Ophelia always revealed her white robes inside the inn. Her dark cloak hung on one of the chairs. She didn’t need to hide. Quentin thought she was brighter than the candles as she stepped across the wooden floorboards. Not that he was attracted to her. He simply liked her smoothness and grace, her compassion and toughness. Quentin kept looking at the silver ring on her finger, catching the light of the candles. She noticed him staring, and Ophelia smiled sadly at it, presenting her hand to the young innkeeper.

“We both started as clerics, my husband and I. Our respective parties met in a village terrorized by swamp creatures. The next time we met was when we stopped a dragonling from rampaging a city. He was funny and kind and strong. Not long after, we decided to settle down and leave the adventuring life behind. We wanted a large family, living on his estate on the hills. All of our party members would be their godfathers and godmothers.” She dropped her hand. “But when the rebellion happened, he was forced to kill a Red General with his staff. We clerics only know of light spells that could dispel the darkness, but we thought that with enough light, our concentrated spells could blind and dispel the kind of corrupted magic the Red Army possessed, but at great cost to us. We were wrong. But he must have done something strange for a powerful general to fall. Miraculously, he survived casting such a high-level spell. I hurried to him, too late in realizing that he invoked the name of the war god."

Ophelia stared at the candles. Quentin stared at her face. "After defeating such a powerful enemy and under the influence of the war god, my husband was promoted to a war monk, a class that wielded both staves and swords. The rules of promotions are strange, set by the rules of gods, dragons, and ancient kings. He was bound to the Red Army now, since one of those rules meant servitude upon promoting within a kingdom's soil. And I? I would follow him in his servitude. The Red Army didn't even blink an eye when one of their leaders died. They were amused that the war god listened to a cleric. They rewarded my husband instead of capturing him. So off he goes into the world, killing and healing. A lifetime of our sacred vows, replaced by carnage and strife. It must torture him so. He sends letters, still bringing me flowers and one day, bringing me a child of a prisoner of war.”

The sweetness of the bread and mead was gone. Quentin tasted the bitter words in her mouth. “I still remember his wooden staff transforming into ivory, its end sharp like a spear. Blood on one end, life on the other.” She looked at Quentin. "We clerics are known to stay behind when the rest of our stronger party members fight. We heal them from our position. My husband must find it strange to be in the middle or even in front of a battle. I must learn to do the same."

Quentin spoke slowly. “If the red priests forbid you to cast healing magic to all who need it, and there aren't more clerics around, then how does the Red Army heal their own soldiers?"

“The elite soldiers and war generals are very strong, for starters, so they wouldn't need much healing. But if it comes to that, the red priests, as their title suggests, can heal as well. But not as much and as quickly as a cleric. I do not know which god they pray to, but their healing feels wrong. Like they leech off the life from the weak to give to the strong. That's why they also employ potion masters who work with green mages to produce healing tonics and magic replenishers." She looked out the window. "It is blasphemous to say, but sometimes I think our goddess of healing has left this world. The dawn does not shine as bright and not one of her constellations remains complete in the night sky.” She whispered, “I used to pray to her every night."

They finished the sweet custard bread in silence. Finally, she looked at the ceiling and yawned. “Gorrimer Hill was supposed to be a sanctuary. And now we are underfunded because education is reserved for the elite. I still want to teach them all I know, but they are disheartened. They do not know if they will be alive tomorrow, and none of our teachings would guarantee their survival." Ophelia fumbled with her robes. "I met an old student of mine when I was on my rare visits to the higher tiers. Not just anyone can go through the gates, you see. You have to get this special pass. She wept when she saw me. I barely recognized her, myself. She wanted to be a gifted green mage content to stay in her enchanted gardens and greenhouses, having plants for company. She must have thought I found it shameful that she was forced to be a red mage instead. She has a natural affinity for exploding things when she gets emotional. The water fountain exploded when I chased after her as she buried her face in her hands and retreated to a bookshop.”

“How many colors of mages are there?” Quentin asked.

Ophelia held a finger for each color she listed. "White mages, the promoted class of clerics. I chose not to promote in this land, together with the head nun. I mentioned green mages who are closer to the secrets of nature than most of us. Then there are blue and black mages. Blue mages mostly deal with support, say, when you need a boost in power or raw physical strength. They’re rare but sorely needed. Blue magic is one of the most difficult types to learn since the god of wit and wisdom rarely picks a worthy mage. Then the black mages, though opposite to us, are essential to any party. I had a best friend who was a black mage, trapped in her own city. She tells me how they perverse the black arts. Red mages meanwhile… seem to have all of our powers combined but on a smaller but deadlier scale. What they have is manipulation and control, though. I still cannot figure out how they managed to fend off centuries of civilization so quickly. Something about their spells cancels ours.” She waved a hand with a throwaway comment. "But any novice mage can learn the different types of magic, even the blue arts. But one must dedicate years to specialize in one particular art or risk sticking at base level for all different spell types."

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“I can't imagine how you keep fighting.”

“We need to live. I am still hopeful. Schools are still running. Marketplaces and inns too. Whatever small joy this new word allows, foster that."

Quentin stared at the floor. He is no mage, he can sense that within himself. He cannot help Ophelia with any color of magic. He said slowly, "I may be powerless, but at least I have this inn. I extend my invitation to your students if they need a palace to rest.” If the inn allows it, Quentin thought.

Ophelia smiled, then rose quickly. She looked at the crumbs of bread on her robes. “I was just thinking of a sweet treat for the younger kids, but I… I forgot the name.” She looked confused. "What was it? I remember how to make it, but not its name.” She frowned. “But I’ve been eating it since I was a child! Small bread, soft and chewy. Mostly round, made of flour, milk, butter, sugar, and eggs. Sometimes with chocolate and dried raisins or prunes.” Quentin calmed her down. "How vexing."

___

There were whispers of war monks being ambushed by a dragon who was upset at the unbalance that the Red Army was making. Some of them fled and some of them were sent back to their respective kingdoms. This particular dragon’s breath held a poison so vile that the war monks and paladins were still reeling. Of course, the red priests saved only those who were worthy. They buried the ones who were not.

He heard news of green mages and potioneers selling their more common sickness bottles for a high price. Either they were forced by the Red Army, or they were corrupted themselves and joined the lifestyle of their new leaders.

Ophelia did not come for many days until Quentin sensed her presence one night. He opened the door for her just as she was about to knock. Quentin let her in, noticing the dark circles under her eyes.

“No news of my husband,” she said sadly. There was a question in Quentin's eyes that Ophelia readily answered. "Cleric and white mages can rapidly heal injuries and set bones, but cannot cure poison, especially from ancient dragons. Nor can we cure ungodly burns, ungodly chills, and devious buffs and debuffs. That’s why there are many elements and divisions of branches of magic. One has an advantage over one and a disadvantage to another. One cannot handle all of them, save for those red priests and mages. They can heal sicknesses and prolong lives. That is against the natural order of things. The only god I can think of to manipulate the order is the namesake of this inn, the god of death and departure, Hepfin. But he doesn't meddle in the world. He just waits for souls and gives them peace or, you know... feeds them to a dark abyss."

Ophelia did not rest long. She did not even drink ale. She watched the candles and said her goodbyes.

Hepfin, lord of death and departure. What a strange name indeed for an inn. If this inn was common, he'd wondered if people would frequent such a dark name.

One of his keys glowed again when Ophelia had left; a brass key turning to copper. The glowing trail led him to one of the cupboards behind the counter. He turned the lock when it appeared and closed his eyes to the fragrant smell as he opened the wooden door. Inside were large sticks of butter, jugs of grey milk that brightened into cream when he touched them, just like the bread, and other jars containing sugar and salt. There were even cartons of eggs stacked on top of each other. He paused as he realized that these were the same ingredients that Ophelia mentioned. Quentin knelt and brought them to the counter, counting. They looked plenty now, but Quentin knew that for all the inn’s mystery, he knew the magic was not foolproof and limitless. He must venture outside and gather more ingredients. Or wait for another surprise from the inn.

He slept and only thought of Ophelia when he woke. The jars of white powder, fragrant butter, and cream were still there, fresh. Back at the cupboards, Quentin noticed bowls, made of porcelain and wood, tucked in one corner. So were wooden spoons of different sizes. He heard a clicking sound, exactly like the one that revealed the well indoors. Quentin saw wood rearranging and arranging themselves into a platform with long circular shapes and what looked like doorknobs on the side.

A faucet, Quentin thought. The name of the contraption came to his mind easily.

He only thought of Ophelia as he stared into the fireplace come sunset. He wished that this was one of the nights that she visited. He closed his eyes and felt his whole body vibrate. Suddenly, he heard footsteps echoing through the fireplace. He heard Ophelia's voice humming a tune, walking. He was familiar enough with her steps. He looked out the window to see her strolling outside his window. Quentin leaped towards the door and swung it open. Ophelia jumped back and squeaked, clutching her dark cloak.

“Quentin!” She gasped. She looked around the inn. But this is close to the hospital, how did you–?”

He held out a hand and pulled her inward.

“This wasn’t here!” She said. Her eyes were wide, looking at him, looking around the inn. And when her eyes landed on the ingredients on the table, she gasped audibly, placing her hands to her open mouth. She crept towards the counter and carefully checked the ingredients. She pinched flour and sugar and salt, letting it fall like snow on her open palm. She touched the wooden bowl. Ophelia looked at Quentin and without another word, he tied an apron around her waist and followed the movements of her hands as she made the unnamed pastry in her mind.