Scypha lay on her stomach on the wooden floor next to the inn’s fireplace, holding a stylus in her hand and anxiously writing on a borrowed wax tablet. With a frown on her face, she scraped away with the metal pin, twisting it in her shaky fingers and struggling to get the lines right.

“I can’t remember the marks,” she whispered to herself. Her head felt remarkably clear for the first time in weeks, but at the same time, she found that her memory was going completely blank. “Why can’t I remember the marks? I’ve been writing them all my life…”

The worn wooden floorboards beside her creaked and bent as the innkeeper, a man called Pyren, made his way toward her. He was a hefty figure, with a large, round belly and thick, greasy long hair haphazardly flowing past an unkempt beard. He approached her, holding a bowl of steaming food in one hand and a scratched-up iron cup in the other.

“You going to eat lying down?” he asked. His voice was deep and raspy. “We’ve got tables.”

Scypha looked up at him, arching her back madly to see his face—he was very tall. She nodded. “I’m sorry, I hope it’s okay,” she said. “I’m … I’m having some trouble with these lines, I don’t know why.”

The floorboards groaned again. The large innkeeper shrugged and crouched down beside Scypha, gently placing the plate and cup beside her. He breathed remarkably heavily, his breath smelling faintly of garlic.

“It’s an old tablet,” he said. “I bought it for my daughter years ago, the wax must have hardened to stone.”

Scypha shook her head, looking back at it, sitting in her hand. “No, that’s not it. It works fine, it’s still soft enough, I just … I don’t remember how to write ‘Vifafey’. And I don’t understand why not, I’ve been doing it my whole life, but my mind keeps going blank … Could you help me?”

“I’m sorry, miss. Us country barkeeps are not well-known for being literate. That’s more for you clergy people from the cities.”

The innkeeper slowly got back up, towering over her again. Scypha glanced back up at him and smiled. “Oh. Well, thank you for the food again, sir,” she said. “I’ll pray that Vifafey blesses you and your family.”

He nodded. “Eat it before it gets cold. The drawing can wait until you’re finished. After that, we’ll see to your accommodations.”

“I don’t mean to impose—”

“It’s no bother. I’ve got vacant rooms and no one to sleep in them. And maybe one day, you’ll come back here and return the favor.”

“I promise,” Scypha said.

“Good woman. Have at what you want. I’ll go fetch some more wood for the fire.”

As the innkeeper walked away, Scypha looked over at the bowl placed beside her.

Utensils … She had utensils again. It had been so long since she’d last used them … Not since the slavers had captured her. She wondered if she still knew how to properly hold a spoon. The bowl it was lying in contained a thick, steaming broth filled with what appeared to be onions, carrots, potatoes, and some type of meat. It was twice as murky as what the slavers used to give her, and it would likely be twice as filling. She was impossibly grateful. The innkeeper was truly a good man, giving her so much for nothing in return.

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She slowly dipped her pinky finger into the broth, only to yank it out an instant later, slipping it into her mouth with a sharp inhale.

Hot. Very hot.

She shook her head and tried to return to her writing. She felt that she still knew the entire Telezian alphabet. Only when she tried to put the symbols together to spell 'Vifafey' would her mind go blank, and she would somehow forget how to move her hands. Again, she ended up with nothing but a mess of jumbled lines and wasted wax. She felt guilty for squandering the innkeeper’s possession.

“Vi-fa-fe-y…” she mumbled to herself, starting over and urging the symbols into the wax tablet. Her vision grew fuzzy and cloudy, she heard a ringing in her ears … and the marks were gone. Her hands had moved to the tablet's sides without her knowledge, and the stylus was lying a few feet away from her on the floorboards. Her eyes were affixed to the dying fireplace in front of her.

She sighed deeply, regaining control of herself and laying her head on the floor. It was so strange, the way she kept blacking out … but at least she wasn’t hurting anyone anymore. There wasn’t a violent urge in her head. Her knight in shining armor had come through. Really, so what if there was a little brain damage?

The floorboards under her creaked and groaned as the big innkeeper walked past her again on the way to the fireplace. He carried ten chopped-up logs in his arms, altogether probably heavier than she was. His pants were sagging in the back, a size too big for him, though they’d likely fit three normal-sized individuals.

“Miss,” he said, laying the logs onto the floor, “I ought to tell you … I’ve just received word that a screecher hole has been sighted nearby. You’re definitely still welcome to stay here for the night, but if you want to move on to another town, that could be a good idea, too. The choice is yours.”

“A … screecher?” Scypha asked. The hair on the back of her neck began to stand on end, and she quickly marked the symbol of Vifafey on her forehead ... she thought. As soon as she had done so, she forgot if she’d moved her fingers correctly. She shook her head.

“Aren’t those the beast god’s children?” she asked.

“Chi’orat’s, yeah. His very favorite monsters, according to you clergymen. They come through here, from time to time, eating merchants and travelers ... Every year, a new sad story.” He laid the logs onto the fireplace and walked back over to her, standing over her. “But say, I know that symbol you drew there,” he said. “There, on the top left of the tablet.”

Scypha frowned, looking from the innkeeper back toward the wax tablet on the floor. Amidst all the scribbled lines and wasted attempts at writing, a single word was written in perfect Telezian script.

“Daughter,” Scypha read. She blinked ten times, trying to see if the word would go away. It didn’t.

“Yeah … That’s right, isn’t it? ‘Daughter’? I know that one. My wife taught me to write it after our third … Well, I never managed to draw it quite as prettily as you. I guess you really are a priestess. I was starting to doubt.”

Scypha shook her head, frowning. “I’m just an apprentice,” she replied. “My mom is … well … never mind.”

I’m a bastard, she thought to herself. But she’d rather not tell the kind innkeeper.

“Well, your mom did a good job teaching you, miss. Is she waiting for you down in Ryzayah?”

Scypha’s vision flickered and clouded again, and she shook her head, trying to clear it up. Sometimes, that helped … and it did this time, too, though she still felt herself trembling. She hoped too much time hadn’t passed.

“Thank you,” she said to the innkeeper.

He was still there, standing over her. She arched her back to meet his eyes. He looked at her curiously, not saying anything.

Finally, he shrugged.

They spent the whole evening eating and talking by the crackling fireplace, and then they went to sleep, each to their own rooms, where she was sure it was perfectly safe.