For the last time, the melody-master Mora's Book chose was a courteous old gentleman. He wasn't being hunted—he'd simply been starving for five days and was close to dying.
The old gentleman's name was Henry Henton. He wore several layers of old clothes dug out of dumpsters, making him look bulky; once indoors he took off three of them, revealing a frame so thin he was almost a skeleton, with the skin on his neck frozen bluish-purple. He apologized for every wet footprint he left on the floor and said he would clean them up before he left.
Skyl invited him to share dinner.
The wandering old man sat at the table and bowed his head in prayer.
"Thank you, Lord, for the food you provide. Thank you for the generous good people who have taken me in. May Your light shine on us always. Amen."
After the prayer, he began to eat. He was clearly starving, yet he ate slowly, never wolfing anything down. To him, dignity mattered more than life.
Mr. Henton's appetite was astonishing for an eighty-year-old. When he finally finished an hour later, the empty bowls and plates at his elbow were stacked high.
"You're the last customer," Skyl said. "The tavern's business is over, but we can still offer you three drinks. Have you decided what you want?"
Mr. Henton looked satisfyingly full. His sunken, slack cheeks had regained a faint glow, and his straight back had finally sagged a little. A dull, unfocused light showed in his cloudy eyes. He looked like a dried skin bag filled with water—slumped in the chair, utterly spent.
"If I drink your wine, my wish comes true, right?"
"Not always," Skyl said. "We once had a guest with an extremely bizarre request. He wanted to stuff Mount Everest into the East African Rift."
Mr. Henton laughed.
"I don't have any wishes. I'm old. I've lived too long." He leaned back, then burst out again, as if the absurdity itself kept pushing the laughter out of him. "You probably won't believe me, but last year I was still a billionaire. And then my precious collectibles all turned into Gilderoy Lockhart!" He laughed until he wheezed. "Then the stocks—gone overnight, like a fart in the wind. The only thing that didn't disappear was the debt. The bank took everything. God's going to send them to hell."
"I'm sorry you went through such a violent rise and fall," Skyl said gently. "But don't worry. The Grand Symphony won't replace real history."
"Don't feel sorry for me, kind young man." Mr. Henton's boldness faded into a small, embarrassed restraint. "I only have one request. Can I stay here for the night? I don't have the strength to fight those junkies for space in an abandoned apartment building anymore."
Skyl looked around the tavern. He'd planned to let this place sit under a thick coat of dust, aging in memory the same way this Christmas break would. But if someone could keep it running, then in the future, he and his friends would have one more old place to remember.
"You can have this tavern," Skyl said, sliding the key across the table. "The food in the cellar will refill itself. Four rooms upstairs are sealed; you won't need to clean them."
Henry Henton looked startled. "I'm just an aging Muggle. I don't know magic—how could I run the miraculous Three Cups Traveling Tavern?"
Skyl smiled. "Magic isn't anything special. What's special is people's faith. I believe you can be an excellent innkeeper."
Mr. Henton didn't sneer at the comforting line. He'd lived through too much; now he believed nothing and believed everything.
"Tell me about this tavern. What exactly makes it unusual?"
Skyl told him, "The tavern has a will of its own. It travels the world looking for people in crisis. The innkeeper's duty is to provide food, and when necessary, lodging. And of course—three beautiful dreams for every customer. You can choose to make those dreams come true, or you can let them remain only dreams."
"I can help them too?" Mr. Henton's eyes lit up.
"…Of course," Skyl said, smiling. "In a special way."
Sweat beaded on Mr. Henton's cheeks. Life surged through him. "Wonderful."
The four of them spent one final night in the tavern. Mr. Henton stayed busy in the main hall the whole time, moving softly as he removed all the white cloth covers, checked the cellar stock, filled the liquor cabinet, handwrote several menus, and prepped ingredients for tomorrow in the kitchen.
The old man was over eighty. He panted for breath, his sweat shining with a faint oily sheen, yet his cheeks grew looser, his eyes brighter, his face strangely dry and chalky all at once—like he was being scoured clean from the inside.
Near midnight, Henry Henton finally finished every last preparation for opening. His work was thorough down to the smallest detail; in his younger days, he must have run a tavern before. He had food, he had drink, and he had stories—stories that stretched from the tail end of World War I to the 1990s. Henry had seen war, partings, wandering, sudden wealth, marriage, widowhood… the scenery of the world and the joys and griefs of humanity—he'd seen it all.
He believed he could hold the Three Cups Traveling Tavern together. This extraordinary undertaking made his heart feel young again, pounding so fiercely it seemed ready to fly out of his chest.
At last, the new owner—this old gentleman—sat at the bar, poured himself a small glass of gin, and drank it in one go. Then he went upstairs carefully, picked an empty room, washed up simply, lay on the bed, and prayed to God.
"Lord, thank You for the life You gave me. Thank You for letting me do something meaningful. I will save the suffering—until death."
With that beautiful expectation in his heart, Henry Henton closed his eyes.
Morning came.
Skyl opened the door softly and walked to the bedside. Marika and the others were already awake, washed, and packed. Calling his name, they gathered at the doorway.
"Skyl, you're in here… ah—Mr. Henton, he…?"
"He's dead," Skyl said, nodding. "He went at 3:45 a.m."
"What a shame."
"Are you all packed?" Skyl brushed his fingers lightly over the corpse's cheek. The weathered, withered face regained a gentle sheen, as if he were only sleeping.
"All packed," the girls nodded.
"Let's go."
The four of them, dressed neatly, each carrying a suitcase, stepped out through the tavern's mottled green door and looked back at the cozy house that had kept them for two weeks.
A small flame bloomed in Skyl's palm, orange-gold, and drifted onto the door. Fire caught everything: tables and chairs, liquor and food, even the dead man's body.
The blaze was like a restrained flower bud. It wrapped only the Three Cups Traveling Tavern and did not spread beyond it. A thin curl of black smoke rose into London's morning and dissolved beneath the snowy cloud layer. Many passersby noticed the fire, called it in, and began rushing toward the scene.
Before the crowd could arrive, Skyl opened two portals to the Lands Between—one leading to the Weeping Peninsula, the other to the Consecrated Snowfield.
Everyone knew it was time to say goodbye.
Melina stepped forward and hugged Skyl. Her body was soft and warm, and her hair carried a faint gardenia scent.
"It's time to go," Skyl said.
She didn't let go.
"All right, all right." Skyl lightly stroked her forehead. "Once you become a capable spellcaster, you can join The Tower of Tomes. Then we'll see each other all the time."
Melina nodded. "Until we meet again." She turned and walked through the portal.
Millicent hesitated, just for a beat, but she was still the same sharp, dashing swordwoman.
"Skyl, if you need me, summon me anytime. I'll become stronger and protect everything that matters to you."
"Are you still going to look for Malenia?" Skyl asked.
"Yes." Millicent's voice was steady. "I can feel there's something unusual connecting us. I want to speak with her. Maybe she knows my past."
"If you can't beat her," Skyl said, "remember to call me."
A sudden blush swept up Millicent's pale, narrow cheeks. She nodded hard, then slipped through the portal in a flash.
The portal closed. The street was already filling with people.
Marika reached her hand out to Skyl. Her sea-blue eyes were full of laughter. "Walk me home."
"How old are you, still wanting to hold hands," Skyl said, ignoring her as he walked forward. After a few steps, he turned back.
Marika was still there, arm extended, hand offered to him like she had all the time in the world.
Skyl walked back in silence.
"Just this once," he said.
"Sure," Marika replied.
The two young people walked away, moving against the flow of firefighters and traffic, leaving the bleak neighborhood behind one step at a time.
That day, major outlets around the world reported a fire in London.
According to reports, only a single tavern was damaged. The fire did not spread to the neighboring shops less than a foot away. From the ruins, people could vaguely make out that this had been the famous Three Cups Traveling Tavern. On the second floor, an elderly male body was found, unclaimed.
The Three Cups Traveling Tavern was destroyed in an unremarkable corner of London. A legend, it seemed, had ended.
But it didn't end there.
About seven days later, new witnesses began to identify the miraculous traveling tavern again, telling their own stories of it.
"The magic tavern still exists!"
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