The inside of The Melancholy Griffin was dimly lit, thick with the smell of ale, smoke, and something faintly metallic. Conversations hummed at first, but as Henry stepped in, they dwindled into murmurs, then silence. Every head turned to stare at him—or, more precisely, at the hat perched precariously on his head.

It wasn’t just any hat; it was a masterpiece of absurdity. Wide-brimmed, pristine white, and adorned with swirling gold filigree, it was crowned with a feather so massive it seemed to defy gravity, curling elegantly like a plume of divine authority. As Henry shifted uneasily, the feather bobbed and swayed, a beacon of ridiculousness in an already surreal setting.

Of all the things to find in the market, Henry thought, it had to be the Hat of Purity. I thought I had lost it. Or that Elara had. I never did see it again after I woke up.

He stumbled slightly, his breath hitching. His legs weren’t what they used to be, and the flicker of pain in his chest reminded him why. He steadied himself against the doorframe, forcing a wry smile. The stares didn’t help. Neither did the patrons—a motley assortment of creatures and characters that looked as if they’d walked out of a fever dream.

At a table near the center of the room, a towering figure with leathery bat wings polished a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles while its serpentine tail coiled lazily around the chair leg. A halfling with a mechanical eye argued loudly with a goblin, slapping the table for emphasis. In the corner, what Henry had first thought was a suit of armor shifted, revealing glowing eyes beneath its helmet as it hunched over a drink. Somewhere, a shrill laugh erupted from a shadowy alcove, though the source was hidden in the gloom.

It was overwhelming, like stepping into a storybook gone mad.

The bartender, a hulking figure with a mechanical arm that gleamed dully in the dim light, leaned against the counter and raised an eyebrow. “Well, aren’t you a sight,” he said, his deep voice tinged with amusement.

A ripple of laughter spread through the room, some patrons outright guffawing. The halfling slapped the table harder, the mechanical eye whirring as it focused on Henry. The bat-winged figure let out a snort, and even the suit of armor’s glowing eyes seemed to flicker with mirth.

Henry groaned inwardly but waved it off with a self-deprecating chuckle. “What can I say? I like to make an entrance.” His voice wavered slightly, but he hoped no one noticed.

On his shoulder, Elara giggled—an unsettling sound somewhere between the tinkle of wind chimes and the manic cackle of a hyena. Her tiny, iridescent wings fluttered as she leaned forward, whispering theatrically, “The feather, Henry. It speaks to them. It says, ‘I am the hat king.’” Without waiting for a reply, she stood up on his shoulder, balancing precariously, and pointed at a goblin eating soup. “You there! Spoon. Now.”

The goblin blinked, his hand tightening protectively around his utensil. “What?”

“GIVE IT HERE!” she screeched, launching herself from Henry’s shoulder like a tiny, iridescent missile. The goblin yelped as Elara yanked the spoon from his hand, holding it aloft like a trophy. “Another for the collection!”

Henry buried his face in his hand. “Elara, not this again.”

But she wasn’t listening. She darted across the room, snatching spoons from startled patrons, all the while shouting, “For Edward! For the glory of the spoon prince!” Her voice rang out as she looped through the rafters, cackling madly.

The bartender’s mechanical hand paused mid-wipe, his expression caught between annoyance and bemusement. He glanced at Henry. “Not from around here, are you?”

Henry sighed. “Does it show?”

Shaking his head, he approached the bar, placing his hands on the worn wood. The counter’s surface was sticky in places, carved with initials and symbols he didn’t recognize. “I need information,” he said, his tone more serious now. “Where can I find someone who deals in magical remedies? Something to help cure a sickness.”

The bartender’s eyes flicked to the still-cackling fairy now perched on a beam, cradling a handful of stolen spoons like a hoard of treasure. His mechanical arm clicked softly as he resumed wiping the mug. “You sure you’ve got your priorities straight?”

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“No,” Henry admitted, glancing over his shoulder. A pair of feline eyes gleamed at him from a dark corner, vanishing when he looked. He rubbed his arms against a sudden chill. “Just passing through.”

“Well,” the bartender began, setting the mug down with a thunk that made Henry flinch, “you’ve found yourself in the Mist capital of the world. Every bit of technology you see in this city—every trinket, airship, and steam-powered doohickey—runs on the power of the Mist. We’ve tamed it, harnessed it, and used it to protect the people within these walls.”

“Protect them from what?” Henry asked, leaning in slightly, though his balance wavered. He caught himself on the counter, his hand tightening against the sticky wood, hoping the bartender didn’t notice.

The bartender’s gaze turned sharp, narrowing like he could see through Henry. “From the dangers outside. The Mist’s creatures, the madness it spreads. It’s what keeps the outside world at bay.”

Henry opened his mouth to respond, but a sharp metallic clang behind him cut through the air. He turned just in time to see Elara standing triumphantly atop a patron’s table, holding a fork like a scepter. The patron, a stout goblin in a stained waistcoat, stared up at her with his jaw slack.

“Henry,” Elara declared, spinning to face him, her wings fluttering. “The forks are inferior! They lack the grandeur of Edward!” She brandished the fork, its dull, bent tines catching the dim light. “This one has... character! I shall call it... Sir Stubbs!” Without waiting for an answer, she leapt from the table, darting to the next one.

“Elara!” Henry hissed, his face reddening as heads began to turn. “Stop stealing people’s—”

She interrupted him by cackling as she snatched another utensil—a fork this time with one prong entirely missing. “BEHOLD! Sir Stubbs’s lesser cousin, Baron Crook! The banquet grows!”

Henry groaned and turned back to the bartender, who was watching the spectacle with a bemused smirk. “She’s, uh... she’s not usually this bad.”

“Sure she isn’t,” His tone had grown colder, the amusement fading. “But you brought her here.”

“And no matter what I do, I cant get rid of her.” Henry said, forcing the conversation back on track, though frustration was creeping into his voice, “but I need my question answered and the sooner it is. The sooner she leaves.”

He paused uncertain but then made a motion inviting Henry to continue talking.

“I’m looking for a cure. For the Mist’s sickness.”

The bartender sighed, the sound heavy as though the weight of Henry’s question settled on him like a familiar burden. His mechanical arm creaked as he gestured around the room. “There’s no cure, kid. Whatever the Mist takes, it doesn’t give back. The Mist-touched, as we call ’em, are rejected. Outcast. Sometimes put down before they become a danger.”

Henry’s stomach churned, but he forced himself to ask, “There’s really nothing? No one who’s even tried?”

The bartender hesitated, his hand tightening around the edge of the counter as his gaze flicked toward the shadowy alcove. “There’s always someone trying, I guess. But trying doesn’t mean succeeding. Not in this city.” His words were pointed, a warning not to pry further.

Henry’s grip on the counter tightened as a shrill laugh echoed from the shadowy corner. It was louder this time, sharper, like it was aimed directly at him. He straightened, though his legs trembled slightly. The air felt heavier now, pressing against him. Or maybe it was just the weight of the bartender’s words.

Elara landed on his shoulder, giggling like a child clutching stolen candy. Her hands were full—one fork in each—and she whispered conspiratorially into his ear, “This place doesn’t feel right. And neither does he.”

“Trust me, I noticed,” Henry muttered, his eyes darting to the alcove.

“Do you think he has spoons?” Elara asked, her voice back to its playful pitch. Without waiting for an answer, she twirled off his shoulder and zipped toward the bar, rummaging through an unattended tray of silverware like a magpie raiding a treasure chest. “Ah-ha! A ladle! Your name shall be Sir Soupington, the Round!”

“Sir Soupington?” the bartender repeated, raising an eyebrow as he leaned closer to Henry. “You sure you’re fit for this city?”

Henry’s face burned as the patrons burst into laughter again, but he forced himself to stand taller, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “Look, I don’t care what people here think. I’m looking for someone who’s tried. Someone who hasn’t given up on the Mist-touched.”

The bartender’s amusement drained, replaced by something colder. He leaned in, his mechanical arm resting heavily on the counter, and lowered his voice. “Then I’d start watching your back, kid. People asking those kinds of questions don’t last long around here.”

Henry’s jaw clenched. “There has to be something. Anything.”

The bartender met his gaze, unflinching. For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. Then, after a tense pause, he glanced over Henry’s shoulder and sighed. “Look, kid, I’ve told you all I know. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got other customers to tend to.”

Without waiting for a response, the bartender turned away, his mechanical arm whirring softly as he moved down the bar to fill another patron’s mug.

Henry stared after him, frustration knotting his stomach. This isn’t getting me anywhere. He opened his mouth to call the bartender back, but a loud complaint cut through the din of the tavern.