yeah… you don't know what that is?"
"Nah, I don't."
He snorted softly. "Well, best if it stays like that then."
Before I could press him, the kitchen door swung open. Kembeliona took two steps back and accepted the plate the cook handed through. On it sat a hearty, no-nonsense breakfast: thick slices of dark rye bread, still warm, a generous slab of pale yellow cheese, two boiled eggs with cracked shells, a small pile of fried root vegetables glistening with fat, and a couple of thick sausages—smoked, split down the middle, edges crisp. A small wooden bowl held a dollop of some kind of herbed porridge on the side.
He slid the plate in front of me.
I stared at it for a second. Looked edible. Smelled good—earthy, savory, comforting. But still… different world. What if it had monster oil or something in it?
Nah. Hunger won. I was too starved to overthink.
I tore into the bread first—crusty outside, soft and slightly sour within—paired it with a bite of cheese that melted tangy on my tongue. The sausage was smoky and rich, juices running down my chin. I cracked an egg, yolk spilling golden, and scooped up the fried roots—carrots and parsnips, crisp at the edges, soft in the middle. The porridge was thick, oats cooked with herbs and a hint of honey. I ate fast, almost frantic, scraping the plate clean.
"Like the food?" Kembeliona asked, watching me with faint amusement.
"Delicious," I managed between bites, mouth half full.
"By the arm of Vaelor, kid!" He chuckled low. "When was the last time you ate?"
I scoffed, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "Feels like forever."
I was halfway through the last sausage when the tavern door banged open.