Quentin’s world existed in the spaces between the light. He slept just before dawn, awakening when the sun dipped low, staining the sky in bruised purples and ashen grays. The inn around him—his solitary dominion—seemed more vivid than the dreary, rain-soaked street beyond the window’s glass. Each plank and beam stood solid and resolute, the colors rich and deep, while the world outside seemed to melt into a palette of muted despair. He would stand, forehead pressed to the cool pane, watching life pass by, preferring the distant clamor of horse hooves on cobblestone, the cries of merchants haggling for scraps, over the still, silent company of empty tables and chairs.

He never hungered or thirsted, though he understood that others did. Conversations floated in through the window—snatches of talk about breakfast, lunch, and supper; the taste of cakes and pastries, the dream of feasts, and the warmth of spiced wine. On certain days, he saw families passing by. A mother’s soft chiding, a father’s grumbling retort, and a young boy pressing a steaming bun to his cheeks, grinning through the heat.

As dusk bled into night, Quentin fortified himself. That was when hunger prowled the streets. Thin, ghostly figures shuffled through the dark—skeletal men and frail children clutching their bellies. They leaned against the cracked stone walls or huddled beneath the weary glow of lanterns, stretching their hands toward the heavens, begging for something, anything, to fill the void inside them. Quentin felt a pang echo in his own chest, though no growl ever emerged from his stomach and his throat never ran dry.

The inn was empty but not barren. He had explored every inch of its wooden shell, from the pantry and its useless shelves to the barrels lining the back wall, each stubbornly corkless, refusing to yield any liquid to the thirsty. Yet, when he pressed his ear to their sides, he could hear the faint gurgle of something moving within, a promise never fulfilled. He wished he could open the door, beckon the weary and the starving to warm themselves by his unlit fire, but the door would not budge. The logs in the hearth remained cold and dark.

So he watched instead. Safe within these walls, or perhaps hidden. Sometimes villagers would pause, squinting through the window, eyes skimming over the inn as though it were no more than a trick of the light. Even when Quentin pressed himself close to the glass, their gazes slid past him, unseeing. He wondered what they saw—if they saw anything at all.

Quentin never tired of lighting the thick, waxy candles arranged across the tables and counter, even though darkness posed no challenge to his sight. There was a quiet solace in the act. His domain was small, but he knew it well: his snug room with its sturdy bed and old wooden chest; the bar that yearned for patrons; the wide, yawning dining area waiting for laughter and conversation to fill its hollow spaces. If there were people to fill it.

He had just finished lighting the last candlestick when a voice whispered from the fireplace, a murmur threading through the silence. Quentin spun, heart lurching. He leaned into the hearth, peering up the black tunnel of the flue, but only shadow greeted him. Still, the voice persisted.

“Take me to him. Let me see his leg.” The voice was faint, tired. “What were you thinking going beyond the gates?” A pause, and then a weary sigh. “There. All better. Now, I must be off. I’ve barely managed to hide from the red soldiers.”

Quentin straightened, blinking at the still-empty room. Through the window, he glimpsed a thin line of light spilling from one of the cottages at the far end of the street. A figure emerged—a woman, pulling her hood low over her face. Another shadow hovered in the doorway, handing her a small sack. She hesitated, fingers brushing the coarse fabric before she accepted it and slipped silently into the gloom.

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She moved like a ghost, clinging to the edges of buildings, avoiding the main road. Then, two figures materialized from the darkness. They all froze.

“See? I told you I saw someone!” One man’s voice rang out, sharp and eager. He lunged forward, grabbing the woman by the arm.

“Curfew’s over, miss,” the other man drawled. “State your class, business, and profession.”

“And show us your face.”

Slowly, she lifted her hood. A burst of light flared from beneath the fabric, blinding them. Quentin saw her spin and sprint back toward the house she had come from, but she did not dare seek refuge there. She veered off, darting toward the inn. One of the men cursed and lifted a hand, summoning a flickering flame that crackled into the air. He hurled it at her. She stumbled, her cloak catching fire at the hem. In a desperate flurry, she stomped into a puddle, dousing the flames, but not before a thread of smoke curled in the air between them.

She was so close now—just a few steps from the inn’s door. Quentin threw himself against the heavy wood. “Open,” he breathed. The latch shifted under his hand, and the door creaked wide. Warm light spilled out, washing over the woman as she staggered onto the doorstep, breathless and wild-eyed.

Quentin extended a hand. “Here,” he said.

She stared at him, brilliant blue eyes peeking out from beneath her singed hood. Then, she took his hand, and he pulled her inside, shutting the door with a swift motion. The curtains dropped down of their own accord, the candles dimming to a gentle glow. Quentin and the woman huddled in the quiet space behind the oak door, chests heaving in unison as they listened to the gruff voices and shuffling boots outside.

“She was right here!” the angrier man shouted, his voice muffled by the thick wood.

“She’s not here now,” a calmer voice replied. “She couldn’t have gone far. Maybe the wind shifted the light.”

A grumble, followed by a cough. “You shouldn’t have thrown that fireball.”

“She was escaping.”

“And now you’re spent. Great work. Recovering for a day, maybe two. We’re short on potions as it is.” The reprimand continued, the voices fading as they shuffled away.

Quentin let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He turned to the woman, who was slumped against the wall, hood slipping back to reveal a glimpse of white robes beneath. A cleric. Of course.

He studied her face. Hair the color of ripe corn framed delicate features, and though the flames had not touched her skin, she looked worn and weary, shadows pooling beneath her eyes. He knelt beside her.

“Sit by the bar,” he offered softly. “I’ll get you something to drink.”

She nodded, murmuring a thank you. As she settled onto one of the round stools, Quentin moved to the bar. He touched his throat lightly, testing the resonance of his voice, surprised by how deep it sounded in the stillness. And then, impossibly, a cork appeared in one of the barrels, and amber liquid began to flow, foaming into the wooden mug he held.

Quentin placed the mug gently in front of her. “You are safe here.”

The woman’s gaze swept around the room before resting on Quentin. She gave him a faint, almost incredulous smile. “You’re rather young to be running an inn.” She hesitated. “Do you have parents? Someone to look after you? It isn’t safe to be alone.”

Quentin shook his head. He glanced at the fireplace but made no move to light it. Even so, the room seemed to grow warmer. The woman undid her cloak slightly, revealing more of the white robes. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the mug.

“What brings a cleric to these dark alleyways?” he asked, his voice low, resonant.

She lifted the mug to her lips, sipped slowly, then lowered it, cradling it in both hands. “This cleric was called to heal an injured boy. He thought he could find food beyond the kingdom walls.” She sighed. “He was lucky I found him before something else did.”

Quentin nodded. He watched as she rubbed a scar on her wrist, a mark too faint for ordinary eyes. “It sounds like you speak from experience.”

“I do,” she whispered. “Too much of it.”

The fire of her gaze dimmed slightly, shadows softening her face as the room fell into silence.