Time: 29:22, Day: Kiviber, Week: 3, Month: K?rgoyde, Year: 36651

  “Gods!” Grim slammed into the cold dirt, the portal sealing behind him with a shrieking hiss that left frost on the air. Blood sheeted from the hole under his ribs, steaming against the cold fogged ground. Almost glowing in the moonless arid night of Hollow's End. Grim's nose wrinkled at the scent of the Holy Magic emanating from his wound.

  The arrow of light embedded itself into the ground, yet within seconds was completely shattered by a smokey black wisp. Its bright light giving way to dimly lit darkness.

  Ayanna dropped to her knees, wings fluttering and closing close behind her. “I thought you healed instantly?!” She frantically tried to apply pressure but pulled back every time he winced. Her eyes filled with tears she refused to shed. Her concern for him quickly made her doubt herself, more and more.

  “Not… when there’s… Holy Magic,” he rasped, trying to grab her wrists to calm her down. “Shreds the insides. Takes longer.”

  “Relax, and watch, Nephal,” Fate’s voice braided through Ayanna’s skull—soft, maternal, undeniable. “Have faith in your Beast God. This place should help him.”

  Grim’s breath stuttered, as he began sweating. His internal temperature rose as his body finally began to repair itself.

  The wound squelched as muscle pulled itself together, knitting from the core outward until the blood slowed, then stopped. Ayanna flinched, half horror, half awe.

  Slick pops, signaled muscles regrowing.

  Squelching gurgles came from cartilage and veins reconnecting.

  Elstraya leaned in, eyes violet and too bright, almost pushing Ayanna out of the way. “Slower than I expected. Origin Entropa’s Tomb is beneath us.” She pointed at the ground, “Perhaps your favor lies elsewhere.”

  Ayanna took a step back, her hands trembling as she looked down at Grim. She felt as if she were still just a helpless child that had bitten off more than she could chew. She felt so alone, and helpless. Like a burden on everyone around her. Then a brush of his tail, brought her back to her senses. Brushing lightly against her leg, until she crouched down to hold it. A sigh of relief, along with a smile and a few tears, helped steady her mind.

  “I may be a creature of shadow and chaos,” Grim grunted, jaw tight, “but I belong to Borea.”

  “The Origin of Ice,” Elstraya murmured, filing the detail away like a jewel, “Interesting. I wonder where you were born.”

  The hole pinched shut with a wet crunch. Only a puckered scar remained. Elstraya’s smile went a shade too hungry. “No sigil residue. No essence drain. Not even a sympathetic draw.” Her hand hovered, almost touching. “Grotesquely… fascinating.”

  “Forget the fascination.” Lilith folded her arms, tail twitching. “He’s upright enough. The Lucky Cask is here and I need Bloodfire. Preferably three.”

  Ayanna shot her a glare, tears now replaced with rage—then the village reached her.

  Silence pressed in.

  Not peace—pressure.

  The tree line sagged as if the forest refused to cross some invisible lip.

  The cracked stone moss covered buildings were leaning in one another, almost as if looming over to look down on whoever dared walk the thoroughfare.

  Eyes in the eaves that vanish when you look at them.

  The thick scent of mold, rust, and depression.

  No birds.

  No wolves.

  No insects.

  Even the wind seemed to tiptoe through the place.

  Hollow’s End did not welcome them.

  It watched.

  “Y-yeah… le—let’s go,” Ayanna whispered. The weight in the air slotted into her chest; her breath went thin. Grim’s tail flicked against her hand—once, grounding.

  She blinked—and Grim’s mouth wasn’t a pained smile anymore; it was a snarl, teeth too long, eyes wrong. The ground tilted.

  “W-we… need to…” Ayanna's eyes widened as she looked at Grim, his face further contorting as she stumbled back in wide-eyed panic.

  “Oh, shit,” Lilith said, catching Elstraya’s eye. “Yep. The Cask. Now.”

  “Elix’s heart is thick with not only Chaos Magic but Origin Entropa's magic still leaks from her tomb, somewhere deep below this town,” Elstraya added, already moving. “If the well draws on her chaos, she’ll lose control. Kelevra—carry her.”

  Grim pushed to a knee, then to his feet, one arm curling under Ayanna’s legs. He draped his tail over her, helping to ground her. She didn’t fight him; the world had gone grainy around the edges, colors oversaturated and then not nearly real enough. The farmhouse ahead hunched with a broken-backed roof. Beyond it, the village slouched in on itself—lantern posts leaning like drunks, shutters nailed from the outside, and every eave hung with spells that had browned to brittle paper.

  They crossed the threshold of Hollow’s End.

  The air thickened. Each step felt muted, as if the soil itself swallowed sound. Their footfalls struck stone, but no echo returned. Silence didn’t live here—it ruled.

  The main street slouched beneath years of neglect. Lantern posts leaned like drunks, their glass globes long shattered, strings of talismans dangling limp where light should have burned. Moss clung to every crack in the stone, gray-green and slick, veined with something darker that pulsed faintly when Ayanna passed.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  A chapel loomed crooked to the left, its spire broken halfway and pointing toward the ground like an accusing finger. The stained-glass windows had been painted over in tar, crude warding glyphs chalked along the doorframe. A noose swayed gently from the chapel’s bellbeam, though there was no wind to stir it.

  Shutters slammed somewhere ahead—one, two, three in quick succession—as if the villagers were less afraid of what prowled the streets than of being caught watching. Above, a row of coins nailed into a beam clinked softly, a superstition against debt or death—or both.

  Ayanna’s fingers tightened in Grim’s fur. When her knuckles brushed a doorway, the wood bled black, veins of shadow feathering outward until Grim flicked his tail against her wrist. She gasped and pulled back, breath sharp.

  “Ay.” Grim’s voice was low, careful. “In. Out. Breathe.”

  She tried. The air tasted of mold, wet iron, and something sweet and rotting all at once.

  Elstraya’s grimoire whispered at her shoulder, the pages fluttering as if in a wind that wasn’t there. “Do not answer if it asks your name,” she said almost idly, as though noting the weather. “Old places love a true name.”

  “Unless,” Lilith muttered, her voice clipped, “unless it’s Vezzy. Don’t lie to Vezzy.”

  “Right,” Elstraya replied, eyes flicking toward the sagging chapel, “Vezzy is the Boss.”

  Grim’s ears swiveled; something large shifted in an alley and then stilled. A faint hiss—breath, or steam, or both—slithered out of the dark and then faded.

  They pressed on. To the right, a gallows stood at the square’s edge, three ropes hanging frayed and stained, the wood beneath them still scarred where boots had scraped. Beneath the gallows lay a scatter of white dust—chalk, or maybe bone ground fine.

  The silence held them like a hand on the throat. Every building leaned inward, as though the town itself wanted to overhear.

  But then—sound.

  The thrum of laughter, rowdy shouting, the faint crack of a mug against wood. Warm light poured through battered shutters, and the smell of yeast, smoke, and spice fought back the choking silence.

  They turned a corner and found it: a squat building shouldered between two taller ones, its sign hand-carved and lacquered a deep amber—THE LUCKY CASK—with a stylized barrel and a coin wedged beneath its hoop. Warm light pooled beneath the lintel. The door stood open a thumb’s width, inviting in the way a snare is inviting.

  “House rules,” Lilith said, catching Ayanna’s eye, then the others. “We’re quiet. We don’t flash steel unless we mean to finish a fight. We pay in full. If anyone asks what we’re running from, we say ‘time.’”

  Ayanna tried a breath. It didn’t stick. “What if they ask my name?”

  “You don’t have one,” Elstraya said cheerfully. “Tonight, you’re ‘Girl.’”

  Inside, the world changed.

  The silence of Hollow’s End stopped dead at the door, replaced by sound and heat and smoke. The rafters sagged low, heavy with blackened beams, but the space thrummed with life. Firelight crackled in the hearth, and every table seethed with mercenaries, smugglers, beastfolk, and wanderers with eyes too sharp for comfort.

  A haze of pipe smoke curled toward the rafters, carrying the tang of bitterroot and cloves. Tankards slammed, dice clattered, boots stamped in rhythm to Fibble’s drunken tale. The tavern wasn’t large, but it bent the space with its noise—louder, fuller, as if it refused to let the silence outside reclaim anyone inside.

  The walls bore trophies of survival: cracked blades nailed like decoration, broken shields repurposed as serving trays, a banner of Salem Kingdom defaced and set as a rug by the fire. On the far beam above the bar, a row of wanted posters fluttered faintly in the heat—some so old the ink had bled into a blur. A few bore faces that looked uncomfortably familiar.

  The clientele glanced up when the newcomers entered, measuring them. One eye lingered too long on Grim’s side before quickly dropping to a drink. Another smirked at Lilith until Elstraya’s violet glow flickered and snuffed it out. Suspicion lived here, but respect for strength was the house language.

  At the bar, Vezzy Tozzlekip reigned. Her dark-gold streaked fur caught the firelight, and her amber eyes flicked between patrons with the precision of someone who knew exactly who owed coin, who owed blood, and which mattered more. Her tattoo of a broken coin flexed when she gripped the glass, a reminder of debts not easily forgiven.

  Behind her, Fibble wobbled on a stool, tankard splashing as he slurred through the climax of his story. “—and that, my friends, was the second time I tricked a basilisk with nothing but my left shoe and a really convincing glare!” The crowd roared, half mocking, half entertained, coins clattering across the bar as bets were paid out on whether he’d fall off the stool mid-tale.

  The Lucky Cask felt alive, but only in the way a den of wolves feels alive—full of teeth, waiting for weakness. The warmth was real, the laughter genuine, but beneath it all coiled the same pressure that choked the streets outside. Safety existed here, yes, but only on loan.

  When Vezzy’s gaze landed on them, the din seemed to soften—just a breath, just enough to remind them that every welcome in Hollow’s End came with a cost.

  “Well, well. If it isn’t my favorite fire hazard and her corpse queen. Thought I smelled scorched steel and old bones.” Vezzy asked, approaching with a huff and a smile.

  “Watch out Vez, there's a storm coming!” Fibble dances as he gives Vezzy a vague but fair warning. Vezzy nods, her whiskers twitching, almost as if she was sniffing the air.

  Lilith knocked twice on the bar, knuckles crisp. “Bloodfire. Three this time. And an Asp’s Tongue for the wolf. He got holy-spiked.”

  “The wo—” Vezzy was taken back by the disrespect, “That's not some wolf, Fire bug! That's Kelevra, the God of Beasts. His drinks are free. Show some respect, Lilith.” Vezzy’s hand slid back to the hilt of her sheathed dagger, her other hand on her hip.

  “It's fine, Muridas, I'm just a patron.” Grim's voice was soft though commanding, his gaze focused on Ayanna.

  Vezzy’s gaze slid over Grim’s side, took in the dried blood, then lingered on Ayanna, who was very carefully not looking at the mirror behind the bar—because in the glass, her reflection was smiling when she wasn’t.

  “You drag trouble with you, same as always,” Vezzy muttered, despite already reaching for the bottles. “Coin first, though. You know the rules.”

  Elstraya produced three Salem Kingdom-stamped Lown—gold coins each marked with twin moons over a tree and the Rose Capital’s archway around a ‘50’ insignia. Vezzy caught them, bit one, and grunted. “Still spendable. Barely.” She poured: crimson liquor that smoked in the glass, a pale green shot that smelled like sugar and knives.

  “Back room,” Vezzy added, jerking her chin toward the scarred door at the end of the bar. “You’re crackling. Don’t do that in my common room.”

  Ayanna blinked, wings shuddering. “Crackling?”

  “Like a storm with nowhere to go,” Vezzy said, sliding the drinks across. “That back room’s warded six ways. It’ll hold you better than my tables will.”

  From the hearth, Fibble raised his tankard mid-story, eyes half-lidded. “If the wards hold, you’re buying me another stool this time, Elstraya!” he hollered, to a round of drunken laughter.

  “Shut it, Fib,” Vezzy barked without missing a beat, “or I’ll nail your ears to the wall like last time.”

  The inn erupted with laughter, but the edge in her voice told them all: the Lucky Cask might be warm, but it was still Hollow’s End, and safety here was always conditional.

  Grim squeezed Ayanna’s hand once, then steered her toward the indicated door. The moment they crossed the threshold, the noise of the tavern dropped to a hush the size of a heartbeat. The room was simple: a round table, four chairs, a built-in bench, walls etched with sigils that looked like vines until you watched them too long.

  Elstraya shut the door with a fingertip. The wards brightened, then settled.

  Lilith knocked back a Bloodfire, hissed, and exhaled like a dragon. “All right. We’re safe enough to think. We need a plan, we need a cover, and we need to not let Ayanna touch—” She stopped, staring.

  Ayanna had rested her palm on the table. The grain beneath it had spiraled, darkened, then cleared, as if the wood had inhaled ink and exhaled light. The sigils on the wall answered with a soft, approving thrum.

  “I didn’t mean to,” Ayanna whispered. “It’s just… loud here.”

  Grim set the Asp’s Tongue in front of her. “Then let it be loud in a glass first.” A faint smile. “And breathe.”

  Ayanna lifted the shot. The liquid caught the lamplight and split it, green into gold. She looked at them—sister, lich, wolf—then tipped it back.

  The room held.

  Ayanna set the empty glass down and felt the glassy hum in her bones slow, like a tide pulling back. For the first time since the cottage exploded, her hands stopped trembling — and she noticed it: a single shutter across the street, cracked half open, sliding closed on its own.

  Outside, Hollow’s End listened—not with ears, but with cheap wood and thin mortar.

  It was waiting, patient and hungry.