The top floor of the caravanserai’s arcade was reserved for its permanent residents, which included a large room for the porter. Here, Karim Ilhan sat at his desk, lamplight glinting off his bald, polished head. The old man scrawled across a page with a reed pen, pausing every now and then to dip the writing instrument in an inkwell set off to the side. Once finished, he rolled up the small note and tied it with a piece of string.

Tomorrow, the note—inquiring about a shipment of goods—would be tied to a carrier-pigeon’s leg bound for Akara, the great city to the east. Though Karim was technically off-duty, smooth operation of the caravanserai was his responsibility, and he took to his charge with the dedication and grace of a saint.

The old porter removed his round-rimmed spectacles and rubbed his eyes. Times were strange. For the second time in as many months, a supply wagon had not reached them on the usual date. As long as Karim had been porter of this particular caravanserai, which was as long as he could remember, shipments had always arrived on time. For two to go missing in such a short time concerned the dutiful porter to no end.

Well, there was nothing more he could do now, and it was no use losing sleep over. In fact, Karim was quite looking forward to falling into his soft bed. He rose from his wooden chair, the floorboards creaking under him. He began preparing himself for bed, and was cleansing his face in the washbasin when a knock sounded upon his door.

“Mr. Ilhan?” came a voice. He recognized it as belonging to one of the stableboys.

“Yes?”

“Um, sorry for bothering you sir, but I—well, I think you should come down.”

“Okay…” What was it this time? Surely the guards did not require his presence to deal with unruly adventurers again. “May I ask why?”

“Sorry Mr. Ilhan, but it’s better if you see for yourself.”

Karim sighed. Sleep would have to wait a bit longer. He dried his face and found his spectacles on the desk before slowly making his way across the room. Whatever awaited him downstairs, Karim saw no reason in rushing to meet it.

“Very well,” he said, opening the door. “Let’s see what this is all about.”

Karim followed the stablehand down two flights of stairs to the bottom corner of the caravanserai, where a small crowd had gathered outside the healer’s chambers. All spoke in whispers. From the body language and alert eyes of the guards standing nearby, it was clear they had done what they could to contain the situation from spilling too far into the rest of the inn.

As Karim approached the door, the crowd began to part. He was surprised to see more than a few adventurers among their number—this spiked his curiosity. Pilgrim’s who traveled the Road of Death were usually uninterested in the goings on of the caravanserai, more inclined to relax and recuperate in the tavern or bathhouse this late at night. Anything that drew their attention in such a manner was peculiar. Very peculiar indeed.

The stableboy opened the door to the healer’s chamber. Karim slipped though, quickly closing it behind him. Rumors spread fast, and he’d rather not have a fire on his hands before he even knew what he was dealing with.

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Inside, the large chamber had several beds, spaced evenly and draped in clean white linen. It appeared each was empty, but a trio of figures surrounded a bed at the far end of the room, their voices hushed and urgent. Karim saw it was a healer, and two of the most prominent members of the caravanserai—the captain of the guard, and the high cleric.

The healer was the first to turn at Karim’s arrival. She inclined her head in acknowledgment, before walking past and through a cased opening into an adjacent room. She carried a wide metal basin in her arms, overflowing with bloody bandages.

“Finally!” said Rarik, the captain. The tall man’s thick mustache twitched with apparent annoyance. Karim couldn’t help but notice the man’s hand resting upon the hilt of the scimitar at his belt. “Maybe you can talk some sense into the priest.”

“I am merely trying to prevent murder,” said Pyman. He was noticeably youthful for a high cleric, yet still his voice carried the patience and presence of a man twice his age. “Rarik wishes to harm the boy.”

The boy? What boy?

Karim nodded, but said nothing. He moved towards the foot of the bed and it was then that he saw who they were speaking of. In the bed laid a young boy, perhaps ten or eleven in age. His eyes were closed, and his breaths ragged. Cloth bandages had been wrapped around his head and thin arms laying atop the blankets.

“One of the guards patrolling the wall found him,” Pyman continued. “At the front gate, collapsed. Unconscious.”

“This boy?” Karim could hardly believe it. In the many years since he had ran this caravanserai, hundreds—no, thousands—of travelers had passed through its walls. None of them children. “With whom?”

“According to Rarik’s men… he was alone.”

“Impossible.”

Rarik stamped his foot impatiently. “Exactly! There are no children on the Road of Death. And alone? At night?” The big captain scratched a long scar across his face, where a raider’s arrow had once split his cheek. “It’s a trick. The boy is a demon.”

“No. A miracle,” said Pyman.

“I say we throw it back outside the walls.”

“To be savaged by ghouls?”

“I’d rather not risk having my throat torn open in the middle of night.”

“You are condemning an innocent boy to his death!” The cleric shook his head. “And for what? Your fear?”

“You are too naive, priest.”

Karim held up a hand, quieting the two. He’d considered the matter long enough. Rarik had a point. That a child had somehow made it here, alone, at night… it was almost unthinkable. Then again, things had been strange lately. There were the missing caravans, and adventurers had been bringing back odd stories from their travels—dungeons devoid of monsters, being able to camp a full night without suffering a bandit’s attack. Pyman could also be right. Perhaps the boy really was a miracle.

“I think,” Karim began, after a moment of silence, “we should at least hear what the boy has to say before making any rash decisions.”

“I sense no malice in him,” said Pyman. “If he was a demon, I would know.”

“I believe you would, my friend, I believe you would.” Karim pat the young cleric on his shoulder. He walked over to a nearby bed and sat down. “I will wait here for the boy to wake. Alone,” he added, seeing Rarik begin to position himself against the wall.

The captain of the guard scoffed and threw up his hands in exasperation. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“I appreciate your concerns, Rarik,” said Karim, smiling. “Please keep guards stationed outside these doors. To keep anyone from going in… or out.”

“And your safety?”

“It’s my risk to take. For now, I am choosing to believe the boy is just that. A boy.”

Rarik nodded curtly, but didn't protest.

With nothing more to be said, the captain and cleric left the chamber. After checking in on the boy once more, the healers soon followed. Karim was left alone in the room, with nothing but his thoughts and boy’s labored breath to keep him company.

Karim sighed and leaned his back against the wall. With nothing else to do, he let his eyes travel to the ceiling and its painted frescoes—the flowers and birds, the godlike figures and great trees with branches that reached far across, almost down the walls. Yes, thought Karim, it seems I will be getting very little sleep tonight.

And he waited.