The Wandering Drake stood as the heart of Vandren’s Rest, its sturdy wooden frame reinforced with dark stone foundations, a testament to the resilience of the town itself. The inn’s name was etched into an aged wooden sign above the entrance, a faded carving of a dragon coiled around a tankard beneath it. Warm light spilled from its windows, and the scent of roasted meat, spiced mead, and freshly baked bread drifted into the evening air.

  Inside, the inn's main hall was a grand yet rustic space, its atmosphere thick with the mingling scents of oakwood smoke, mead, and the faint hint of damp leather from weary travelers. A great stone fireplace dominated one side of the room, its flames casting flickering shadows across the timbered walls. The mantle above the hearth bore a collection of relics—old blades, battered shields, and a preserved drake’s skull with jagged horns curling toward the ceiling, its empty sockets staring into the bustling room.

  To the right of the fireplace stretched the dining area, a long communal table made from solid oak, its surface scratched and dented from countless feasts and rowdy nights. Smaller, round tables were scattered around, their mismatched chairs occupied by travelers, mercenaries, and merchants. The scent of roasting venison and seasoned potatoes wafted from the kitchen beyond, where cooks worked tirelessly behind a half-open wooden counter. Worn iron chandeliers hung overhead, their glow-crystals emitting a soft, steady luminescence that never dimmed, even in the dead of night.

  Opposite the dining area was the drinking hall, where a polished wooden counter ran the length of the room, lined with sturdy barstools that had seen their fair share of drunken mishaps. Behind the bar, shelves stocked with an impressive selection of spirits—honeyed dwarven mead, deep crimson elven wine, and potent orcish fire-brew—shimmered beneath the glow of enchanted lanterns. A few private booths lined the far wall, each separated by heavy drapes for those who preferred their conversations unheard. The murmur of hushed deals and whispered secrets blended with the lively hum of patrons raising their tankards in laughter or slamming fists over lost bets.

  At the front of The Wandering Drake, nestled just beside the entrance and flanked by a pair of ever-burning lanterns, stood the reception desk—polished wood framed with mythic ironwork and runes to ward off thieves and liars. Behind it stood an elf with the quiet command of someone who had long since learned how to read a person in seconds.

  She was the picture of elven poise: long silver hair braided meticulously over one shoulder, her braid secured with a silver clasp shaped like intertwined vines. The strands shimmered in the soft lantern light, and a few loose strands framed a sculpted face—high cheekbones, an upturned nose, and pale green eyes sharp enough to cut through steel. Her tunic, deep blue and embroidered with silver leaf motifs, was elegant without being showy, its sleeves fitted snugly around her forearms and her dark sash cinched with pouches meant more for business than beauty. Rings glimmered on her fingers as she made tidy notations in a thick ledger. She looked refined—but more importantly, capable. And she missed nothing.

  When Joran hesitantly stepped forward, she didn’t look up right away. Her gaze was still fixed on a pair of dwarves at the bar who were laughing a little too loudly, their tankards already clashing together in rhythm. She tensed slightly, one long ear flicking in annoyance.

  “U-um… e-excuse me?” Joran’s voice cracked slightly as he approached, the weight of unfamiliar eyes in the inn pressing down on him like a physical force.

  That got her attention.

  Her eyes flicked to him, unimpressed but curious. “Yes?” she began smoothly, then paused—her gaze sweeping him from head to toe with practiced efficiency. Her right ear twitched again, but not from irritation this time. Her expression turned amused. “Trying to blend in, are you?”

  Joran blinked, startled. “I-I’m just passing through…” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. One hand instinctively tugged his hood further down, while the other rose to clutch the amulet resting at his chest—a polished gemstone framed in enchanted silver, far too ornate for a common traveler.

  Her eyes zeroed in on it. “That,” she said, stepping out from behind the desk, “is not a trinket worn by someone who’s seen hard travel.”

  With one fluid motion, she vaulted over the counter and landed silently in front of him, her boots making only the faintest tap against the wooden floor. Joran stumbled back a half-step, his cheeks going red as she leaned in slightly, her eyes studying him as if he were a puzzle just begging to be solved.

  “You’re too clean,” she said matter-of-factly, circling him slowly. “Too well-fed. Too upright. Your hands—” she caught one of them lightly in her own, holding it up “—haven’t seen real labor. No callouses. No scars. And you walk like someone who’s only recently started wearing travel boots. You don’t move like a refugee, and you certainly don’t smell like a sellsword.”

  Joran yanked his hand back, flushed. “I—I didn’t say I was any of those things.”

  “Didn’t have to,” she said with a sly smirk. “The amulet gave you away first, though. Noblecraft. Lotharan make. Protective enchantments woven in with what I’m guessing is… dragonbone filigree?”

  He swallowed hard and, almost without thinking, stuffed the amulet beneath his shirt.

  Her grin widened. “Too late for that, darling.”

  “I’m not—look, I’m just… traveling south,” he blurted out, voice low and flustered. “From the Riverwatch region. Just looking for work near the border. Maybe further out. Haven’t decided yet.”

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  Her eyes twinkled. “Is that so?”

  “Yes,” he said quickly. “Been on the road a while. Needed somewhere to… eat. And sleep.”

  She paused, letting the tension hang between them for a moment longer—just long enough for Joran to fidget under her gaze—then turned on her heel and vaulted back over the desk with the same ease as before.

  “Well then,” she said lightly, reaching beneath the counter and retrieving a worn brass key. “Lucky for you, we offer both food and beds. One gold covers the night, and I’ll have a plate sent up to your room if you prefer privacy.”

  Joran nodded hurriedly, reaching into his pouch with trembling fingers to pull out the coin.

  She took it with a small nod, then added in a quieter tone, “Don’t worry. I won’t be asking any more questions tonight.”

  Joran gave a weak smile and looked away, cheeks still pink.

  The elf’s smirk softened, just a little. “Name’s Druna, by the way. Let me know if you need anything... Riverwatch.”

  Then she handed him the key and returned to her ledger as smoothly as if the entire conversation had never happened—though the faint amusement in her eyes said otherwise.

  __________________________________________________________________________________________

  After paying the elf at the front desk, Joran gave a quick, awkward nod of thanks and slid his amulet beneath his shirt. The enchanted chain settled against his chest, cool and familiar. With his hood pulled low, he made his way toward the dining area, careful to avoid drawing any unnecessary attention. The moment he stepped into the great hall, the warmth of the fire and the smell of roasted meat washed over him like a wave, loosening some of the tension coiled in his shoulders.

  He scanned the room quickly before settling into a corner booth tucked beneath the curve of a thick timber beam. Shadows pooled there, dimming the glow from the enchanted lanterns above. It was the kind of place someone could vanish into, and tonight, that was all he wanted.

  A soft thud of footsteps approached his table, and Joran glanced up to see a tall cyclopean woman standing beside him with a gentle, tired smile. Her singular eye—deep blue and softly glowing in the lantern light—studied him with curiosity, though not suspicion. Her thick arms bore the marks of someone who worked hard for a living, and her apron was stained with flour, oil, and the faint dusting of herbs.

  "Evening, love," she said kindly. "Haven't seen you around before. Looking for a full meal or just something to drink?"

  Joran hesitated, then offered a shy smile. "Um... something light to drink. And maybe a hot meal, if the kitchen’s still open."

  "For you, always." She scribbled on a small parchment pad, then added, "Roast boar and seasoned vegetables are fresh. I’ll throw in a slice of honeyed bread if you’re polite."

  He nodded gratefully. "That sounds... perfect, thank you."

  She gave him a brief, warm nod before turning on her heel and heading toward the kitchen, her braid swaying as she disappeared into the clatter of pots and murmured orders.

  Joran exhaled slowly and allowed himself a moment to relax. The inn was filled with a rugged, mismatched blend of patrons—mercenaries, merchants, mythics, and a few wide-eyed travelers. Most kept to themselves or to their tablemates, but the air was thick with the tension of secrets and unspoken deals. It was the kind of place where everyone had something to hide, which, in its own way, was a comfort.

  Until he made eye contact.

  One of the two dwarves who had been guzzling their drinks near the hearth caught his gaze, and for a moment, Joran hoped it would pass. But the dwarf—broad-shouldered, red-faced, and very drunk—slammed his mug down and stood up with a wobble.

  "Oi! You starin’ at me, twig?" he barked, his voice carrying over the low din of the room.

  Joran blinked and immediately looked away, raising both hands in a placating gesture. "No, sorry—I wasn’t—"

  "What, too good to answer now? You think just 'cause you're sittin’ there all cloaked and mysterious that we should be afraid?"

  The dwarf stomped over to his table, fists clenched, breath heavy with ale. Joran could see the other patrons turning to watch, sensing a scene unfolding.

  "Look, I don’t want any trouble," Joran said quietly, keeping his voice even. "I was just—"

  "What you are," the dwarf growled, slamming a hand on the table, "is in need of a proper fight. Come on then, pretty boy. Let's see what you've got."

  Before Joran could respond, a blur of movement interrupted the space between them.

  Druna.

  The elven innkeeper landed beside the dwarf with the grace of a striking serpent. In a single fluid motion, she grabbed the dwarf by the arm, twisted it behind his back, and slammed him face-first into the table with enough force to rattle the utensils. His companion began to rise from their seat with a shout—but he barely made it two steps before Druna spun and kicked his legs out from beneath him, sending him crashing to the floor in a heap.

  "That’s enough," she said sharply, her tone calm but commanding. "You're drunk. You're disruptive. And you’re boring."

  She hauled both dwarves up—one in each hand—and with surprising strength, shoved them toward the door. The first managed a weak protest, but it was lost as the door was opened and both were flung unceremoniously into the night.

  Druna turned back toward the room, brushing her tunic sleeves as if nothing had happened. Her gaze fell on Joran, and she offered him a knowing smile.

  "Apologies for the interruption," she said lightly. "Enjoy your meal."

  Then she strode back to the front desk, resuming her post as though tossing out drunkards was a daily part of her routine—which, judging by the murmured laughter and quick return to normal among the patrons, it probably was.

  Joran sat frozen for a moment, then let out a slow breath and returned to his food. The roast boar was delicious—tender and perfectly spiced—and the bread practically melted in his mouth. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he was until now. The drink, a light berry wine, soothed his nerves with every sip.

  But just as he began to feel a flicker of comfort…

  The front door to the inn swung open.

  And a familiar voice, smooth and mocking, cut through the chatter like a blade.

  "If I could have your attention, please!"

  Joran’s blood ran cold.

  Vaelin.