Lightning slashed across the grey sky as the drizzle turned into a downpour. Hiori pulled up her hood and glanced at Barnard. "Barnard… We'd better find some shelter. I'm not sleeping under a grumpy sky like this," she said, her voice calm but anxious.
Barnard nodded, his now-wet beard dripping. "You're right. Weather like this makes old joints like mine start protesting too. Let's move."
They ran through the rain, their steps splashing mud on the narrow path. Through the curtain of water, a silhouette began to take shape—pointed rooftops and thin smoke rising from a chimney.
"Barnard, look! That's… that's a village, right!?" Hiori shouted, pointing with excitement.
Barnard squinted, trying to see through the mist. "A village? Since when is there a village on this map? I know the north-south trail like the back of my axe!" he said, half-suspicious.
"Forget the map! I trust my instincts!" Hiori replied, dashing toward the faint outline.
"Hey, wait up! Don't just charge ahead—what if it's an illusion or a trap!? Ugh, kids these days really love putting old hearts like mine through the wringer…" Barnard grumbled, but followed with heavy, steady steps.
A flash of lightning revealed the village more clearly: old wooden buildings, tattered flags fluttering weakly, and… an unusual stillness—too quiet for a settlement. But they were soaked to the bone, and turning back wasn't an option.
Tension hung in the air. There was something… off about this place. But perhaps because of that, Hiori's steps only grew more certain.
"What… kind of village is this?" Barnard muttered as he looked around, his brows furrowed in suspicion. "Honestly, I've never heard of or seen any settlement at this spot… And I know every inch of the land from the north to the south."
"I feel it too…" Hiori replied softly. "But we can talk about it later. For now, top priorities: dry, warm, and maybe a bowl of hot soup." She scanned the eerie village, noticing oil lamps flickering faintly in the rain.
Suddenly, her eyes caught a swaying old wooden sign creaking in the wind. Faded letters carved into it read: The Black Stag Tavern, with an image of a three-antlered stag. The building looked ancient, slightly leaning—but still standing strong against time.
"Look, a tavern!" Hiori cried, pointing. "Let's go—before this rain turns into a storm!"
"The Black Stag, huh?" Barnard muttered. "Not the most comforting name, but the walls are still standing… Let's just hope it's not a bandit trap. Or worse—supernatural tenants."
They rushed to the door, and as Hiori opened it, the warm scent of old wood, cheap wine, and hearth smoke greeted them. Inside, the atmosphere was livelier than expected. Several hooded figures whispered among themselves, while the bar's owner—a sharp-eyed old woman with scarred hands—watched them from behind a wooden counter full of mugs.
"Good evening… travelers," she said. "You came from the north?"
Hiori and Barnard exchanged glances. There was something about this village… something strange.
But for now, they had shelter. Whatever mysteries this place held could wait—until after the hot soup.
"Yes…" Hiori nodded slowly, took a breath, and stepped forward with the dignity of a noble ordering their last meal before battle. She stared at the old woman behind the counter.
"We'll have two bowls of hot fish soup, one warm milk… and—" she turned to Barnard, "What do you want to drink?"
Barnard stroked his beard, eyes sparkling like a child at a festival. "I want… seven mugs of beer. Dark. Strong."
Hiori's eyes widened, nearly choking on her own words. "Seven!? Are you serious!? Do we look like nobles who just looted a kingdom!? I've only got fifty Raya coins!"
Barnard shrugged casually. "I just said what I want, not what I can afford."
Hiori held her breath, fists clenched as if about to punch her own wallet. She turned back to the old woman. "Change the order. Two hot fish soups, one cold milk… and one—just one—beer. The cheapest you have. And make sure it won't get him drunk or make him sing."
The old woman chuckled and nodded. "You're not the first to argue about beer in my tavern. Take a seat. The soup'll take a while—the fish today were feisty."
Hiori and Barnard headed to an empty table in the corner, the sound of rain still tapping on the windows—and for some reason, despite all the earlier chaos, Hiori's heart felt a little warmer.
"Hey, Hiori…" Barnard muttered as he gazed out the window, where the rain fell gently and a thin fog wrapped around the village road. "I still feel… there's something strange about this place."
Hiori turned, raising an eyebrow. "Strange how, exactly?"
Barnard narrowed his eyes, his voice lowering to a near whisper. "I haven't seen a single child playing. No laughter. No barking dogs. Even when we walked in, the villagers just stared at us… like we were fresh meat that wandered into a wolf's den."
Hiori fell silent, sipping her milk slowly. She glanced around—and sure enough, the tavern was too quiet for a resting place. The other tables were occupied, yet not a single conversation could be heard. Only occasional, vacant stares thrown their way.
"…You're right," Hiori finally said. "This place… it's hiding something. Something that doesn't want to be uncovered."
Barnard gripped the handle of his beer mug. "Keep your distance. Don't eat too much. And if anyone invites us to anything—whatever it is—just refuse. Avoid it at all costs."
"Noted," Hiori replied softly, her eyes fixed on the hooded man in the corner of the room—who hadn't stopped staring at them, unblinking, since the moment they walked in.
The silence hung in the air like a thick fog that refused to lift—until the sound of light footsteps and the scrape of wood broke through the stillness.
"Here it is… two bowls of hot fish soup, a glass of fresh milk… and of course, your seven mugs of ale," said the waitress with a raspy yet friendly voice, as if she had witnessed a thousand nights colder than today's rain. She placed the steaming bowls and large mugs onto their table, one by one, with slow, almost theatrical movements.
The savory aroma of the soup immediately hit Hiori's nose, teasing a stomach that had been quiet for far too long. Yet her instincts stayed alert—especially when she noticed the small bone ring on the waitress's ring finger—a peculiar ornament for someone from a remote village.
Barnard gave a slight nod and smiled. "Thank you, ma'am… your cooking smells like something the goddesses might've served in their own kitchens."
The waitress chuckled softly, her laugh like splintering old wood. "Careful, sir… a sweet tongue can tempt more than the taste of ale," she said, then turned and walked away slowly, her steps barely audible—though her presence seemed to linger in the room.
Hiori glanced at Barnard. "I'm feeling even more uneasy now…"
Barnard simply raised one of his mugs, took a small sip, and whispered, "Just enjoy the soup. If we're going to die tonight… at least let's do it with full stomachs."
Barnard took another satisfied gulp of his ale, the foam clinging to his silver beard—now rugged and unruly with age and experience. He leaned back with a small grin, then whispered to Hiori as if revealing a secret of the world.
"But don't worry, kid…" he said in a low, proud tone. "You're sitting across from someone who lived in the time of the Saviors… You know? The heroes who split the sky and shook the earth with every step they took." Barnard let out a hearty chuckle, like a small crack of thunder echoing in the twilight sky.
Hiori sighed and took a spoonful of her soup, mumbling, "Ugh… I'm not in the mood for your bedtime fairy tales, Barnard. I'm more afraid of starving than hearing stories from the stone age."
Barnard only chuckled in response, then began spooning his own soup. The scent of boiled fish and wild mountain herbs filled the air, wrapping around them in a strange kind of warmth—warm to the body, but cold to the soul.
They ate in silence, accompanied only by the rain tapping on the window and faint murmurs from other tables in the tavern. Beneath it all, one thing was clear… this village held something unusual.
And tonight, something might be watching them.