The hearth’s glow pulsed steady as breath, casting amber warmth across the floorboards of the Inn. Shadows gathered in the eaves and corners, still and familiar. The scent of simmering broth and burnt rosemary curled through the air, clinging to beams darkened by age and heat.

  Elena wiped her hands on a cloth, watching the flames flicker in the oven’s belly. She stood behind the counter, shoulders hunched with a weight she could not name. Her hands knew what to do—sorting bowls, refilling water jugs, fetching logs for the hearth. Her body moved on memory older than her mind.

  The inn felt old, but not crumbling. Just... lived in. A ceiling low enough to duck beneath. Walls paneled with rough pine worn smooth by years of passing shoulders. Tables of uneven leg and polish, each with a story burned into its grain. Shelves lined with mismatched mugs. A painting of a wolf-eyed woman hung near the door—faded, smiling.

  Garron stood behind the bar, cleaning a glass with the stubbornness of a man who trusted no cloth but his own. He was thick-armed and wide across the chest, his beard flecked with steel-gray, eyes small but not unkind. He always wore the same apron. Elena wasn’t sure if he owned another.

  His wife, Lanna, ran the kitchen. A quiet woman with watchful eyes. Her dark hair was always tied back in a cloth. Her presence was marked by the sound of chopping and the smell of salt.

  Then there was Ress—their helper. Barely fifteen, lean as a reed, always trying to prove his worth by lifting things too heavy or running errands too fast. He shadowed Elena sometimes, watching how she carried plates without spilling.

  Elena liked him. He talked a lot, often about small things, filling the silence with eager stories or endless questions.

  The inn was rarely empty. Travelers came and went—miners, couriers, people fleeing things they didn’t name. They drank. They ate. They left. Most didn’t speak much. Garron never asked names unless someone gave one.

  "You all right?" Garron asked one moment, not looking up from the glass.

  Elena blinked. She didn’t know how long she’d been standing still. “Fine,” she said, then paused. "Can I ask you something?"

  He set the glass down. Nodded.

  "Why do you run this place?"

  He gave a short breath that might’ve been a laugh. "Spent most of my years chasing one thing or another. Eventually, I realized I just wanted somewhere steady. Quiet. A place that felt like home. Lanna wanted it too. So we built this."

  She hesitated. “And you never wondered if you were meant to be something else?”

  He looked at her then. "Once. Maybe twice. But it passed."

  Elena nodded slowly. She wanted to believe that.

  Then the door creaked.

  Three figures entered, their presence immediately commanding attention. The air seemed to shift with their arrival—subtle, but noticeable. The heavy weight of their footsteps thudded against the worn floorboards, each step deliberate.

  The first to enter was a woman, her steps measured and purposeful, drawing the eyes of everyone in the room. Her sharp, square jaw and pale eyes swept the room, calculating. Her hair was braided tightly, pulled back from a face that seemed both hardened and practiced. A hooked blade, dulled from frequent use, hung at her hip, catching the dim light in the room.

  Behind her, the second man followed—tall, with a slight stoop to his posture. His hawkish nose was sharp, as if it had been broken once and never quite healed right. The sword at his side was old, its hilt weathered and worn, but still carried the weight of experience.

  The third was younger, restless, and too clean for a sell-sword. His eyes darted about, uneasy in the unfamiliar surroundings, scanning every corner of the room. A faint golden glint of a warding charm tucked under his collar hinted at something more, something unusual. He stood apart from the others, too polished in comparison to the two who clearly lived by their blades.

  They moved toward an empty table by the hearth, their presence dominating the room. The floorboards creaked under their weight, the subtle sounds of their arrival echoing in the otherwise quiet inn. As they settled into their seats, their eyes roamed over the room before finally landing on Elena behind the counter. After a moment, the woman raised an eyebrow, catching her eye.

  Elena took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She wasn’t sure why they caught her attention—perhaps it was the way they carried themselves, their eyes flicking around the room, assessing everyone and everything with quiet intensity. They were armed, sure, but more than that, there was something about them that felt... dangerous.

  She glanced around, but Garron wasn’t there. He must have stepped out for a moment. With a quiet exhale, she walked toward their table, trying to ignore the growing unease in her chest.

  “What can I get you?” she asked, her voice steady, though her heart was racing.

  they all stared at her for a beat longer than comfortable—too long. It was as if they were sizing her up, trying to place her. Their eyes flicked to each other before returning to her. It was the kind of gaze that made her feel small, exposed, but she stood firm, trying to ignore the creeping unease.

  Finally, the woman spoke.

  "What's your name?" she asked, her voice low but deliberate.

  "Elena," she replied, doing her best to keep the tremor out of her voice.

  "Well, Elena," the woman said, her gaze lingering for another beat before she spoke. "We’ll have two ales. The roast, and whatever else you've got that's hot."

  The hawk-nosed man grunted in agreement, his eyes never leaving her face.

  "Two ales, the roast. Anything else?" Elena asked, trying to sound casual.

  The younger one shifted uncomfortably, tapping the table. "I’ll just have water," he muttered.

  The woman shot him a glance, then looked back at Elena, giving a small, knowing smile. "That’ll be all," she said.

  Elena forced a smile back, setting the pencil down and turning toward the kitchen. She couldn’t shake the feeling that they were still watching her.

  Later, Elena returned to the table with their food and drinks. She moved quietly, setting down the ales with a steady hand, followed by the roast, the smell of it rich and savory. She kept her eyes down, not meeting theirs again, and quickly moved back behind the counter.

  Her heart was still racing, and she forced herself to focus on her tasks. She cleaned glasses. She rearranged plates. Her mind kept drifting back to their stares, wondering if they knew her from somewhere.

  The minutes passed, and the mercenaries ate in a strange silence, save for the occasional murmur between them. They drank, laughed, and exchanged a few low words, but Elena couldn’t make out their conversation. Each time she glanced over, she caught one of them looking back, and she quickly turned away.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  When they finished, Elena went to clear the table. She moved swiftly, clearing the plates and glasses, but as she picked up the last empty cup, the younger man spoke up.

  “You’ve been watching us,” he said, his voice soft, but not unfriendly. “Is there something on your mind?”

  Elena froze for a moment, the question unexpected. She looked at him, then the woman and the hawk-nosed man. They were watching her, waiting.

  She swallowed hard, steeling herself. "Do you... know me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, but steady. "You've been looking at me like you recognize me."

  The woman’s lips curved into a small smile, but it wasn’t warm. "No. I don’t think so," she said, though her eyes lingered on Elena’s face, as though trying to place her.

  The younger man looked deeply uncomfortable.

  The hawk-nosed one watched Elena carefully. “You’ve got that presence. Hard to explain. Like a storm waiting behind calm eyes. And the way you look—tall, too pale, fingertips like smoke at the edges, and that rune on your brow? You are definitely Kay. Most likely a high-tier operative.”

  Elena’s throat tightened. “So you’ve seen people like me?”

  “Only once or twice,” the woman said, gentler now. “And never working tables.”

  There was a pause. The air around the hearth seemed to quiet.

  “Whatever you are,” she added, “you’re not a servant. So we figured either you’re hiding. Or you’re waiting. And we don’t want to get in the way of either.”

  The woman rose, followed by the others. Before turning to go, she paused beside Elena.

  “We’re with the Grey Lanterns. If you ever need anything pay us a visit. It would be an honor to help someone of your rank.”

  She gave Elena a small, respectful nod. So did the other two.

  Then they were gone.

  Elena stood by the hearth a long while after, staring at the door.

  The inn returned to its rhythm. Garron grunted as he hauled a crate behind the bar. Ress broke into a brief run to fetch more firewood. Lanna’s voice floated sharp from the kitchen. The noise swelled again—but not for her.

  She stepped outside without a word.

  The street greeted her in its usual hush. No true darkness lived here—just the same diffuse glow that passed for twilight in this place. Lamps swayed gently above shuttered doors. Their light burned amber through stained glass, casting pale reflections on the slick stone.

  The city wasn’t large. It coiled in slow rings, like something built from memory instead of design. There were no signs. No posted names. And yet people moved with certainty. As if they belonged.

  She passed the butcher’s shop. Drek was gone, the windows shuttered. A faint smear of blood curled beneath the door like an old signature.

  Further on, the weaver’s storefront had gone quiet, threads motionless behind glass. A cat sat curled on a windowsill, one gold eye half-lidded, tracking her with slow, lazy interest.

  Elena walked. Aimlessly. In thought.

  She just… moved.

  A trio of children darted past her in silence, barefoot on stone, laughing at something she didn’t catch. Their joy rose and fell behind her like birdsong.

  A woman swept the front of a tea shop, her broom rhythmic against the flagstones. She looked up just once as Elena passed—offered a faint smile, then went back to her work. The scent of dried orange peel and cloves clung to the air.

  Elena turned into a narrower path, one of the small stone-threaded alleys that led nowhere in particular. Vines crept down its walls like they’d forgotten how to stop. A cracked basin collected fog at its base. Further down, someone had drawn symbols in chalk along a wooden fence. Not letters. Just shapes. Swirls. Constellations that might’ve meant something to someone once.

  She paused.

  Ran her fingers over one.

  It flaked away beneath her touch.

  The silence in her mind filled that space. Not painful. Just hollow.

  She kept walking.

  At a small square, she found herself drawn to a low wall where potted plants sat in tired rows. Herbs. Something medicinal. Their scent reminded her of something she couldn’t name—something warm and bitter, like old tea or memories.

  She watched a woman across the way lower a laundry line. The woman’s arms were corded with labor, her posture practiced and unthinking. A man called to her from inside. A child laughed. A door shut.

  Elena leaned against the wall, breath slowing.

  The people in this city who knew their shape.

  A tailor’s daughter with nimble fingers and a crooked smile.

  A cartwright who sang to his wheels as he carved them.

  Even the boy who sold day-old bread at the corner knew his place—knew who he was, even if no one else cared.

  And her?

  She was a void in the shape of a person.

  Elena. That was the name she had. But it felt like a coat worn backward—familiar in the wrong ways. The mercenaries’ words came back to her: You’re not a servant. You’re hiding. Or waiting.

  Maybe they were right. Maybe not.

  Maybe she was nothing at all.

  She closed her eyes.

  Tried to remember.

  Tried to feel.

  Tried to be.

  And all she found was the distant echo of something ancient. Like a name whispered through a closed door.

  So she opened her eyes again.

  She passed the apothecary next, lights dim. The man inside was rearranging jars, his movements methodical. He didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. He belonged to this rhythm.

  A dog barked somewhere further down. The clatter of hooves on stone echoed once, then faded. Doors closed. Lamps were shuttered one by one.

  And still she walked.

  Maybe to find something.

  Maybe to let go of the hope that something might find her.

  She didn’t know how long she’d been walking.

  Her thoughts had pulled her forward without direction—snippets of old conversations, the glances from the mercenaries, the name Grey Lanterns echoing faintly in her mind like a song she couldn’t place. And then, somehow, the city changed.

  The warmth of lanternlight was gone. The hush of foot traffic, the murmured conversations, the comfort of window-lit storefronts—all vanished. The street narrowed around her, the walls rising on either side like closing jaws.

  She slowed.

  Grime-streaked stone pressed close. An old cart wheel lay discarded beside a broken barrel. Overhead, tattered laundry twisted on a sagging line, unmoved by wind. A single gutter trickled with run-off from some unseen drain, making the only sound in the world.

  She looked around.

  When had she left the main roads? The stalls? The sounds?

  She turned to retrace her steps—

  Her breath caught.

  And froze.

  Two figures stood at the alley’s mouth.

  Not passersby. Not neighbors.

  They had the slouch of streetmen used to easy violence—loose-limbed, casual. One held a thin cudgel in one hand, tapping it absently against his palm. The other had a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Evenin’,” said the one with the cudgel.

  Elena said nothing.

  Her mouth was dry. Her fingers curled into the folds of her coat, as if the worn cloth could shield her from what was coming.

  She took a step back. Her boot scraped stone.

  “Oh, don’t do that,” said the smiling one. He began to move forward. “We just wanna talk. Maybe help you lighten your pockets. Do our part for the local economy.”

  They laughed, low and mean.

  She looked around.

  No doors. No windows low enough to reach. The alley was long and tight, ending in a wall she hadn’t noticed before. Trapped.

  Her throat tightened.

  She stepped back again. Her shoulder brushed the stone—cold, wet, unyielding.

  They kept coming. Slowly. Like they had all the time in the world.

  And Elena?

  Elena was afraid.

  The first man stepped close enough to yank the coin pouch from her belt. He opened it, peering inside. “Not much,” he grunted. “Barely enough for a drink.”

  The second one didn’t seem interested in the coin. His eyes stayed on Elena. Slow. Appraising.

  “She’s got other things worth taking,” he said, licking his teeth.

  Elena stepped back instinctively. Her shoulders hit damp stone.

  He moved closer.

  “You’ve got a pretty mouth,” he said, voice low, oily. “Bet it sounds sweet when you beg.”

  The first man chuckled. “Come on, don’t scare her off. She’s already half frozen.”

  Elena’s heart slammed against her ribs. She pressed her hands flat against the wall behind her, trying to disappear into it. Her voice came out raw. “Please. Just take the money. I don’t want any trouble.”

  The second man smiled wider.

  His fingers twitched toward his belt.

  Elena couldn’t breathe. The alley felt too narrow. The air too close.

  She searched for a voice—any sound—but all she could hear was the rasp of her own breath.

  He stepped closer. Close enough that she could smell the rot on his breath.

  “You’ll like it,” he whispered.

  His hand reached out, fingers brushing her wrist—

  Elena panicked.

  Her hand lashed out—no thought, no aim—just blind, terrified instinct. A slap. That was all. A desperate, flailing strike to shove him away.

  Back of her hand connected with the side of his head.

  And his skull burst apart like overripe fruit beneath a hammer.

  Not cracked. Not broken.

  Exploded.

  A wet, concussive burst of bone and blood and light, as if something buried in her had been waiting—coiled too tight for too long.

  The alley went silent.

  The first man stood frozen, speckled in red. Mouth wide. Eyes wider.

  The body dropped.

  Elena didn’t move.

  Couldn’t.

  Her back was still pressed to the wall. Her hand still raised. Her breath short and broken.

  The surviving man staggered back, eyes wild. A broken, panicked scream tore from his throat as the shock finally shattered. He turned and ran, slipping on blood-slick stone, nearly falling. His hands scraped at the walls as he pushed himself away, scrambling like an animal, desperate to escape.

  Elena stared at her hand.

  It didn’t ache.

  It had just moved.

  She slid down the wall. Her knees gave out, folding beneath her. Her apron was soaked.

  Not her blood.

  She pressed a shaking fist to her mouth.

  And she began to cry.