Eryshae

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Vael

Inn – Cellar Door

The key was heavier than it looked. Vael turned it over once in her palm as she and Sam stood before the cellar door, its iron surface veined with old rust and the ghosts of handprints long since dried. The hall behind them was empty now. Annie had disappeared into the back with a muttered warning and no further questions. Morning hadn't quite taken the sky yet. The air still tasted of night.

The cellar door loomed before them, solid oak, reinforced with dull black metal studs, and warped slightly with age. It looked less like a pantry and more like a vault. Or a tomb. Vael slid the key into the lock, but didn't turn it yet. The silence stretched. Sam stood beside her, close but not touching, his posture still and quiet. "You're hesitating," he said softly. "I'm thinking."

"Same thing, in your case." Vael didn't smile. Her fingers stayed curled over the key. The cold from the iron had started to creep into her skin. "Something's wrong in this place," she said quietly. "More than just a murder. More than secrets." Sam nodded once. "I know." She tilted her head, eyes on the door. "It feels like the house is holding its breath."

"And we're about to go into its lungs." That got a small, tight smile from her. But only just. She turned the key. It clicked, louder than expected in the quiet, and the lock gave way with a sound like bone shifting out of place.

The door creaked open slowly, revealing stone steps spiraling down into a darkness that smelled of damp earth, old barrels, and something fainter… metallic. Not blood, but not far from it either.

Vael exhaled once. Then she stepped forward into the dark. Sam followed. A single lantern flickered from a hook just inside, its flame licking at the damp stone walls. The steps were narrow and uneven, descending steeply into the cold-breathed dark. From here, the cellar felt less like a storage space and more like a throat. Vael reached for her own lantern. "Stay close."

"Not going anywhere," Sam murmured. "Unless something down there wants to borrow my skin. Then we run."

"Don't joke about that," she said, but the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. They began their descent. Each step creaked under their weight, echoing faintly. The air grew cooler, touched by brine and old rot. Mildew, oak, damp cloth. Somewhere below, water dripped, slow and irregular, like a heartbeat gone strange.

The cellar opened before them. It was larger than Vael expected. A series of chambers extended outward like the spokes of a wheel. Shadow pooled in the corners, the rusted lanterns along the beams flickering like eyes just waking. Vael's fingers tightened around her lantern's handle. "We start with the wine cellar," she said.

Sam nodded, glancing toward the archway on the left, where rows of racks stretched into gloom. But behind them, somewhere deep in the far tunnels, something shifted. A breath of air. A faint scuff. Vael didn't turn. Not yet. "Let's move," she said. And together, they stepped further into the dark. The air shifted as they stepped beneath the arched stone into the wine cellar.

It was colder here, somehow, even with the lantern raised. Rows of dark racks stretched wall to wall, each filled with dusty bottles whose labels had long since faded to smudges and scratches. Some were cradled in aged oak. Others lay askew in broken crates, their glass fractured and their contents long dried to black stains.

Vael moved slowly, letting her fingers skim one of the bottles. The glass was cool beneath the dust. She turned it in her palm and frowned, there was no writing she could make out. Just a wax seal half-flaked away. Behind her, Sam crouched by a splintered crate. "These were kicked," he said, tapping the scuffed edge. "See how the wood broke? Someone didn't just drop this."

Vael knelt beside him. The stains beneath the broken bottles weren't quite wine-colored. Or, if they were… it had been wine mixed with something else. There was no scent of vinegar. Just iron and dust. "Could be old," Sam said, quiet. "Could be," Vael echoed.

Her gaze shifted. Something tugged at her, intuition, perhaps, or memory. She turned toward the far left rack. One of the stones at its base wasn't flush like the others. It jutted slightly outward, the mortar around it cracked. "Sam." He rose as she approached the spot, kneeling to brush dust from the uneven seam.

It didn't take long to loosen. With a soft scrape of stone, the block shifted, revealing a narrow alcove behind the rack, too small for a person, but just large enough to hide something. Vael reached inside. Her fingers closed around the cold glass. She pulled free a bottle with a dark crimson label still intact.

Wyrmshire. She knew the name, an obscure vineyard from the northern coast city-state on an island called Mackinac Island, known more for myth than merit. Its founder had supposedly gone mad, claiming to see "the echo of light" in mirrors before vanishing into the cliffs. The bottle in her hand was warmer than it should've been. Almost like it pulsed.

She turned it in her hand. No dust. No cobwebs. This hadn't been here long. Sam peered over her shoulder. "That's not right."

"I know." She set it gently on a nearby crate. "Someone left this recently." As they stood, a cold breeze touched the back of her neck. The flame in her lantern flickered, not just flickered, but bent sharply sideways, as though pushed by breath.

She turned, fast. Nothing. Just rows of silent bottles and stone. Sam's voice was quieter now. "Something was hidden here."

"Maybe more than one thing," Vael said. Her eyes roamed over the shelves again, this time not looking for wine, but for gaps, seams, or clues. One rack near the far wall had a clean rectangle of dust where a frame had once been.

Sam saw it too. "Something used to hang there." Vael stepped closer. The wall behind the rack bore faint marks, scratches, small but deliberate. Runes, maybe. Or warnings. Her fingers brushed one of the gouges. It was shallow… but curved. Like a crescent.

She didn't like the way it felt beneath her skin. "We need to check the next room," she said. "The longer we stay down here, the more it feels like something's watching." Sam nodded once. "Cheese storage?" Vael arched her brow. "You just want free cheese."

"That too," he muttered. They turned toward the next arched doorway. Behind them, something creaked, a bottle tipping, falling. But when they looked back, everything was still. Vael didn't say anything. Neither did Sam. But their steps were quicker as they moved on.

The doorway into the next chamber was lower, more narrow, Vael had to duck slightly to pass beneath it. Her shoulder brushed old stone. The air changed again. This room was warmer than the last, but no less strange. A thick, sharp scent hit her immediately: sour, pungent, heavy. Aging cheese, ripened too long in still air. Racks filled the space wall to wall, wooden shelves bowed with cloth-draped wheels, some marked with chalk, some long forgotten.

Vael wrinkled her nose. "You still want free cheese?" Sam made a face. "I regret everything." The lantern cast long shadows between the racks. Cloths hung loosely over many of the wheels, and some fluttered faintly… though there was no wind.

Vael stepped carefully between the rows. Her boots made almost no sound on the cool stone floor, but still she felt as if she were being listened to. The silence in here was different. Not the absence of sound, but a pause. Like the room was waiting. She crouched beside one of the racks, peeling back the corner of a cloth. The cheese beneath was pale gold, streaked with blue veins. Perfectly mundane. The wheel beside it, however, bore a clean, unnatural cut, sliced through in a single, razor-straight line.

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She touched the edge. It was dry. Too clean. Sam crouched beside her, brow furrowed. "That wasn't done with a knife. Look at the curvature, it's not hand-cut. That's… something sharper. Smoother."

"Or faster," Vael said softly. She rose and moved farther down the row. Some of the cloths had gone stiff with age, others sagged like wilted sails. One rack held a cheese wheel blackened by mold, but the mold traced in lines, curling into almost-script. She leaned in, squinting, "Vael," Sam said, voice low. She turned. He was staring at one of the far racks.

A cloth hung motionless, untouched. But its shadow on the wall behind it swayed, gently. Back and forth. Even though the fabric itself did not move. Vael approached. The moment her hand reached out, the cloth dropped to the floor on its own. She and Sam froze. The wheel beneath was gone.

In its place was a broken mirror shard, no larger than her palm, half buried in dust. The edge of it caught the lantern light, dull, but still reflective. Faintly. Warped. Vael picked it up slowly, a clue.

For a breath, her reflection did not follow her movement. Then it did, but too late, and not quite right. She tucked it into her cloak without a word. "Ready for the next one?" Sam asked, voice a little too casual.

"No," she said. "But yes." As they turned to leave, Vael glanced back once. The empty rack. The fallen cloth. The air felt thinner now. Not hollow. Expectant.

The hallway between rooms narrowed again, and the air shifted, cooler this time, and damp. Vael kept one hand near the edge of her cloak, fingers brushing the hidden shard in her pocket. It pulsed faintly with her movement, cold against her side.

They approached the door to the next chamber, a crude wooden thing with no latch, only a loop of rope for a handle. Vael reached out, and a sharp thud clattered from the far side.

Both she and Sam froze. Then: scritching. Rapid, skittering, alive. Sam hissed in a breath. "What the, " The door burst inward as something darted past Vael's boot. She flinched back. A blur of fur vanished down the hallway. A mouse. Just a mouse. They stood in silence for a long beat. Vael pressed her palm over her racing heart.

Sam muttered, "That thing was going forty miles an hour." She shot him a look. "What's a mile?"

He blinked. "I… I… its a measure of speed." They stared at each other for a second before both looking toward the newly opened door. Vael stepped forward, lantern raised. The Root Cellar swallowed the light. The dirt floor was uneven beneath her boots, softened by damp and scattered with footprints that didn't all belong to her or Sam. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with jars of pickled vegetables and sealed earthenware pots. Burlap sacks lay slumped in the corners, leaking the faint scent of onion and time. She stepped deeper into the room. The light flickered. "It's darker in here," she said. "But you're holding a lantern."

"I know." Her voice was quieter now. "It's still darker." Sam stayed close behind. His eyes scanned the jars. One in particular caught his attention, a tall one sealed with black wax. The contents sloshed inside, but not like brine.

Thicker.

Slower.

Vael leaned closer. The fluid was dark, nearly opaque. Something about it twisted in her gut, something her body recognized before her mind could. It wasn't food, and it wasn't resting. She set the jar back. Sam knelt beside one of the sacks and touched the earth. "The floor's wet."

"Damp?"

"No." He showed her his fingers. "Something else." It looked like water. But it wasn't cold. Vael straightened and turned slowly, taking in the space. "I don't like this room." The lantern flickered again.

The door to the cold room stuck at first, then gave with a shuddering groan that echoed down the corridor. A breath of frigid air coiled out, biting and damp, brushing their skin like a warning.

Vael stepped in first. The cold hit like a slap: sudden, invasive, settling into her bones. She drew her cloak tighter as Sam followed, breath already misting in the air between them. The walls were thick stone, furred with patches of frost. Sawdust crunched underfoot in uneven layers. Shelves lined the perimeter, wooden, warped, and frostbitten. Bundled cloth-wrapped parcels and old ice blocks half-buried in meltwater lined the room.

A faint symbol, curved and unfamiliar, had formed in the frost on the far wall. Vael moved toward it slowly, eyes narrowing. "Do you recognize that?"

"No," Sam murmured, his voice clouding in the cold. "But it's too deliberate to be ice just… forming." Something clinked softly behind them. They turned in unison, but nothing had moved. Just a darkened corner, too thick with shadow for even the lantern to fully reach. Vael edged toward the deeper cold. Her boots skidded slightly on a slick patch of ice. "Could a body be hidden here?" Sam didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he crouched near the sawdust, brushing aside layers with slow fingers. "If someone meant to keep a body from rotting, this is the place to do it. It's quiet. Remote. Already cold." He lifted a piece of the sawdust matting. Dark stains. Faint. Old. They both stilled. And then, just past the faint drip of meltwater, they heard it:

A breath. But it wasn't theirs. Vael turned, blade drawn instantly. Sam stood too, spine straightening. "Did you hear, ?"

"Yes," she said. "Yes, I did." The silence that followed felt heavier than noise. Vael stepped closer to him, scanning the room's corners again. "We finish this sweep. Then we find Annie. Someone used this room for more than cold storage." Sam nodded once, fingers twitching with a quiet readiness, as if his magic was waiting just beneath the surface. They didn't speak again until they were back in the corridor, the cold still clinging to their clothes, and the faint whisper of unseen breath trailing behind them.

Another rustle behind them, quicker this time, dry and soft, like something scurrying just out of sight. Vael tensed, but didn't turn. "Probably just another mouse," she muttered, her voice flat, but her hand hovered near the hilt of her blade.

Sam didn't answer. His breath had caught, his eyes unfocused, not on the sound, but on the space itself. The dimness in the room thickened, though the lantern hadn't flickered. He flexed his fingers slowly, and bark began to bloom across his arms, creeping in delicate patterns down to his wrists like ivy etched in wood.

From his fingertips, fine green vines unfurled, silent as mist. They slid forward, one, then another, curling low across the dusty floor, snaking past the crates and broken furniture, creeping around the dressing screen with its veiled mirror, brushing against the unmoving trunk. They searched. Felt. Probed the shadows. Nothing. The vines hesitated. Twitched.

And then, just as the last vine began to retreat, one of them caught. Not on an object. Not on a wall. But on something almost invisible beneath the floorboards. A soft vibration shivered up the length of the vine, like a string plucked on a forgotten instrument. Sam's head tilted slightly. "There's something here," he said, voice low.

Vael was already moving toward him, blade still in hand, eyes narrowing. "Where?" Sam didn't answer at first. His vines hovered just above a warped, frost-stained plank near the back wall. Slowly, delicately, they traced its edge, then slipped beneath it with the whisper of leaves brushing silk.

There was a click. Then a second. The floor shifted. A seam formed where none should have been, an outline in the planks, etched not by time but by intention. Sawdust spilled into the crack as the panel groaned upward, revealing a narrow cavity below. And inside, tucked among frost-bitten stone and layers of shadow, was a lever. Vael exhaled. "A mechanism." Sam nodded. "Hidden beneath the cold room. Clever."

"Who hides a door here?"

"The kind of person who doesn't want it found," he murmured. Vael looked at him once, then crouched and studied the lever. It was old iron, partially rusted, but intact. A strange symbol had been etched into the base, nearly worn away: a crescent, flanked by two mirrored curves. Like closed eyes. Or a sleeping face. She didn't like the feel of it.

But she reached down anyway, and pulled. Deep beneath them, something shifted. A grinding of ancient stone against stone echoed faintly up through the walls, followed by a soft whoosh of displaced air and the thrum of pressure releasing, like a sealed breath finally exhaled after years of silence.

Sam turned slowly, vines recoiling back into his sleeves. Across the room, on the far wall, a section of the stone slid sideways, revealing a narrow passage behind it. Black as pitch. Unlit. Uneven. Breathing cool air from a depth no lantern had yet touched. Vael rose to her feet. "Well," she muttered, staring into the dark. "That's not ominous at all." Sam exhaled slowly. "Maintenance tunnel?"

"Or something older." They stepped closer. The stone frame was damp to the touch, and something about the air beyond the opening smelled not of rot or mold… but of dust and age. Dryness preserved by time, not decay.

The passage beyond curved gently to the right, just enough to block their view of where it might lead. The ceiling arched low, and the walls bore old scratch marks, long and shallow, like something had once tried to claw its way out.

Vael turned to Sam. His face was still, but the bark had not receded. The vines had curled tighter around his forearms, twitching with anticipation. "You don't have to come with me," she said.

"I do," he said simply. And then a voice behind them, dry and amused, cut through the tension like a knife through silk:

"I can still hear you, you know." They both turned to find Malrick standing in the doorway, arms crossed, an unimpressed look on his face, and a faint smear of flour across his sleeve. "You're about two ghosts too late to be subtle," he added. "Now, are we going down into the crypt of questionable decisions together, or am I expected to stand here and yell warnings while you two get eaten?" Vael blinked. "You followed us."

"I followed the noise." He gestured vaguely at the cold room and the half-revealed tunnel. "Also the smell of mold and poor life choices." Sam raised a brow. "Are you sure you want to come?" Malrick grimaced. "No. But if someone needs to drag your vine-covered corpse back out of there, I'd rather it be me."

Vael snorted. Then turned back toward the tunnel. The silence ahead was waiting. And something beneath the inn had just awakened.