In a quiet village on the far edge of the Serkoth clanlands, the inn was unusually quiet for the evening. Lantern light flickered against the worn wooden walls, and the usual chatter of travellers and locals alike had dimmed to muted murmurs. It wasn’t the storm brewing outside that silenced them—though the wind howled like a hungry beast—it was the stranger seated near the hearth.
She wasn’t remarkable at first glance: a slender woman dressed in a traveller’s cloak, the fabric dull as old parchment. Her face was obscured by shadows cast from her hood, but her hands... her hands drew the eye. Pale and long-fingered, they worked a quill across a sheet of paper laid on the table before her. The scratching of ink against parchment carried through the inn, louder than the storm beyond the door.
A boy, no older than twelve, crept closer, curiosity overtaking caution. “What’re you writing?” he asked, his voice tremulous yet eager.
The stranger didn’t look up, but her lips quirked in a faint smile. “A story.”
The boy frowned. “What about?”
This time, the woman paused, lifting her quill and tilting her head as though considering the question. “A story about choice. About paths that cross in the most unexpected ways.”
The boy blinked, not understanding, but before he could ask more, the innkeeper’s wife called out sharply. “Come away from her, Tarris! You’ve chores to do.”
The boy hesitated, but the woman waved him off gently. “Go on, little one. Stories find their way to those who need them.”
As he scurried back, the innkeeper approached, wiping his hands on his apron. “Not many folk brave a storm like this for a drink,” he said, his tone carefully neutral. “You’re welcome to stay the night if you’ve coin.”
“I won’t stay long,” the woman replied, her voice soft but carrying an odd resonance, like an echo across an empty room. “Just passing through.”
The innkeeper nodded and returned to the bar, though his eyes lingered on her with unease. Something about her presence made his skin crawl—something he couldn’t name.
The stranger remained at her table, her quill dancing across the parchment in fluid strokes. Despite her claim of merely passing through, she didn’t seem hurried. She wrote with care, her movements deliberate, as though every word she crafted carried weight beyond what the eye could see.
A few patrons tried to focus on their drinks or whisper among themselves, but the storm outside seemed to echo the tension inside the inn. Thunder rumbled, distant yet deliberate, like the exhale of something vast and unseen.
The boy, Tarris, peeked out from the kitchen doorway. His chores were forgotten in favour of watching the stranger. The way her quill moved fascinated him—not hurried and mechanical like the town’s scribe, but smooth, almost alive. It felt like the strokes themselves whispered secrets, though he couldn’t quite hear them.
The stranger glanced up then, her gaze catching his for just a moment. Her eyes were unlike any he’d ever seen, shifting with faint patterns, like ink swirling in water. Tarris froze, heart thudding, but the woman simply smiled faintly before returning to her work.
The door to the inn creaked open, letting in a sharp gust of wind and a flurry of rain. A man in a tattered cloak stumbled inside, soaked and shivering. His face was pale, his eyes darting wildly as though he’d seen a ghost.
The innkeeper hurried over, his apron fluttering with the motion. “Boy, close that door! What’s the matter with you?” His voice carried a blend of frustration and unease, cutting through the cozy murmur of the room.
The man, drenched from the downpour outside, slammed the heavy wooden door shut with a resounding thud, leaning against it as though it alone could shield him. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, and water pooled beneath him, dripping steadily from his cloak. “Something out there,” he gasped, his voice trembling.
The room stilled. The hum of quiet conversation died away, leaving only the crackle of the fire to fill the silence. Even the storm outside seemed to falter for a moment, its howling winds retreating as if holding their breath.
“What kind of something?” one of the braver patrons ventured, his voice low but steady. He was a burly man, his weathered hands gripping the hilt of a knife at his belt, though his posture betrayed a faint unease.
The drenched man shook his head, his wet hair clinging to his forehead. “Don’t know,” he stammered. “It wasn’t human. Eyes... too many eyes. Staring at me from the dark.”
Uneasy glances darted around the room. The innkeeper exchanged a look with his wife, her hands clutching her apron tightly. A couple seated by the fire leaned closer together, their earlier laughter now a distant memory. Even the burly man, whose calloused hands were used to hard work and harder fights, paled slightly at the words. His grip on the knife tightened, knuckles blanching.
Only one person remained untouched by the tension, the stranger at the corner table who continued to write. Her quill scratched steadily against parchment, an unnervingly calm counterpoint to the room’s mounting unease.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“You’re drunk or mad,” the burly man muttered, though his voice lacked its usual bravado. His eyes flicked nervously toward the shuttered windows.
The drenched man shook his head again, water splattering onto the floor. “I saw it,” he insisted, his voice hoarse. “I swear I did. Too many eyes. Too many.”
He straightened slightly, still catching his breath, his gaze darting between the patrons. “I’ll pay for a drink,” he said, his tone faltering. His trembling hand reached toward his belt, but his movements froze. His breath hitched as his fingers searched, then patted frantically over his soaked clothing.
“It’s gone,” he whispered, his voice a threadbare echo. “My coin purse… I had it before…” His eyes darted to the door as if expecting the thing in the dark to slither inside.
Before what, no one dared to ask.
The scratching of the quill stopped. The woman at the corner table tilted her head upward, her hood casting shadows across her features. “I will pay for your drink,” she said, her voice smooth and measured, carrying a weight that silenced the room further. “If you tell me exactly what you saw.”
The tension in the man’s shoulders slackened slightly, though his hands still trembled as he lowered himself into the chair across from the woman. His damp cloak left a dark stain on the floor, and his breathing was uneven. A serving girl hurried over, depositing a mug of ale in front of him before retreating quickly, as though proximity to his fear might infect her.
The woman leaned forward slightly, her gloved hands resting atop the parchment she’d been writing on. Her quill, poised as if ready to resume its work, betrayed no impatience, but her gaze was sharp, expectant. “So,” she said, her tone quiet but insistent, “what exactly did you see?”
The man wrapped his fingers around the mug, drawing strength from its warmth, though he made no move to drink. “A creature,” he began, his voice hoarse. “Masquerading as a woman. It had… monstrous features. Not all at once, not so obvious you’d run screaming the moment you saw it. But the longer you looked, the more you realized how wrong it was.”
He paused, his brow furrowing as if trying to arrange the fragments of his memory into coherence. “Her gaze—” his voice faltered. “It could devour you, pull you apart piece by piece. But the teeth… gods, those teeth. Rows of them. Like razors, all crammed into a mouth too wide to be human.”
Murmurs rippled through the patrons, most huddled close to the fire as if its light could shield them from the tale. One older woman clutched a string of carved wooden beads, her fingers moving in a rhythmic pattern as she whispered an incantation to the gods.
“Was there anything else?” the stranger pressed, her calm demeanor unshaken. “Details. How did she move? What did she do?”
The man swallowed hard. “Her smile—if you could call it that—was the worst of it. Not because it was cruel or malicious, but because it was… amused. Like she knew something we didn’t. Something awful.” His hands tightened around the mug, his knuckles whitening. “She was with another. She didn’t seem scared of her, like she was used to her. Maybe even protected by her. But the air around her—it felt heavier. Wrong.”
He glanced toward the window, the dark night pressing against the shutters as if the thing might still be watching. “I don’t know what she is,” he admitted, his voice a bare whisper. “But she isn’t human, or lekine or siren. She’s something far worse.”
The stranger tilted her head, her expression unreadable beneath the hood. “And what did you do?” she asked.
The man flushed, his fear twisting into shame. “What could I do? I hid. I’m just a logsman. Some of the other villagers went to confront her, but they backed down.”
The woman studied him for a long moment before nodding. “You were wise to hide then.”
“Wise?” another patron scoffed, his voice brimming with nervous bravado. “He’s just a coward who spooked himself over shadows.”
The stranger ignored him, her gaze lingering on the drenched man. Then, with a smooth motion, she picked up her quill and resumed writing, as though the tale had simply been a momentary distraction.
“Should we be worried?” someone else asked, their voice trembling.
The woman didn’t look up. “If you’re lucky,” she said simply, her tone devoid of comfort, “it won’t matter.”
The man sitting across from her squinted, suspicion etched into his furrowed brow. “I don’t think I’ve seen you ‘round these parts before,” he said slowly, his tone laced with mistrust. “You speak as if you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
The woman’s quill didn’t falter, the rhythmic scratching against parchment a pointed contrast to the tension thickening in the air. “Perhaps,” she replied with an air of detachment. “I hear things here and there. It’s part of the trade.”
The man leaned in slightly, his voice dropping as he pressed further. “And what trade is that?”
For the first time, her hand stilled. She looked up, her expression calm but her eyes betraying a sharp edge, like a knife concealed in silk. “We are done speaking now.”
Her gaze locked onto his, and for the briefest moment, her eyes gleamed unnaturally—something otherworldly, fleeting enough that the onlookers might have dismissed it as a trick of the firelight. But the man across from her didn’t have the luxury of such denial. His face slackened, his posture slumping as though a string holding him taut had been cut.
“Go drink somewhere else,” she said, her voice carrying a weight that brooked no argument, her tone final and dismissive.
The man nodded stiffly, his movements mechanical as he rose from his seat and shuffled to another table, sinking into a chair as though the life had been drained from him. He stared into his ale, his earlier bravado completely extinguished.
The woman—'Lyra’ to those who cared to ask—returned to her writing as if nothing had happened, the quill’s soft scratches filling the uneasy silence left in the room. Around her, the other patrons avoided her gaze, their murmurs hushed and uneasy. No one dared question what had just transpired.
Inwardly, Lyra sighed, though her outward demeanor remained poised and controlled. The storm outside battered against the inn’s walls, but it was the storm within her own mind that raged more fiercely. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want anything to do with Akhenna’s chosen, much less the entangled mess that was bound to follow. But when faced with the alternative—defying a power that transcended comprehension—the choice had been simple, if not easy.
Her quill hovered over the parchment for a moment, the ink pooling slightly before she resumed her work. The words flowed, intricate and precise, but her mind was already elsewhere, anticipating the trials to come. For now, though, she let the storm outside mask the storm within, burying her dread beneath a veneer of focus.