Chapter 6

  The storeroom was cold.

  Not the kind of chill you expect in a stone-walled cellar, but a deep, biting cold that clung to the skin and crept into the bones. It was colder than any other part of the inn, unnaturally so—enough that I’d finally pulled my helmet back over my head. Not for protection, but for warmth.

  Simon wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders, muttering something under his breath as his breath formed little clouds in the dim lantern light. Vin moved along the wall, staying close to where the candle sconces flickered faintly. There wasn’t much warmth, but it was better than nothing. And Maira, of course, had begun muttering prayers to Erebos under her breath, hands clasped before her as if the chill were some kind of sacred test.

  I was beginning to get used to that part of her—the quiet invocations, the distant look in her eyes whenever she spoke the name of her god. I had to, really. Like it or not, we were stuck working together until the storm outside gave way or the mystery inside killed us first.

  And I wasn’t planning on dying. Not here. Not before I settled the score with a certain fire-breathing monster.

  My thoughts drifted, unbidden, toward that dragon—his wings blotting out the sky, the fire, the screams. A civilization turned to ash in minutes. My rage flickered like an ember inside my chest. He couldn’t ever truly pay for what he’d done, but vengeance was the closest thing to justice I had left.

  I forced myself to breathe, to push those thoughts aside. This wasn’t the time.

  I glanced at the others, then straightened and took command once more. It came naturally now.

  "Spread out and search," I ordered, voice steady beneath my helm. "Call out if you find anything suspicious. Maira, take the shelves with the supplies—utensils, tools, anything out of place. Vin, check the crates of food. Look for anything with frost or unnatural ice, but don’t dig too deep. We wouldn’t want to upset our beloved innkeeper."

  Vin gave a small nod and headed toward the stacked crates along the far wall.

  "Simon," I continued, turning toward him, "you and I will check the barrels. See if there’s anything odd with the ale or wine."

  Simon raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Any particular reason you’ve chosen the alcohol section? Or is it just... familiar territory?"

  His smirk was unmistakable, and I heard Maira let out a faint snort behind me. Even Vin, elbow-deep in straw and apples, seemed to suppress a grin.

  "Very funny," I muttered, more to myself than to him. But truthfully? He wasn’t wrong.

  There were times, too many to count, when the bottle had been my only escape—when the trail ran cold or the memories burned too hot. When I needed silence, or just the illusion of peace. But that was a part of me I preferred to leave buried.

  Before the past could tighten its grip again, the group moved. Maira drifted to the shelves, her black-and-silver robes trailing softly behind her. Vin knelt at the crates, careful but quick. And Simon, still smirking, stepped up beside me.

  “If I crossed a line with that comment,” Simon said, voice low and sincere, “then I’m sorry.”

  The way he said it—it wasn’t defensive, or sarcastic. It was almost… moving. Genuinely remorseful.

  I looked at him for a moment, then gave a tired shrug. “Honestly? Yeah, you hit a nerve.”

  Simon flinched slightly.

  “But it’s fine,” I added before the silence grew too long. “I’ve put up with worse jabs than that.”

  He exhaled in clear relief, like I’d just spared him from execution. Which, given our setting and the company we kept, wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility.

  We returned to our task.

  The barrels—beer, wine, and whatever other spirits Markus had managed to stock—were neatly arranged along the right side of the room, stacked in careful rows. We moved methodically: checking behind them, beneath them, between them. I even cracked a few open—not because I expected to find clues inside, but… well, it was cold down here, and a taste didn’t hurt.

  Simon caught me. Of course he did.

  “Well, well,” he said with a grin, “enjoying yourself, Beerladin?”

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  I didn’t flinch at the nickname. Didn’t roll my eyes. Didn’t even give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, I changed the subject.

  “The Stormspire Academy—that’s in Neros, right? Capital of the Elven Kingdom? I’ve heard it’s supposed to be the most beautiful city on the continent. That true?”

  Honestly, I expected him to grow somber. To speak of a painful past. Some weight in his eyes, a bitter edge to his voice.

  I was completely wrong.

  The moment I said the name of that city, Simon lit up like a festival lantern. His entire face shifted, his posture relaxed, and for a heartbeat, he looked like someone entirely different. Not a warlock. Not a man haunted by wraiths or guilt.

  Just a boy remembering home.

  “Those rumors?” he said, grinning like a child on his birthday. “They’re not wrong. Not entirely. Every building in Neros looks like it’s made of silver or gold. The towers and spires of the palaces stretch so high, they kiss the clouds—higher than you’d think trees could ever reach.”

  That caught my attention. I raised a brow. In Tirros, I’d seen the trees in the Gardens of Illys—ancient, towering things that reached up to eight hundred meters into the sky. Either Simon was exaggerating… or forgetting.

  Still, I didn’t interrupt.

  “And the streets,” he went on, eyes distant with wonder, “they’re cleaner than anywhere else I’ve seen. Polished white stone that reflects sunlight like a mirror. If you stare down too long on a clear day, you can actually hurt your eyes.”

  Alright. That was probably pushing it.

  But I let him talk. Let him paint his picture of Neros, even if some of it was wrapped in nostalgia and the glow of a past too perfect to be true. There was something comforting in his joy—something honest, even if the details weren’t.

  When he finally fell quiet, I gave him a small, thoughtful nod.

  “Well,” I said, “maybe I’ll visit Neros someday.”

  Simon smiled, softer now. Less wide-eyed, more grounded.

  “You should,” he said. “Just… don’t go in winter. The palace guard gets cranky in the snow.”

  For the next few minutes, we searched in silence. No jokes, no commentary—just the quiet creak of wooden casks being shifted and the occasional faint clink of iron as I moved aside another barrel with the hilt of my sword. We were somewhere around the thirtieth when curiosity got the better of me.

  I glanced at Simon as he knelt to check behind another row of kegs.

  "You don’t have to answer this," I began, keeping my voice as casual as possible, "but… how old are you, actually?"

  He paused, half-turned toward me.

  "I mean," I continued, gesturing vaguely at him, "with all due respect—the white beard, the lines on your face—you look like a retired scholar who should be lecturing in a sunlit hall, not rummaging through cellars."

  He raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

  "But then," I added with a shrug, "you talk about magic and cities and your past with this energy, this spark, like you’re barely older than a teenager. So... come on. Indulge me."

  I hoped I didn’t sound too commanding. The last thing I wanted was to offend him or make it seem like I was prying too hard. But to my surprise, Simon didn’t hesitate.

  In fact, he grinned.

  "Thirty-two," he said without missing a beat.

  I blinked.

  Then stared.

  My mouth opened slightly—nothing came out. For a full second, I simply couldn’t respond.

  Simon laughed. Not mockingly, just... thoroughly entertained.

  "It’s alright, friend," he said, patting the side of a keg. "You’re not the first. Not even close. Just last week someone guessed ninety. And they meant it."

  Still, I struggled for words. His face—lined, pale, framed by that long, snow-white beard—looked like it had seen at least six decades. His movements were smooth, sure, but not youthful. And yet the way he smiled, the brightness in his eyes, the ease with which he laughed—it was all… young. In a strange, paradoxical way.

  He watched me, clearly enjoying the expression on my face.

  "To be fair," he added with a wink, "magic ages the body in odd ways. Especially storm magic. The hair goes first. Then the rest tries to keep up."

  I finally managed to shake my head and mutter, "Hells…"

  Simon chuckled again and moved to the next barrel.

  I followed, still a little stunned.

  Our search continued for a few more minutes—methodical, quiet, with only the soft clatter of shifting barrels and the occasional grunt of exertion filling the cold air. The frost seemed thicker now, like even the very stones of the inn’s foundation were holding their breath.

  Then, from across the length of the room, Maira’s voice rang out—sharp, urgent, but not panicked.

  “Come here! I’ve found something!”

  Simon and I straightened immediately. I dropped the wooden lid I’d just pried from a cask and met his eyes—then we both broke into a sprint. Vin, startled, bolted from behind a stack of crates, nearly knocking over a jar of pickled onions in her haste to reach Maira.

  She stood in the center of the storeroom now, kneeling over a patch of cleared floor. Several dusty tiles had been pried loose, set carefully to one side. The stone beneath them—once hidden beneath decades of grime and neglect—was cracked open like the shell of some ancient beast.

  And beneath it... was a tunnel.

  A wide, perfectly round shaft—about four meters in diameter—plunged into the darkness below. There was no visible bottom. No glint of water. No reflection. Just endless shadow, thick and absolute.

  A rusted metal ladder was bolted into the curved stone wall, leading downward into the void like a spine descending into the underworld.

  We stared.

  No one said a word for a moment. Only the flickering torchlight moved, dancing along the edge of the tunnel's mouth like it feared what lay beneath.

  I crouched beside it, staring into the abyss. A sharp, unnatural cold radiated from within, brushing against my exposed skin even through the armor. My breath caught in my throat.

  Maira was still kneeling, breathing slightly faster than usual. “I don’t know why I lifted the tiles,” she murmured, half to herself. “Something felt… wrong. Like something was beneath us, watching.”

  Simon leaned over the edge, eyebrows raised, his earlier humor gone.

  Vin hugged herself, peering down nervously. “That doesn’t look like any kind of cellar I’ve ever seen.”

  No. It didn’t.

  It looked ancient. Forgotten. Deliberately hidden.

  After a long, heavy silence, I pushed myself back to my feet and took a deep breath. My voice was calm, but I couldn’t stop the flicker of excitement—or unease—beneath it.

  “I think it’s time,” I said, looking at the others in turn, “for a little dive.”

  The torchlight behind us fluttered. And one by one, the others nodded.

  We were going down.