Chapter 3

I watch them go, the pouch of coins heavy in my hand. I turn towards the village, the inn called 'The Gilded Thorn' sounding like a safe bet for now. I need to process what I've learned and figure out my next move.

The stream leads south, just as she said.

The forest thins as you walk, the dense canopy giving way to scattered oaks and eventually to cultivated fields—neat rows of something green and leafy, bordered by low stone walls. The path widens, becomes a proper road worn smooth by cart wheels and hooves. The morning sun climbs higher, warming the air, carrying the smell of earth and ripening grain and, eventually, woodsmoke.

Thornwell appears around a bend in the road.

It's a modest village, the kind that exists in the shadow of every castle: stone cottages with thatched roofs, a central square with a weathered fountain, a handful of shops just opening their shutters. The inn is easy to spot—a two-story building with a creaking sign bearing a faded golden thorn branch, a wisp of smoke rising from its chimney.

The common room is quiet at this hour. A few early patrons nurse cups of something steaming near the hearth. The innkeeper, a broad woman with grey-streaked hair and sharp eyes, looks up as you enter. She takes in your clothes—wrong, foreign, clearly not local—and her expression flickers with calculation before settling into a neutral politeness.

"Room or breakfast, stranger?”

The innkeeper studied me for a long moment, then nodded. 'Breakfast first, you look like you've had a rough morning. We can talk about rooms after.' She gestured to a table by the window.

She disappears through a low doorway into what must be the kitchen. The common room settles back into its morning rhythm — a low murmur of conversation between two old men by the fire, the scratch of a quill from a scribe in the corner nursing a single cup of tea, the distant clatter of pots.

By the window, the morning light falls across a worn wooden table scarred with years of use. A small vase holds a single pink rose — fresh, improbably vibrant, *too* perfect. The same shade as Liesel's dress.

A few moments later, the innkeeper returns with a tray: a bowl of thick porridge drizzled with honey, a hunk of dark bread still warm from the oven, a small crock of butter, and a cup of something herbal and steaming.

She sets it down with a grunt. "Eat. You'll think clearer on a full stomach."

She doesn't leave immediately. She wipes her hands on her apron, studying you with the frank assessment of someone who has seen many strangers pass through and learned to read them quickly.

"You're not from around here. That much is obvious." A pause. "You wouldn't happen to be connected to the commotion up at the castle this morning, would you? Heard the guards were turning the forest over looking for something.”

I slide the pouch of coins onto the table. "I have a few coins. Perhaps enough for a room and to pay for this meal? I need to spend some time gathering my thoughts before I decide where to go next.”

The innkeeper's eyes flick to the pouch, then back to you. She doesn't reach for it.

"Keep your coin for now. We'll settle up when you leave." She pulls out the chair across from you and sits, heavy and deliberate, folding her arms on the table. "Stranger passes through Thornwell the same morning the princess's guards are tearing through the woods looking for something they won't name. That's not a coincidence. That's a story."

She tilts her head.

"I'm not asking for the story. I'm not the crown's ears. But I've been running this inn for thirty years, and I've learned that people passing through either want to be found, or they don't. Which one are you?"

The question hangs in the air. The two old men by the fire have gone quiet, pretending not to listen. The rose on the table catches the light, impossibly vivid.

I push the pouch of coins across the table. 'I want to be found. But not by them. I need to understand what's happening.’

The innkeeper looks at the pouch for a long moment — the honest weight of a princess's coin — then pushes it back.

"Keep it. You'll need it more than I will before this is over."

She leans back, studying you with newly sharp eyes. Her voice drops, carrying only as far as your table.

"The princess has been... strange. For months now. The court says she's ill. Some say she's cursed. Others whisper she made a deal with things that live deeper in the forest than any sane person ventures." She pauses. "The rose on your table — that's not from my garden. I don't know how it got here. But it's the same kind that grows wild near the fae borders, the ones that bloom even in winter."

She watches you carefully.

"I don't know what you are to her, stranger. But I know she's been waiting for *something* for a long time. And I know the castle has been holding its breath.”

I lean forward, my voice low. 'Cursed? What do people say she's cursed with? And what about this rose? Where does it come from? Tell me everything.’

The innkeeper's jaw tightens. She glances toward the two old men by the fire — still pretending not to listen, but their conversation has gone conspicuously quiet. She makes a decision.

She stands, nods toward the back of the common room. "Come. The storage cellar has better acoustics for secrets."

She leads you through a narrow door, down a short flight of worn stone steps into a cool, dim cellar lined with barrels and shelves of preserved goods. A single lantern hangs from a hook, casting warm shadows. She lights it, then turns to face you, arms crossed.

"Word spreads slow from the castle but it spreads. The princess has *moods*, stranger. Not the ordinary kind — the kind that shift like weather. One day she's the sweetest soul you'd ever meet, giving coins to orphans and blessing every servant she passes. The next she won't look anyone in the eye, speaks in whispers, flinches at sudden sounds. The day after that, she's cold as winter marble, ordering guards about like she's commanding an army."

She pauses.

"There are days the castle goes quiet. Locked doors. No audiences. The official reason is always 'Her Highness is unwell.' But the servants talk. They say her eyes change. Not color — something behind them. Like someone else is looking out."

She gestures vaguely upward, toward the world above.

"As for the rose — those grow near the fae borders. Everyone knows it. They bloom in places where the veil between worlds is thin. If one showed up on my table this morning, it means something from the other side is watching. Maybe the same something she made her deal with."

Her voice drops lower.

"They say the fae always deliver exactly what you ask for. They also say they always add something extra — the part you didn't think to specify. The part that ruins everything.”

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