A boy swept an empty wooden counter with a rag that seemed to absorb nothing; no fleck of dust, no speck of grime. The fibers slid over the surface as if the counter was already clean, or perhaps had never been touched by the world’s decay at all.

He couldn't remember when he’d started or even why. His mind held only the fog of sleep and then waking to a dim room flickering with candlelight. Candles he couldn’t recall lighting. Outside the small window, shadows crept as the last threads of sunlight vanished into dusk. He stepped into the brown boots waiting at his feet, a perfect fit despite being unfamiliar. He drifted outside, feet moving of their own accord, down a corridor lined with locked doors. A key clinked softly against his belt, yet none of the doors bore a lock that could fit it, none except the one he'd just left.

The boy’s name settled on his tongue like a strange phrase in an old dream. “Quentin,” he murmured. The word sounded distant, hollow, as if belonging to someone else.

Quentin abandoned the rag on the counter and cast his gaze across the room; a place built from the bones of trees long dead. Every surface was carved from the same grain of wood: the three small tables, each flanked by three round stools, and the cabinets behind the counter; one above his head and another below, brushing his waist. The only part of the room that seemed immune to the touch of timber was the fireplace, its stones jutting from the farthest wall like teeth in a mouth. Within its dark maw, logs waited for flame, but instead of the earthy browns of oak or birch, these were a deep, brooding red, as if once burned and left to smolder eternally.

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With slow, uncertain steps, Quentin edged toward the door. It swung open on silent hinges, releasing a bitter gust of wind that sank its icy teeth into his skin. He stepped onto a cobblestone street, broken and jagged, stretching in ruin before him. The inn loomed behind, its presence heavy and oppressive, the air around it hollow and devoid of life. Above the door, an empty wooden sign dangled from rusted chains, swaying faintly in the breeze like a pendulum marking out the seconds of a time long lost.

Quentin stared at the sign, his breath fogging the air in front of him. He turned his head to search for any sign of life—another building, a flicker of light, a hint of warmth. But the inn stood alone, an island of wood and shadow adrift in a sea of crumbled stone.

Better outside than lingering in a place that wasn’t his. He took a step, then another. The wind roared, and before he could brace himself, it slammed into him with the force of a living thing. Quentin stumbled, the world tilting beneath his feet, and he crumpled onto the cobbles, gasping as the wind yanked him back, pulling him toward the inn like a hunter dragging its prey.

He struggled upright, lungs burning, and looked up at the sign above the door. It swung wildly now, and as he watched, letters began etching themselves into the wood, line by line, as if carved by invisible hands.

He mouthed the words when they were done, tasting their weight and finality on his tongue.

“Hepfin’s Cradle.”