Ophelia's voice wavered, her eyes glassy as she blinked back tears. “Two weeks ago, the red priest ordered our orphanage to save only the best students. They cut our provisions on purpose, to see which of the strongest would survive. It’s barbaric!” She hid her face in her hands. “I won’t let them wither away like that. The nuns and I have started growing some crops in secret. It’s not much, but it might last them another season or two if we’re careful. We’ve hidden them behind stone walls, buried them underground.”

“How many clerics are left?” Quentin asked softly, his rag tracing a slow circle around the spill on the wooden counter.

“Just two at the nunnery—myself and the head nun.” She let out a heavy breath. “I used to pass by five clerics every day. Almost all of them threw their robes away in protest when the red priest twisted our healing arts for conquest, using our divine gifts to burn the earth in other lands.” Her gaze darkened. “Those who opposed him were hunted down. Some broke their staves to sever their ties to the healing arts and to the goddess Yrnhaela. It’s like losing a limb. They’d rather lose their power than have it twisted by bloodshed.”

“What about the ones who were caught?” Quentin asked.

Her shoulders drooped as if the weight of memory bore down on her. “They were forced to comply. The Red Army threatened their families—children, husbands, wives. Those of us left, we can barely cast a warding spell without being questioned. My husband–” Ophelia’s voice caught in her throat, and she abruptly fell silent.

A moment of silence settled between them. Then Ophelia raised the mug of ale to her lips, only to realize it was empty. Quentin, quick as ever, refilled it with a measured pour. She watched him with a soft smile, eyes lingering longer than politeness allowed.

“There aren’t many inns left, you know,” she remarked, tracing a finger around the rim of her cup. “Most have shut down, or moved to the higher districts with a special permit. They’ve become cold, sterile places, strictly monitored, with no laughter or warmth. It’s rare to find an inn like yours. It’s charming, really… a shame it’s so empty.” She laughed, a sound both bitter and light. “You must think me a drunkard, going on like this. I hope you get more patrons soon.”

Quentin’s fingers brushed against hers as he set another mug of ale before her. “I doubt that,” he murmured, his tone low. “Not with the way things are going. People hardly have the coin or spirit to linger in inns.”

“Perhaps that’s why they banned them,” she mused. “A place like this, it’s too full of hope. Too full of comfort, when the land is meant to be under heel. Brikkenbale wasn’t always so bleak, you know. It used to be full of life. People peddled their wares in marketplaces and bazaars. Laughter rang in the streets.”

Her eyes met Quentin’s again, piercing him with an odd intensity. “How old are you, really? You barely look a man. You remind me of my younger brother, before he…” Her voice trailed off, a shadow of pain flickering across her face. “Yet, you seem older somehow.”

“I am,” Quentin answered quietly, though in truth, he was unsure himself. How did he appear to her?

Ophelia reached across the bar, clasping his hand in both of hers. “Listen to me. Lock your doors. Tell people you have company. Leave a mess when they arrive so it looks like you’ve been busy. And say Sister Ophelia checks in on you from time to time.”

Quentin gazed into her blue eyes, touched by her concern. “I will. Thank you… Sister Ophelia.”

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A shared smile lingered between them—a fragile truce against the dark forces outside. Quentin sensed, in that moment, that Ophelia wouldn’t lead danger to his door. She was careful, more so than she seemed, and if she had anything to say about it, he’d remain beneath the Red Army’s notice.

Ophelia drained her mug in one long draught, setting it down with a satisfied sigh and, to Quentin’s shock, a small belch. He laughed, genuinely, and she joined in, her grin both sheepish and delighted.

“Why don’t you just change out of your robes when you go out?” he asked.

Ophelia’s hand drifted to her chest. “We clerics channel our spells and blessings through the goddess Yrnhaela. Our robes, woven from the white leaves of the Tree of Life, are second only to the staves in focusing our power. It’s the same for mages of other deities. To take them off would be to sever my connection, leave myself vulnerable… I’m lucky I still get to wear them.” Her gaze turned solemn. “Good fortune upon you, young innkeeper. I’ll be on my way.”

Quentin watched as she rummaged through her pockets, extracting a few tarnished coins. He gently pushed them back. “First two drinks are on the house.”

“Oh, don’t be absurd–”

“I insist.” Quentin reached out, his fingers lightly brushing hers. “And anytime you need a place to rest, come here. You’re welcome, always. You won’t be putting me in danger.”

Ophelia hesitated, then slipped the coins back into her cloak. Before he could react, she leaned over the bar, embracing him. Quentin caught a faint whiff of lilies on her, mingled with the acrid scent of singed wool.

“Thank you,” she whispered fiercely. “Thank you for opening your doors to me.”

When she left, Quentin stood by the window, watching her figure disappear into the night. The inn’s sign creaked in the wind, casting shifting shadows. Ophelia had lingered at it, tracing the letters with her fingertip. “Hepfin,” she’d murmured. “Yrnhaela’s brother. Lord of final breaths, who carries souls to rest.”

Quentin extinguished the candles, her parting words echoing in his thoughts as he climbed the stairs to his room. There was a sense of change in the air, an energy stirring beneath the inn’s very foundations.

In the morning, curious gazes swept over the building’s façade. People whispered behind their hands, pointing to the strange scorch marks near the entrance. Quentin could feel their unease, yet something else thrummed alongside it—a strange awareness of the inn, as though it were a living thing.

As the day wore on, Quentin’s eyes were drawn to a small boy leaving his cottage with his parents. He was thin, unsteady on his feet, but alive. The same lad Ophelia had healed the night before. Quentin smiled to himself, contentment warming him like the first light of dawn.

Ophelia visited again that evening, bringing with her a round loaf of dense bread. “I don’t know how you’re feeding yourself in this empty inn,” she teased. “Here, you’re thin enough as it is.”

Quentin split the loaf, revealing bits of oats and barley. He grinned, dipping a piece into his ale. “I have a feeling you think everyone’s thin.”

They shared a quiet meal in the glow of candlelight, her voice filling the space with stories of long-lost comrades, of the paladin and the sniper who bickered endlessly but had become inseparable. Quentin listened, drawn to the sound of her laughter and the glimpse of what had once been—a world unbroken by the red priest’s hand.

Before she left, Ophelia reached into her cloak. “I brought you something,” she said, producing a small sack. Inside were seeds—tiny kernels of life waiting to be sown. “I don’t know how you’d use them, but… maybe you can find a way. For the children.”

Quentin stared at the seeds, an idea forming in his mind. That night, a key on his belt began to glow. He followed its light through the dark corridors of the inn until it led him to a door he had never noticed before. Words etched themselves across its surface: Speak my name.

“Emralle, let me in. Bestow upon me your gifts.”

The door swung open, revealing a chamber filled with warmth and light. Lanterns hung from the walls, casting shadows over a soil bed at the center, lush and ready for planting. Quentin knelt, sowing the seeds, and prayed.

When Ophelia returned, he offered her loaves of fresh bread, their crusts warm and fragrant. She took them with trembling hands, tears shining in her eyes.

“You’ve fed my orphanage for weeks,” she whispered. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Quentin watched her go, the promise of something greater blooming in the silence she left behind.