Eryshae

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Sam

Kitchen

The lobby door clicked softly behind them as Sam and Vael stepped away from Annie's desk, the low hum of the oil lamp casting elongated shadows that danced across the worn floorboards.

Sam didn't speak at first. He simply walked, the familiar ache returning to his shoulders as the weight of the moment settled like damp bark across his skin. The inn groaned faintly in the wind. Every board creaked like it remembered something.

"She gave us an alibi," Vael said quietly. "All three of us," Sam murmured. "Me, you… and herself." Vael's lips pressed into a thin line, her boots soft against the floor as they passed the hall leading to the stairwell. "Convenient," she said.

Sam gave a low huff of breath that might have been a laugh, but carried no warmth. "Too convenient." They turned toward the kitchen, where the air still carried the faint trace of supper: roasted root vegetables, spiced greens, fresh bread cooled on the rack. Sam brushed his fingers across the edge of the wooden door as they entered, as if the grain might tell him something the room wouldn't.

"For what it's worth," he said as he stepped inside, "the food was pretty good." Vael gave him a sidelong look, one brow raised. "Are you thinking with your stomach now?"

"I'm thinking it's strange," he replied, eyes scanning the counters, the hearth, the clean dishes drying in the rack. "For a place that feels like it's hiding something, dinner was warm. Real. Like someone wanted us comfortable. Distracted." Vael's gaze swept the kitchen as well, eyes narrowing at the too-tidy shelves, the spotless knives hung in careful alignment.

"Or indebted," she said. "A hot meal. A quiet room. A little kindness. Makes you hesitate before asking the wrong questions." Sam's amber eyes flicked toward her, the faintest glimmer of light still pulsing in his chest beneath the folds of his shirt.

"I think Annie's afraid," he said. "Not just of being caught. Of something else." He moved to the table, trailing his hand across the surface, pausing at a faint mark, a long, thin scratch. Old, maybe. Or maybe not. "We need to talk to the others," he said at last. "Before whatever's behind this decides one body was enough."

The corridor beyond the lobby narrowed, lit only by a single wall sconce flickering against warped wood. Sam walked slightly ahead of Vael, the silence between them coiled tight with unspoken thoughts. Then, a voice cut through the stillness. Sharp. Furious.

"I will kill you, do you hear me?! Gods as my witness, I'll wring your neck!"

Sam froze mid-step. Vael held up a hand, stopping just behind him. Another voice followed, thinner, defensive, almost cracking under pressure.

"I didn't do nothin', I swear! I only, I only said what I saw!"

The first voice surged back, full of spit and fire. "You said too much! That's what you did, you twitchy little rodent!" Sam exchanged a glance with Vael, and they stepped silently toward the kitchen door, careful not to let the floor groan beneath them. The words continued, but now they were quieter, the cook's voice a gritted snarl:

"If you so much as breathe a word of that to anyone, I'll gut you like one of my hares, you hear me?"

The boy's voice trembled. "I, I won't. I promise, Mama. I won't."

There was the harsh clang of something metal, a pan, maybe, hitting the stone counter, followed by rapid footsteps. Sam eased forward and peeked around the corner.

Through the narrow doorway into the kitchen, he caught sight of the cook, broad-shouldered, apron smeared with blood and flour, her hands braced on the table. Her chest heaved with rage. The boy, pale and small in the far corner, looked as though he might fold in half and vanish.

Sam stepped deliberately into view. The cook snapped her head toward him, her face schooling into something far too neutral, far too fast. "Oh," she said, voice suddenly syrupy. "Didn't hear you come in."

"We didn't mean to interrupt," Sam said evenly. "Sounded like a... spirited conversation." Vael stepped in beside him, her presence like a blade. "Is everything alright in here?" The cook offered a too-bright smile. "Just a misunderstanding. You know how boys are. Clumsy tongues. No real harm done." She reached for a rag, wiping her hands like she could scrub the violence out of her skin.

The stable boy didn't move. His eyes darted to Sam, then to the door, then back to the cook. Sam saw the way the boy trembled. And he didn't believe for a second that no real harm had been done.

The cook's smile didn't quite reach her eyes as she turned to the stable boy. "Go on now boy, back to the stables. That's where you belong, ain't it?" Her tone stayed sweet, but it coiled like barbed wire beneath velvet. "You've work to do."

The boy hesitated for a breath, as if unsure whether he'd be struck for moving too soon or not moving at all. Then, wordless, he ducked his head and turned toward the door. As he passed Sam, his eyes lifted, wide, glassy with fear. There was no mistaking the silent plea in them.

Help me.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

Sam didn't move until the boy was gone, but when he did, it was only to meet Vael's gaze across the kitchen. Her chin lifted slightly, a silent signal. She would stay. Sam gave a single nod, then turned without a word and followed the boy down the hallway, his steps quiet, deliberate. The cook didn't call after him. But he felt her stare at his back, like grease clinging to skin.

Rain whispered at the windows as Sam stepped outside into the narrow passage that led around the inn. The cold air hit him like a sheet of old memory, wet stone, rust, and pine. The wind off the marsh carried the scent of old hay and damp leather.

He found the stable door ajar, one hinge groaning softly in the breeze. Inside, the oil lanterns burned low, casting the wide wooden interior in a honey-colored haze. The boy was there, halfway through pretending to shovel straw, eyes flitting constantly to the door like a rabbit caught between two fields. When he saw Sam step inside, his shoulders tensed.

"You don't have to lie to me," Sam said, voice low, steady. "She threatened you. Why?" The boy's throat worked. He kept his hands on the shovel, fingers white around the handle. "Mama said I was makin' things up. Hallucinating." A beat. "But I saw what I saw." Sam took a slow step forward. "What did you see?"

The boy glanced around the stables, then pointed toward the farthest stall. "Over there. Last night. I was, I sleep out here sometimes. I'm not supposed to, but it's warmer next to the mounts. I woke up, and I saw someone. Or somethin'. A shape. In the shadows. It went into the inn through the kitchen door, but it didn't open it. It just… slid through. Like water through a crack." He swallowed hard. Sam frowned. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure," the boy whispered. "It looked tall. But wrong." A low chitter interrupted the silence. Sam turned toward the far stall. There, nestled in straw and a blanket he'd left behind, was his mount, a thick-bodied raccoon the size of a small bear, its striped tail flicking lazily as it sat back on its haunches. Its fur was still damp from the road, nose twitching in recognition.

The creature let out a soft purring trill and lifted its clever paws toward Sam, like a greeting. Sam's mouth curled faintly. "Hey there, Thistle," he murmured, stepping over to kneel beside the stall. The raccoon bumped his head against his chest, then turned to eye the stable boy as if weighing whether he was a friend or a chew toy.

"I think," Sam said quietly, still petting the raccoon, "you've seen something no one was supposed to." The boy looked like he might cry, not from fear, but relief. That someone believed him.

Sam rose, brushing straw from his knees. "Stay safe tonight. The boy nodded, swallowing. "Will you stop it? Whatever it is?" Sam didn't answer right away. He looked back toward the inn's crooked silhouette through the half-open stable door, his eyes drawn to a window lit from within. He thought of Greaves' still body. Of Annie's smile, brittle and bright.

"I'll try."

The door creaked shut behind Sam as he reentered the inn, brushing the cold off his shoulders with a slow exhale. The hallway air was thicker now, simmering with something unspoken. The smell of onions and warm broth lingered, but beneath it was a trace of iron. Not blood. Steel. He followed the sound of voices toward the kitchen.

", you know how boys are at that age," the cook was saying, her tone tight but honeyed. "Always chasing shadows. Stirring up stories to get out of chores. He's always been a strange one." Sam slowed, staying just shy of the threshold. Vael's voice came next, quieter, unreadable. "Strange doesn't make him wrong."

A scoff. "He gets it from his father, rest his soul. He's the same. Always swearing the well whispered back when we lived in the City-State of San last season. You spend enough time alone in those parts, your mind fills in what the dark leaves out."

Sam stepped into the room then, silent but purposeful. The cook's head twitched at the motion, but her smile returned before she fully turned. Vael glanced at him with a flicker of something unspoken in her eyes.

"I thought you were checking the stables and your carriage," the cook said, still all smiles and spice. "I was," Sam replied. "Your stable boy's doing his best, even if he hears things he shouldn't." The cook's hand tightened around the wooden spoon she'd been clutching, knuckles pale. "Is that so?" she said, as if asking the weather.

Sam didn't answer. Instead, his gaze drifted across the kitchen, the hearth fire low now, bubbling stew left on a simmer, an open crate of root vegetables shoved into a corner. And there, on the wall above the butcher's table, was a neat row of knives, each one polished, aligned like soldiers on parade.

Except for one.

A narrow gap broke the line. A spot where a blade had once hung but now hung no longer. Sam tilted his head slightly. "Missing something?" he asked softly, not looking at either of them. The cook followed his gaze. There was a pause. "Hmm?" she blinked, too slow. "Oh. That one? Probably in the wash. I let Lorna use it earlier for peeling." She turned, opening a drawer carelessly. "She forgets where things go sometimes.

Vael arched her brow, but didn't press, yet. Sam moved toward the wall, brushing his fingertips over the empty space. Cold. Clean. Like it had been gone longer than just a missed chore. "I'd like to speak with Lorna," he said. The cook's voice didn't change, but something behind her eyes did. "She's asleep. Poor girl's been sick again. If she is awake, she will be in the library reading her book, poor girl.

Sam's hand dropped to his side, bark faintly shifting under his skin. "Of course." But his eyes didn't leave the empty space where the blade used to be.

Sam turned from the row of knives without another word. Vael was already at his side, her eyes still fixed on the cook like she was waiting to see if the woman would sprout fangs or fade into mist. But the cook just smiled that brittle smile, gave them a too-cheerful "Mind the stairs," and turned back to her pot.

They didn't speak until they were out of earshot. The kitchen door gave a soft click behind them. "She's lying," Sam said simply, his voice low. Vael nodded. "About the boy. About the knife. About more than that."

Sam's jaw tightened. "And I don't think Lorna's asleep." They moved in tandem, not hurrying, but quick with purpose, boots soft against the creaking floorboards, past candlelit sconces and shadowed corners. The warmth of the kitchen faded behind them, replaced with the colder quiet of the inn's deeper halls.

The library was tucked off a crooked hallway near the back of the inn, its door half-open and flickering with firelight. The faint scent of dry paper and melted wax curled into the air like an old memory. Sam reached out and pushed the door fully open.

Inside, the library was smaller than expected, more a study than a proper archive, but the shelves were full. Books packed spine to spine, some upright, others stacked. A small hearth burned low in the corner, and the curtains were drawn tight across the windows. Shadows danced against the spines of forgotten tomes.

And there, curled in the oversized armchair by the fire, was Lorna. She looked up as they entered. Her dress was a dull gray-blue, simple, functional. Her hair was dark and tightly braided down her back, but her skin was pale, washed-out, like something left too long beneath the moon. But it was her eyes that caught him. Her eyes didn't blink enough. And when they did, they blinked wrong, too slow, like the turn of a head at midnight in an empty aviary.

They weren't vacant. They were watching. A blanket pooled around her shoulders. An open book rested on her lap, though the way her fingers clutched the pages said she hadn't read a word. Her eyes were too wide. Not with innocence. With knowing.

"Hi," she said softly. Not startled. Not afraid. "I was wondering when you'd come."