Eryshae

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Sam

Inn – Second Floor Alcove, Just Before Dawn

Sam woke to warmth. Not the kind you chase with blankets, but the quieter kind, closer than skin, softer than breath. Vael's head was nestled against his chest, her arm curled lightly over his side. His own arm had, at some point, settled around her shoulders, fingers resting just above the small of her back.

For a long moment, he didn't move. The corridor was still. The stained-glass window at the end of the hall let in a spill of pre-dawn light, turning the shadows lavender-blue. The inn sighed quietly around them, old and wooden and watchful.

Sam exhaled, very slowly. He could feel the rise and fall of Vael's breath against him. Even in sleep, she seemed alert somehow, like she could be on her feet in an instant. But right now, in this quiet, she was warm and close and still; and something in him ached with how badly he didn't want to wake her.

And then reality crashed in. The hallway. The shadows. The fact that they had been keeping watch. He blinked fully awake.

Shit.

"Vael," he whispered, shifting just slightly. She stirred, then blinked up at him. For a breath, she looked calm; content, even. Then her eyes widened slightly as memory caught up. "We fell asleep," she whispered. "Yeah." They both sat up fast, the intimacy gone in a rush of urgency. Sam ran a hand down his face, heart picking up pace. "What time is it?"

"Early." Vael was already scanning the hallway, jaw tight. "Early morning." Their eyes snapped to the door across from them.

Malrick's room.

It was closed.

But the edge of the rug beneath it was crumpled… as if the door had been opened. And never quite put back right. Sam stood, breath held. "Did we hear anything?" Vael shook her head. "Nothing." Sam's stomach dropped. Whatever this night had been; whatever moment they'd shared; it had come with a cost. They hadn't caught Malrick in the act.

The hallway outside Malrick's door was dim and silent, save for the occasional groan of the old inn settling into the bones of the night. Sam kept a lookout near the stairwell, every nerve on edge, while Vael knelt by the lock; her fingers deft and patient. Her cloak fell over one shoulder, partially obscuring her hands as she worked. A thin bit of bone glinted briefly between her fingers. "This is reckless," Sam murmured, his voice barely more than breath. "We're terrible at stakeouts, and worse at breaking and entering."

"I'm improvising," Vael muttered. "Besides… someone relocked this for a reason. People don't lock their doors unless they have something to hide."

"You know, we could just ask nicely, its pretty common to lock your door.."

"I'm not in the mood for smirks and riddles. Hold still."

Click…

Then, another click.

But not from her tools.

The door swung open.

Vael froze, still crouched, her sliver of bone pinched delicately between thumb and forefinger.

Darc Malrick stood in the open doorway, shirt half-buttoned, a mug of something steaming in hand, brow raised in the sort of perfect, infuriatingly amused expression that made Sam want to walk into a wall just to escape the secondhand embarrassment.

"Well," Malrick said, sipping calmly. "If you wanted an early morning visit, you could've knocked." Vael didn't move. "...I was testing the structural integrity of your door."

"With a lockpick?" She stood up slowly, smoothing her cloak. "Exactly."

"Ah." Another sip. "How's it holding up?"

"Could use reinforcement," she said dryly. Sam coughed, trying to stifle a laugh. Malrick leaned against the doorframe, perfectly casual. "You're persistent, I'll give you that. What is it going to be today? A round of baseless accusations? Or just in the mood for amateur espionage while you two fall asleep in the hallway?"

"We need answers," Vael said, not backing down. "You need sleep," Malrick replied. "But since you're here," he stepped aside, gesturing grandly into the room, "why not come in and satisfy your curiosity properly?" Sam glanced at Vael. She rolled her eyes. "If he's hiding something, he wouldn't invite us in."

"Unless he's hiding something in plain sight," Sam whispered. Malrick smirked. "I can hear you, and I am still waiting." Vael walked in first. Sam followed. The door clicked shut behind them.

The room was warm, lamplit, and far too tidy. Books were stacked neatly on a desk by the far wall. A kettle sat nestled in the hearth coals, just beginning to steam. The bed was made. The window was latched. Nothing was out of place.

Which, somehow, made everything feel wrong. Sam scanned the space, trying not to be obvious about it. A coat hung by the door. A satchel leaned against the foot of the bed; worn leather, well-used. Malrick moved past them with ease, reclaiming his seat in the cushioned chair near the hearth like a man hosting breakfast, not two half-suspicious intruders.

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Vael didn't sit. Neither did Sam. "Nice place," Sam said, voice thin. "Isn't it?" Malrick took another sip from his mug. "Charming, quiet. Murder-adjacent." Vael folded her arms. "Where were you last night?" Malrick looked amused. "Sleeping. Like civilized people do after dusk. Why?" Sam pointed toward the door. "It wasn't latched properly. Rug's crumpled. Someone left in a hurry."

"Or," Malrick offered, "you two crumpled it while performing your adorable hallway cuddle-vigil. I imagine body heat and missed alarms are an occupational hazard for you two." Vael ignored the jab. "Have you been downstairs tonight?"

"No."

"Then how do you explain the sound we heard just after midnight?" Sam asked. "Raised voices. Footsteps on the stairs. Something heavy dragging across the floor?" Malrick raised a brow. "I explain it by reminding you this is an inn, not a tomb. There are voices. Footsteps. Rooms with floorboards. Not all of them are mine."

"But Greaves was staying in the room next to yours," Vael said, stepping closer. "And now he's gone. You never answered that question properly."

"I never got a proper question," Malrick said coolly. "Only tone and accusations. I figured I'd wait until one of you learned how to interrogate without romantic subtext." He stood slowly, setting his mug aside.

"Listen," he said, voice softening; only slightly. "I didn't harm Mister Greaves. I may have… warned him. Told him the inn wasn't a place for stubborn old men who couldn't leave well enough alone. But I didn't make him die." Sam glanced at the satchel by the bed. "Mind if we look around?"

"I do mind, actually," Malrick said, a smile returning like a blade slipping into its sheath. "But go ahead. I've nothing to hide. That's what you're hoping, isn't it? That if you dig long enough, I'll slip." Vael met his gaze evenly. "Everyone slips eventually."

He tilted his head in acknowledgment. "Then search away. Just don't bleed on anything." Sam gave her a slight nod, and together they started a slow, deliberate circuit of the room.

The desk held only ink, quills, and carefully scribed letters. One was addressed to someone named Kellen, in a steady, looping hand. The wardrobe was full of dark shirts, nothing flashy, but nothing worn thin either. A map of the surrounding region was tucked in one drawer, the edges creased but clean. No blood. No torn notes. No damning evidence tucked in false-bottom drawers.

No answers. Vael closed the last drawer. Sam stood from checking under the bed. Malrick hadn't moved. "Find what you're looking for?" he asked. "Not yet," Vael said. But something in her tone said we will.

Sam lingered by the door as she followed. Just before they stepped into the hallway again, Malrick added, "He did ask about the cellar." They both stopped. Vael turned back. "Greaves?"

Malrick nodded once. "Two days ago. Asked me if I knew how far down it went. I told him: far enough. And not to push it." Sam's voice was quiet. "What's down there?" Malrick met his eyes. "That," he said, "is a better question than you realize."

Vael lingered a moment longer in the doorway, eyes narrowed slightly. Malrick hadn't moved from the hearth, one hand resting lightly on the arm of his chair, the other now toying with a half-burned matchstick from the side table. His expression had shifted; not smug, not sarcastic. Just… tired. And distant.

"I always wondered," he said quietly, not quite looking at them, "why people think the truth is something you can corner. Like it's a beast with teeth, hiding in closets and under floorboards. Something you can catch. Tame. Make them obey."

Sam turned slightly. "Isn't it?" Malrick gave a faint smile, slow and unreadable. "The truth doesn't hide. It waits. Like rot. Like dust. People only notice it when it stains." He turned the matchstick over once between his fingers, contemplative. "You dig and dig and dig, thinking you're the clever ones; thinking you'll find some neat, clean answer. But if you go deep enough…" He paused. "Eventually, you hit bone."

Vael watched him. "And what happens then?" Malrick finally looked up, eyes sharp but quiet. "You either bury it again. Or you learn to live with the person you see in the mirror." The silence that followed felt heavy enough to shift the room.

Then Malrick leaned back, smile returning like a curtain pulled just slightly across a window. "Anyway. You two seem like the sentimental type. I'm sure you'll choose beautifully." Vael stepped out. Sam followed, the door clicking shut behind them.

The hallway outside Malrick's room was dim and still, the scent of candlewax and old wood lingering faintly in the air. Vael leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly. Sam stood beside her, arms crossed, eyes distant. Neither of them spoke for a long moment. Then Vael said quietly, "He talks like someone who's lost something important."

Sam nodded, watching the patterns in the stained glass at the end of the hall. "Or like someone who knows he's already going to lose more." She glanced at him. "Do you think he's right?" Sam didn't answer immediately. "About the truth?" He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for words. "I think… Maybe it's not the digging that hurts. It's the finding. Once you know, you can't un-know. You carry it. Whether you want to or not."

Vael studied him, something softening in her gaze. "You've been carrying things for a long time, haven't you?" Sam looked down, then met her eyes. "So have you." For a heartbeat, neither looked away. There was a quiet understanding in the space between them; shared weight, unspoken wounds, the kind that didn't need names to be known.

Then Sam chuckled under his breath, almost sheepish. "Not our best night, huh?" Vael smiled faintly. "We fell asleep on a stakeout, broke into someone's room, and got lectured by a possible murderer."

"And I wouldn't change a thing," Sam said, grinning at her now. She rolled her eyes; but it was warm, teasing. "You're an idiot."

"I know." They stood there a moment longer, just breathing the same breath.

Then;

Ahem.

A loud, theatrical clearing of the throat from behind the closed door. "I can still hear you," Malrick called dryly. Sam winced. Vael muttered, "Next time, I'm picking a quieter suspect." They walked off down the hall, closer now than before, the silence between them gentler somehow.

The stairwell creaked underfoot as Sam and Vael descended toward the inn's lobby, the pre-dawn light now shifting to a bruised gray along the windows. The scent of morning bread hadn't reached the air yet, and the hearth in the common room was cold; just faint curls of ash and last night's smoke clinging to the stone. The lobby was mostly empty, save for a quiet rustle behind the counter.

Annie.

She was bent over a ledger, lips pursed, her braid wrapped over one shoulder like a piece of rope. A chipped mug of tea steamed near her elbow. She didn't look up when they approached; but her pen paused. "You two look like you've been up all night," she said, still not lifting her eyes.

"We have… not," Vael said flatly. Annie glanced at them then, arching a brow. "Did you catch anything worth chasing, or just shadows?" Sam gave her a tired smile. "Depends on your definition of worth." Vael stepped forward, voice calm but clipped. "We need access to the cellar." Annie's smile faded. Her hand went protectively to the edge of the ledger. "Why?"

"Because we're still trying to figure out what happened to Mister Greaves," Sam said gently. "And because people keep locking doors when they think no one's looking." Annie hesitated, then straightened. "The cellar's private. Storage, mostly. Ale barrels, dry goods. Dust and mice."

"And a missing knife," Vael added. "I don't suppose we could borrow the key," Sam said, keeping his tone light. Annie set down her pen slowly. "The key isn't on the hook," she said, turning to face them fully. "Because it's not missing."

She reached beneath the counter and pulled out a ring of iron keys, all rusted and slightly mismatched. With a practiced flick, she separated one from the ring; a long, narrow bit of metal with a worn wooden handle. She didn't hand it over. Not yet.

"Whatever you're looking for down there," she said carefully, "mind how far you go digging. Not all roots lead to treasure." Vael's eyes didn't leave hers. "Some lead to bodies." A long silence passed between them. Then Annie sighed, and placed the key in Vael's palm. "It's your funeral."