Eryshae

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Mrs. Winthrop

The Drowned Heron Inn

Trigger warning: Murder is afoot

The dining hall buzzed softly with conversation as Mrs. Winthrop excused herself, muttering something about a splitting headache as an excuse. Her steps echoed lightly against the creaking floorboards as she made her way upstairs, clutching a small handkerchief to her brow while she planned out how she was going to romance him.

Near the end of the dim hallway, a door stood shut, Mister Greaves' room. She pulled out a small key and slid it into the locked door. Something in the air shifted, an uneasy stillness that made her pause. Cautiously, she pushed the door open. Inside, the flicker of candlelight revealed a scene that stopped her breath.

Mister Greaves lay slumped against the wall, eyes closed as if in final rest. Clutched tightly in his hand was a cup of silvered glass, its edges rounded sharply, streaked with dark crimson that soaked the fabric of his sleeve.

For a moment, Mrs. Winthrop's mind raced: was this some terrible accident? Or had he done this to himself? Her gasp shattered the silence, a raw, piercing sound that rippled down the corridor.

"Help! Someone! Please!"

Her voice cracked on the words.

Sam was already halfway to standing, the playful fire in his eyes replaced by something colder, sharper. The faint glow of amber under his shirt began to rise, crest pulsing with instinct. Bark flowed down his arms, thickening at his knuckles. Vael stood too, her fingers already brushing the hilt of the slim dagger at her waist.

Across the room, Toya rose in silence, her eyes already tracking the sound, one hand gripping the pommel of her sword. Vael turned and ordered Toya. "Stay here and watch the door." The warmth of dinner vanished like breath against glass.

The storm was no longer just outside. The sharp echo of Mrs. Winthrop's cry traveled swiftly through the inn's quiet halls. Moments later, the heavy footsteps of Sam and Vael climbed the narrow staircase, their expressions sharpening with concern. Vael's emerald-green hair caught the dim candlelight, shimmering like living leaves, while Sam's presence seemed to carry an otherworldly weight.

As they reached the landing, Mrs. Winthrop spun toward them, her pale face etched with fear and disbelief. "You…" she whispered, eyes wide, fixating first on Vael's vibrant green hair, then drifting to the faint amber glow pulsing beneath the fabric of Sam's shirt. Her gaze traveled down his arms, where the texture of bark seemed to ripple beneath the skin, faintly luminescent in the candlelight.

"I've never seen anything like you before," she breathed, voice trembling. "Are you… some kind of spirit?" Vael exchanged a quick glance with Sam, who simply nodded with a calm steadiness that seemed to both reassure and unsettle the old woman.

"We're here to help," Vael said gently. "What happened?" Mrs. Winthrop swallowed hard, still fixated on Sam's glowing chest and barked arms. Her eyes darted nervously back toward the door of the room.

"It's Mister Greaves… He's… he's dead," she stammered, voice breaking. Sam's eyes narrowed as he took a step forward, already piecing together the weight of the moment. Vael's fingers curled slightly, a subtle readiness in her stance. The storm outside rattled the windowpanes, as if urging them forward into the darkness they had just stepped into.

Sam stepped past Mrs. Winthrop first, ducking slightly beneath the crooked frame of the doorway. Vael followed close behind, her boots making no sound on the worn wooden floorboards. The room smelled wrong. Not just of death, though that was there too, dry and metallic, but of something older. Wet ash. Brine. A note of copper tangled in seaweed and dust.

The oil lamp on the desk flickered low, casting long shadows across the small space. Rain tapped against the window, blurred by the condensation on the inside of the glass. Everything in the room looked undisturbed, at first.

Then they saw him. Mister Greaves slumped sideways in the armchair by the hearth, chin dipped low, limbs limp and unnatural in their angles. One shoe half-off. His eyes open, glassy. A line of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth like a misplaced smile.

Vael's breath caught quietly. Sam moved in closer, his expression shifting from concern to calculation. He didn't touch anything yet. Just looked. "There's no sign of a struggle," he murmured. "No overturned furniture. No scattered papers." Vael nodded slowly, scanning the fireplace, the bedside table, and the floor. "He didn't fight, and yet there is blood by the wall" she said.

"Like he was moved." The fire had long since gone out, only cold gray ash in the hearth now. A faint trail of soot marked the stones above it, like smoke had once licked the wall before dying. Sam knelt beside the body. "There's something about the angle of his head…" He tilted his own slightly, frowning. "Neck looks clean. No bruises. No obvious wound on his neck, his wrists look slit by a knife or maybe a dagger."

A creak behind them. Mrs. Winthrop stood just inside the threshold, twisting the handkerchief in her hands. Her mouth opened, closed. She took a step in, as if drawn forward by the gravity of the scene, but her feet faltered before she crossed fully into the room.

"I, I didn't mean to intrude," she said, voice thin and shaking. "I only came because… I thought he might like some tea. To help him sleep."

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Vael turned slightly, not rising from her crouch. "With a key?" Mrs. Winthrop paled further. "Yes, I mean, no. I had it … from earlier. He… he asked me to bring him a basin and towel yesterday evening. He said he didn't want to be disturbed otherwise, but he left the key with me just in case." Her voice picked up speed, defensiveness creeping in with every syllable. "I wouldn't have come in unless I thought something was wrong."

"Something was wrong?" Sam asked, not looking at her. His gaze remained fixed on the glass cup still gripped in the man's hand. "I, he didn't come down for supper. And I heard… something. A sound." She flinched as she said it, eyes darting to the hearth and then away. "Like a thud. I was worried he'd fallen. That he might be sick."

"You said you came to bring him tea, where are the teacups?" Vael said quietly. Mrs. Winthrop opened her mouth, then closed it again. Sam stood, slowly, brushing his hand against the edge of the desk without leaving a mark. "You knew him, then? Before he arrived?"

"No," she said too quickly. "No, I, he came in like any other traveler. Polite. Quiet. Nothing strange about him." Her fingers twisted tighter in the handkerchief, until the thin fabric began to fray. "And yet you wanted to check on him. Romance him?" Vael's tone didn't accuse, but it carried weight.

Mrs. Winthrop flinched, eyes darting toward the hallway. "He had… a kind face. Sad, maybe. I thought, never mind what I thought." Her voice broke again, this time with genuine fear. "I didn't expect to find that." Sam exchanged a glance with Vael. The woman's nerves were real, but so was the inconsistency in her story. Something didn't fit.

"Did Mister Greaves mention anyone? A name, a place?" Vael asked. Mrs. Winthrop blinked. Her silence stretched long enough to be an answer. "Name?" she echoed, finally. "Yes. No. No, why would he?" Vael rose to her full height. "We'll need to speak with the other guests." Mrs. Winthrop nodded quickly, too quickly. "Yes, yes, of course. The innkeeper Mrs. Annie Weaver is downstairs."

She stepped back into the hallway as if grateful to escape, but Vael's eyes stayed on her a moment longer. When she was gone, Sam exhaled slowly. "She's lying," he said. "She is," Vael agreed. "But not about everything." Sam turned back to the glass cup in Greaves' hand, watching how the candlelight fractured across its surface, how, for just a moment, his own reflection didn't quite look like him.

Sam narrowed his eyes at the cup, the blood on it dark and dull now in the flickering light. He didn't reach for it. Whatever it was, whatever it had done, it didn't want to be touched. Vael knelt beside the hearth, brushing her fingers just above the cold stone without making contact. "This soot's been disturbed," she murmured. "Not just from the fire burning out. Look, here." A faint arc, like something had been dragged or dropped hard enough to leave a mark, curved away from the center of the fireplace. "Something was dragged."

Sam followed the shape with his eyes. "Or someone." He glanced back at the chair. The blood on Mister Greaves' sleeve didn't match the rest of the scene. Too contained. Too precise. There should have been more. Sam stepped carefully toward the side wall. "Vael." His voice was soft, low, pulling her to him without raising an alarm. She rose and moved beside him.

It was faint, nearly invisible in the uneven glow of the room. But there, a smudge. No, not just a smudge. A print. A hand. Splayed wide on the wall above a shadowed scuff. Greaves hadn't fallen. He'd been pushed. "Someone else was here," Vael said, the words barely a breath. "Recently. Within the hour."

"And they didn't want it to look like a murder." Sam's jaw tensed. "Or they wanted it to look like something worse." Vael's eyes tracked back to the glass cup still clutched in Greaves' hand. "That glass cup... it's not from anything in this room."

"No," Sam agreed. "And it looks broken." He reached out with a cautious hand, not to take it, but to feel it. A pulse stirred at the edge of his fingers, subtle but distinct, a wrongness. Not magical, not quite. But something familiar. Old. It tasted like cold iron and salt in the air. But Sam didn't answer. His breath had slowed, his body still, like the bark beneath flesh had gone rigid. A whisper skated down his spine.

"Sam?" Vael's voice was sharper now. He blinked and looked at her. "There's something… listening."

He turned toward the hearth again, where the gray ash lay undisturbed, except for the faintest pattern. A knock at the door jolted them both. Not loud. Just two soft taps. Then silence. Vael drew her blade. Sam's hand flared with amber. The door creaked open.

Toya stood at the door, posture taut, one hand still on the hilt of her sword. She moved forward, slow and sure, boots whispering over the wood. "I followed Mrs. Winthrop back to her room. She paused beside the doorway, her gaze flicking to Greaves' body, then to the shard still gripped in his bloodied hand. "She didn't mention that."

"No," Vael said. Toya stepped inside, scanning the room with practiced eyes. Her presence was steadying. Her instincts were sharp. "She's hiding something," Toya murmured, not asking. Sam nodded. "You feel it too."

Toya's expression didn't change, but she angled toward the wall, where the faint smudge of the handprint marked the plaster. "Someone else was here," she said. "Too quiet for a struggle," Vael added. "But the room isn't empty. Not really." Toya crouched near the hearth, fingers hovering just above the arc of disturbed soot. She didn't touch it. "He didn't fall. He was dragged. Maybe from here." Her eyes swept the space above the fireplace. "Looks like someone yanked him by the arm, hard."

Vael turned to Toya. "Seal the hallway. No one else enters. Not the guests. Not Mrs. Winthrop. Not even Annie." Toya hesitated. "And if someone wants to come in?" Vael's green eyes didn't waver. "Stop them."

Toya gave a dry nod and stepped back into the hallway without a word. The door clicked softly behind her. Inside, Sam turned again to the cold fireplace. The smell of brine hadn't left. It had settled. Like it belonged now. The glass in Mister Greaves' hand gave off no light, no pulse, but something about it waited. Sam crouched near it once more, voice low.

The inn's lobby was still and too quiet, as though the building itself were holding its breath. Sam and Vael descended the creaking staircase, boots tapping gently on the floorboards. Behind the front desk, Annie Weaver sat ramrod straight in her old chair, the key ring around her neck catching the low light.

She didn't stand to greet them. "Did you… was it… him?" she asked, though her voice was barely more than breath. Vael gave the faintest nod. "Mister Greaves is dead. We don't yet know how."

Annie clasped her hands together, the bones of her knuckles pale beneath her paper-thin skin. Her gaze flicked to the windows, to the shadows shifting beyond them, and then back to Sam. Not quite meeting his eyes. "I, I don't mean to speak out of turn," she began, voice warbling slightly, "but if you're thinking to… question anyone about this, you ought to know, "

She swallowed. A small charm at the edge of her wrap came undone and dangled like a broken promise. "You two were here. In the dining hall. With the rest of us." Vael's brow furrowed. "You're saying we have an alibi?"

"Yes. Yes, that's right," Annie said too quickly. "I, I saw you both, plain as day. Laughing a little. Eating. You never left the room, not 'til the scream. I'm sure of it." Sam tilted his head slightly, not challenging her but watching her carefully.

"You were… watching us that closely?" he asked. She flinched. "It's my inn," she said with a brittle smile. "I watch everything." Vael stepped forward, eyes narrowing slightly. "And what about Mister Greaves? When did you see him last?"

Annie's fingers curled tightly around the edge of the desk. "He'd gone up early. Said he wasn't feeling well and got some food from the cook. That was all. I never saw him after that. Do you think it was poison?"