The sharp, biting tang of salt hits my nose the moment I surface from sleep. It is thick, inescapable, clinging to everything—the damp wood of the ship, the threadbare blankets, even the stale air in my lungs. The briny scent of fish clogs my senses, mingling with the stale sweat of men long at sea. My head swims as I sit up, the exhaustion like a weight on my chest, but the high-pitched wail of seagulls cut through it all, piercing, insistent. They scream above the ship, their shrill cries echoing through the sleeping quarters. We have arrived at port.
I force my eyes open, rubbing the crust of sleep from them. The light is dim, filtered through heavy, gray clouds. The evening sun barely breaks through the heavy gray clouds, casting a dull, lifeless glow over the ship as I step off and make my way into town. The air here is different—cooler, damp, with the smell of seaweed rotting in the shallows, mingling with the wet, earthy scent of timber. A gust of wind blows in from the sea, carrying with it a whiff of decay—faint but unmistakable. It pricks the back of my throat. I pull my coat tight, feeling the sting of the cold settle into my bones.
The coins in my pocket jingle softly as I walk, their weight a poor comfort against the biting chill in the air. My clothes cling to me, worn thin from time and travel, barely shielding me from the cold. Strapped to my back, a long object wrapped in thick, weathered cloth shifts with each step, the fabric rough against my skin. I tread along the uneven, dirty path that winds through the town, the ground hard and frosted beneath my boots.
The narrow streets are eerily quiet, save for the occasional murmur from passing villagers bundled in layers against the cold. The buildings loom around me, their wooden beams creaking in the stiff breeze, smoke rising sluggishly from crooked chimneys. My eyes scan the town for an inn, hoping for warmth and shelter, but then a sudden change in the air makes me pause.
Something acrid fills the air, sharp and sour. It wraps around me, a familiar scent, one I wish to forgot, but never will. It is the scent of burning flesh—thick, heavy, choking. My stomach churns. I hear the wooden creak of a cart behind me.
“Watch it!” a voice croaks. A man, heavyset and sallow, struggles to push a cart over the uneven ground. His face is partially obscured by a filthy rag, pressed tightly over his nose. His eyes are red-rimmed, his expression twisted in disgust. And then I see them—the bodies. Bodies of the dead, pale and contorted, stacked like cordwood in the cart. Victims of the plague. Their faces are frozen in death, twisted in silent agony, mouths open as if caught in their final scream. Dirt and grime cake their skin, but it is the smell—gods, the smell—that hit like a punch in the gut. It rises from the cart in thick waves, putrid and cloying.
I step aside quickly, clearing the man's path. My mouth is dry, and a cold shiver crawls across my skin. The man moves forward, his face grim and tired as he pushes the cart toward the edge of town. In the distance, thick, black smoke coils upward, blending into the darkening sky. The air is heavy with the stench of decay. There’s no other choice. This is the only way to keep the sickness from creeping further into what remains of the town.
I tie my own rag tighter over my face, the coarse fabric biting into my skin as I pull it taut. The smell is still there, clinging to me even as I breathe through the cloth. My eyes water, but I keep walking. I need to shake this feeling—the dread that clings to me like fog, thick and suffocating.
The town rises before me, a cluster of worn buildings huddled together against the cold. The scent of burning flesh lingers, but it is drowned out by the warm, thick air that hits me as soon as I push open the door to the inn. The door creaks, its rusty hinges groaning under the weight, and immediately the overpowering stench of stale ale, sweat, and old fish envelops me. The room is dim, the only light coming from the fire that sputters weakly in the hearth, casting long, flickering shadows over the rough wooden tables.
Men sit scattered throughout the room, hunched over their drinks. Their faces are gaunt, eyes hollowed by exhaustion, skin pale under layers of grime. They barely glance up at me, their gazes dull and unfocused. Every few moments, a wet, hacking cough breaks the silence, the sound rattling through the room like a death knell. The air is thick with the smell of sour ale and illness, a sickly, cloying mixture that clings to my clothes as I walk toward the bar.
Behind the counter, a man slowly wipes down a cup. His hands are shaking slightly, and though his mouth is hidden behind the same kind of rag that everyone else wears, his tired blue eyes meet mine. They are bloodshot, clouded with the kind of weariness that comes from months of fighting off death.
“What it be?” he asks, his voice muffled, thick with fatigue.
“A room, and ale,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend. My gaze drifts to the bottles behind him. Some are coated in dust, their labels faded and peeling, untouched for gods know how long. He reaches for a bluish-green bottle, but I stop him with a raised hand.
“Better ale,” I say, pointing to one of the dust-covered bottles. His eyes narrow slightly, scanning me, taking in the worn clothes, the tired eyes, the ragged appearance. He lowers his voice; his words are more of a grumble.
“Better ale costs more. Room’s one shilling a night. You got enough?”
I do not answer with words. I pull out my pouch, letting the two gold coins clink onto the countertop. His eyes widen, a spark of life rekindled behind the exhaustion. His fingers twitch as he reaches for the coins, as though he is afraid they’ll disappear.
“Two Leopards. One for the room, and the other for the bottle,” I say as I put away my pouch.
Next as an afterthought I say, “oh, make it a private room with a basin and fireplace. And a piece of flint and iron, too.”
He hands me the bottle, still dusty but heavy, and an iron skeleton key, cold and rough to the touch along with the piece of flint and iron. He looks at me unsure of my sanity. I might be mad, throwing gold away for a dusty bottle of ale and a night in a cold, damp room.
“Up the stairs, left, all the way down. Room’s on the right,” he says, hesitating for a moment. “you a musician…sir?”
I pause at his question before taking the items, “what?” I ask confused.
The innkeeper looks at the object slung to my back wrapped in cloth, “looks to be a lute or maybe, mandolin?”
I shake my head saying, “no, I am not a bloody musician.”
Taking the items off the countertop, bottle in hand, I turn towards the stairs and begin my ascent. The warmth of the inn fades the higher I climb; the air grows colder with every step. The floorboards creak beneath my weight, groaning in protest, and the window at the end of the hall rattles against the wind outside.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
Inside the room, the walls feel like they are closing in. The air is stale, the faint scent of mildew clinging to the wooden beams. I glance at my reflection in the grimy window—unshaven, hollow-eyed, a man I barely recognize. I light the candle on the table, watching the flame dance and grow, casting a soft, flickering light over the room. It is warm, at least.
Next I light the fireplace and begin to heat the water from the barrel of water sitting in the corner of the room. At least, if the innkeeper keeps his private rooms well stocked, the gold coin might have been worth it. I think to myself wryly as I begin to strip. I walk to the cauldron feeling the heat from the metal as it grows hot and the water beginning to boil.
I fill the basin with water from the smaller kettle next to the fireplace, the steam rising in lazy tendrils. The heat of the water seeps into my skin as I sink into it, easing the tightness in my muscles. I take a long drink from the bottle, the liquid searing its way down my throat. The burn is a welcome distraction, warming me from the inside.
In my left hand, I hold a small gold coin; the feeling of it is heavy, heavier than it should be yet ethereal. The metal glinting in the firelight. Familiar. Useless. Not a florin nor any sort of currency to use, just… something. Something I cannot let go of. I stare at it, but my mind feels cloudy, the edges of my thoughts slipping away, blurred like the night as the effects of the ale begin.
In the front of the coin there appears to be some sort of strange eclipse, a circle within another circle so it must be an eclipse and around the edges, elaborate symbols spiral outward, they form an intricate border that seems almost ceremonial. I remember my father called these symbols runes, ancient writings of some “powerful being”. I squint my eyes; I cannot even read them. They shift and twist like they are laughing at me for trying to make sense of them.
I flip it the coin to the back, and it is no better. There appears to be a cloud or a smudge on the back. I try with my thumb to smear it, nothing. With my nail I scratch it, but no luck. So, not a smudge, I think to myself as I stare at the “cloud” in the center. It seems to almost swirl in the metal, but… it doesn’t feel right. The more I stare, the more uneasy I begin to feel. It feels as if it is drawing something out of me… I laugh to myself—ridiculous, I take another long drink of ale.
“What are you good for?” I whisper to the coin, my voice barely audible in the quiet room. The firelight flickers, casting uneven, twisting shadows across the walls, and the coin catches the light, its golden surface gleaming for a brief moment. My father’s stories echo in my mind, tales of ancient beings with powers beyond comprehension. Bizarre, impossible fantasies, yet the coin rests heavy on my mind, as if it knows something I don’t. All these unanswered questions, always hanging close, never letting me forget, mocking me with its mystery.
I sigh in frustration and let the coin slip from my hand. As it falls, the chain catches it mid-air, gently tugging against my neck. The gold useless coin rests on my damp chest, it’s cool metal pressing against my skin, slick with water from the basin. I drink the rest of the bottle, the ale burning a path down my throat, dulling the sharp edges of reality. I slowly stand, the water sloshing around me, empty bottle in hand.
I stumble my way from the basin across the room, still wet, I collapse onto the bed. The chilly air hit my damp skin, but the warmth of the alcohol spreads through me, a strange, bitter comfort. I start laughing, though I don’t know why. The sound is foreign, echoing off the walls, but soon it shifts. Laughter turns to sobs, deep and wrenching, the weight of everything—my loss, my family, my home—crushing me all at once. The tears flow freely, hot and unrelenting, engraving a path down my cheeks.
The weight of my loss smashes down on me like a tidal wave, relentless and overwhelming. It presses me, squeezing the breath from my lungs, wringing what is left of my heart. My family, my home—everything I once knew, everything I once loved—gone. The pain is suffocating, a deep, aching void that swallows me whole. My body shakes, and I clutch the empty bottle to my chest as if it could hold me together, as if its’ cold, lifeless surface could somehow ground me in the chaos swirling inside me.
The bottle feels solid, almost reassuring, its chill biting into my skin. I press it tighter against me, desperate for something, anything, that could anchor me; keep me from unraveling. But the bottle offers no warmth, no comfort. It is just glass, hard and unyielding, like the grief that has wrapped itself around me, suffocating and inescapable.
Tears blur my vision, and my sobs tear through me, each one deeper than the last. My throat is raw, burning from the force of my cries, and the ale. I can’t stop. I don’t know if I even want to. I open my mouth to scream, but no sound can escape. My chest heaves, desperate for air, but all that escapes is a choked, rasping gasp.
At some point, the sobs fade, leaving me hollow and spent. I stare blankly ahead, my vision muddled, flickering between darkness and fractured light. The room spins, reality slipping away until I’m trapped between waking and dreaming. Somewhere in that haze, I see him—my father. His voice echoes softly at first, filled with the warmth I remember, the familiar lilt of his laughter as he tells my siblings, and I stories of our ancestors. I hear the faint crackle of the fireplace from those nights long ago, smell the faint scent of smoke and the fabric of his old chair in his study room where he rehearses his tall tales. His words play in my mind like a melody I have heard a thousand times. Tales of powerful beings, of a coin that holds the secret to their unimaginable power. His voice wraps around me like a blanket, warm and comforting.
But something shifts. The warmth evaporates, replaced by a creeping cold. His laughter, once gentle, grows louder—sharp, twisted and mocking. The air thickens, the sound pressing in from every corner. His eyes, once kind, now burn red, glowing like embers in the dark. I feel a sickening chill spread through me as his laughter grows into a piercing, maniacal laugh, filling my head, echoing over and over. My chest tightens, the pressure unbearable. The room grows colder, the light dimming until it feels like the darkness itself is pressing down on me. It drowns out everything, rattling inside my skull until I cannot take it anymore.
I jolt awake, gasping, my lungs struggling to pull in air. Drenched in cold sweat, my heart pounding against my ribs. The room tilts, spinning wildly, and a sharp pain pulses through my temples. The taste of stale ale clings to my tongue, and my mouth feels like it is stuffed with sand. I try to stand, but my legs wobble beneath me. So instead, I just sit there, palms pressed into my face forcing my head–unsuccessfully–to cease spinning. I feel a cold breeze blowing through, raising goosebumps on my entire body. My eyes glance towards the window. Is it open? I don’t remember opening it. I let out a shaky sigh and force myself onto my feet.
The air is frigid, the hearth’s fire long dead, leaving the room steeped in an oppressive, damp cold. I shiver uncontrollably, my muscles aching, my hands trembling as I reach for the window latch. Outside, the first faint light of dawn filters in, casting a pale, ghostly glow across the room. I can hear the faint rustle of wind against the glass, a quiet whisper that chills me even further.
As I close the window, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the dusty pane. The face staring back at me is unfamiliar, this face is pale, drawn, the lines etched deep from sleepless nights. Hair that is damp and tangled, and eyes red-rimmed and wild. But it is the bruise on my chest that catches my attention. A dark, circular mark sits in the center.
I step back, my pulse quickening as my eyes lock onto the bruise—a dark, purplish mark spreading ominously over my heart, deep and raw like a wound that refuses to heal. My fingers trace its edges, feeling the skin bruised and tender beneath my touch, each press sending a faint ache through my chest. The air grows colder, heavy with a stale dampness, as though the walls themselves are closing in. My stomach tightens, dread curling inside me like smoke.
I stumble backward, my heel catching on something that clinks softly against the floor. Glancing down, I see the empty bottle, its glass cold and smooth as I lift it, the weight foreign in my hands. The scent of old ale lingers faintly, bitter and sharp. Without thinking, I press the bottle’s bottom against the bruise, the glass aligning perfectly, as if molded to the mark. A bitter laugh escapes me, hollow and uneasy, the sound harsh against the silence. Shaking my head, I mutter to myself, trying to brush it off. Of course, even in my sleep, I must be clinging to something… anything to stay grounded. But the laugh dies quickly, and a thick, pressing stillness fills the room, as if there is something watching, observing my every action.