Henry stared through the key hole out into the hall. Two men stood a ways away arguing outside a simple heavy set door.

“Aye,” the first man muttered, his voice thick with disdain, glancing over his shoulder as though afraid something unseen might be listening. “It’s that curse, I tell you. Ever since that woman passed through, everything’s twisted. Sickness spreading, crops withering… even the animals don’t act right. And all because we let that witch walk among us.”

The second man’s voice was barely above a whisper, a shiver creeping into his words. “The elder should’ve acted sooner. Frieter’s council knows what they’re doing—they don’t let the cursed get close. No mist there, no taint. They root out any 'plague bearers' and ‘witches,’ and they do what’s necessary.”

A shadow passed over the first man’s face, as if the very thought darkened him.

“They don’t suffer the cursed. We should do the same. I’d see any stranger marked by the mist driven out… or worse.”

The second man hummed lowly, wary but grim.

“Agreed. They say Frieter’s council keeps their town clean. They show no kindness to the tainted.” He paused, his face twisting with a proud grimace. “Mercy’s poison to them, and they’re the better for it.”

Henry’s breath hitched as the words settled like stones in his chest. A council with “no mercy,” a place where people like him would be rooted out. Even though he didn’t carry this plague, the wand was clearly related to the mists and everybody knew that. He hesitated for a moment, remembering it fading away to dust, but then he felt it materialize at his side.

"That was odd.” Henry thought.

The first man spat on the ground, his voice a harsh rasp.

“Our own elder’s weak. Talks of healing and cures, but what good has that done us? Nothing but sickness. Mercy’s brought this curse down on us, and we let it poison our air.”

The second man’s tone took on an edge, low and cold. “Up in Brittleston, there was a family that took in a healer from the cursed lands. Thought she’d save their boy. By week’s end, every last one of them was dead.”

“Aye,” said the first man, voice barely more than a growl, “and we’re fools to let it happen here. Let our town follow in Frieter’s stead. Show our council to handle the cursed as they should.

As the men moved away, their words lingered, a poisonous weight pressing into Henry’s mind. No wonder that man had attacked. There were all primed like a grenade ready to go off. They feared him, or anyone like him, just as much as those touched by the plague, whatever that meant.

Henry stepped into the dim foyer of the inn, and the low hum of voices ceased, every face turning toward him. Eyes watched him with wary curiosity, each person unwilling to voice the gratitude that might damn them if this stranger brought the mist back to them. The innkeeper—a stout woman with graying hair—offered him a cautious nod.

“Room’s on the house tonight,” she said slowly, her tone more resigned than grateful. “For savin’ my daughter.”

Henry forced a nod, his voice barely above a whisper.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“Thank you.” The weight of their unease settled over him, a shroud he couldn’t shake. Did he really save them? Or had he only bought them a little more time?

Before he could turn away, a small figure darted forward. The girl who had stepped up to defend him. The one he thought was going to attack. She stood inches from him, her face round and pale with traces of tears, and clung to his waist. Her gaze was wide, almost frightened, as she looked up at him, a kind of desperate hope in her eyes.

“Mama says you're like Zayiera,” she whispered, her voice filled with an awe that was nearly reverent, but tainted by fear. “She says you’re here to help us… just like him.”

Henry chuckled uneasily, a chill settling over him. Zayiera. The name sounded like a hero of legend from some book or game. A hero, perhaps, but that wasn’t who he was. Heroes didn’t have cancer or fail to save the town before it was destroyed.

He knelt to her level, the words a hollow sound to his own ears.

“I… just want to help.” But even he heard the uncertainty in his voice.

The girl’s smile was tentative, the light in her eyes fragile.

“Mama says only the bravest have magic,” she whispered, like an offering, before glancing at her mother as if seeking reassurance.

The innkeeper’s expression was hard to read, but her words had an edge to them.

“Aye, you’ve done us a kindness, lad,” she said quietly, watching him with a mixture of wariness and guarded respect. “But tread careful. Not everyone’s glad to see someone playin’ hero with that cursed wand on his back.

Just then, a sharp voice broke through the quiet. “Hey! Where’s my spoon?”

A patron at a nearby table blinked down at his empty hand, confusion dawning on his face. All around, murmurs rose as others checked their tables, realizing their own spoons had mysteriously vanished.

A soft tinkling, like the ring of tiny bells, filled the room. Henry barely had time to process it before a shimmer of iridescent wings zipped past his shoulder.

Elara, appeared above him, a grin spreading wide across her face and her hands clutching a small trove of mismatched spoons. She flitted from table to table, each patron watching as their spoons vanished in her wake like coins slipping through a magician’s fingers.

Hovering above him, Elara inspected her spoils with the pride of a magpie admiring its hoard. She picked the shiniest spoon from the pile and lifted it high, holding it with an exaggerated grace as if it were a legendary blade. With a dramatic flourish, she floated down, tapping the spoon on Henry’s shoulder.

Henry looked up, caught between exasperation and reluctant amusement. So much for dignity, he thought, trying not to smile. Elara’s antics had a way of breaking through the heavy seriousness that seemed to cling to him lately, and he found himself strangely grateful.

Elara winked, her voice clear and ringing, with a strangely solemn edge.

“A knight deserves his sword,” she announced, as though bestowing some important fate. Holding the spoon aloft, she paused, then slowly lowered it to rest it gently on his shoulder. The room fell into an uneasy silence, with the faintest sound of forced laughter rippling through.

“By the power of… Edward the Bardy spoon,” Elara declared in mock solemnity, “I hereby knight you, Sir Zayiera the Second!”

A grizzled old man at a nearby table perked up, lifting his drink with a toothy grin. “Zayiera! Why, she was the stuff of legends, lad. A hero like no other—one who saved these lands from darkness time and again.” His gaze grew distant, as if looking through the fog of old memories. “They say she found an ancient treasure, somethin' powerful enough to banish any evil. But no one's seen it in ages. Some say she hid it in the deepest woods; others reckon it’s lost forever.”

A knot tightened in Henry’s stomach as the eyes of the room turned on him, heavy with expectation. Find it? What were they even talking about. He scratched his head, feeling the weight of their belief pressing down on him like an iron mantle. “I—I don’t know about finding any ancient treasures,” he said, forcing a smile. “But I’ll do what I can to help keep you all safe. That much I can promise.”

Just then, Elara let out an exaggerated gasp, clutching her spoons close as if shielding some grand secret. “Oh, please. Not even Henry here can find it without my impeccable, fairy-trained treasure-seeking skills.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “For a fair share of whatever glitters, of course.”

At that moment, the first man Elara had stolen a spoon from leapt to his feet, his face flushed with rising irritation.