Chapter 4

As the innkeeper finishes speaking, the lantern flickers violently, casting dancing shadows that seem to writhe and twist like fae forms. The air grows cold.

The innkeeper's face goes pale, her weathered composure cracking for the first time. She stares at the lantern, its flame twisting yellow-green, casting shadows that move against logic — bending *toward* the light instead of away, stretching into impossible shapes along the stone walls.

The cellar turns cold. Not gradually, but instantly, as if winter just stepped through an unseen door. The innkeeper's breath plumes faintly in front of her.

"Damn," she whispers. Not a curse. A prayer.

The flame steadies. The shadows snap back to normal. The cold recedes as quickly as it came, leaving the cellar feeling merely damp and cool again, the lantern burning a steady, ordinary gold.

Silence.

The innkeeper exhales shakily, pressing a hand to her chest. She looks at the rose — you didn't bring it down here, but it's lying on the barrel beside you, having somehow followed. Its petals are perfect. Its thorns glisten.

She looks at the rose. Then at you.

"I think," she says slowly, "you need to know more than I can tell you. There's someone in the castle who's been studying this. An old mage. Master Aldric.”

I take a step back, my eyes scanning the cellar as if looking for the source of the disturbance. 'Is this… is this what they do? The fae?’

The innkeeper's hand trembles as she lowers it from her chest. She stares at the rose on the barrel like it might bite her.

"Aye. That's them." Her voice is rougher now, stripped of its practiced neutrality. "They don't need doors. They don't need invitations. They just... *attend*, when something interests them."

She takes a cautious step toward the rose, then stops, as if thinking better of it.

"The old stories say they can't lie. But they can make you *feel* things—cold, fear, wonder, want—without saying a word. They leave tokens. Roses, mostly. Sometimes a single feather, or a coin that vanishes come morning." She swallows. "The token means they're paying attention. To you. To whatever just happened upstairs."

She meets your eyes.

"You walked into my inn not an hour ago, stranger. Now the fae are flickering my lanterns and leaving roses in my cellar. Whatever you are to that princess, they're watching to see what you do next.”

I move away from the rose, my gaze fixed on the innkeeper. 'If they're watching, they're watching you too. Why are you willing to tell me all of this? What do *you* have to gain?’

The innkeeper holds your gaze, and something shifts in her expression — a flicker of something older, heavier, than the practical woman who greeted you at the door.

"Because I had a daughter once. She was fifteen. She fell in love with a fae knight who visited her in dreams." Her voice is flat, reciting a story she's told herself a thousand times. "She found a border. She crossed. The fae returned her three days later — exactly three days, precisely polite — and she was *hollow*, stranger. Breathing. Walking. Smiling when told to. But the girl I raised was gone. Something else was wearing her skin."

She looks at the rose.

"The court mage said there was nothing to be done. She'd given herself freely. The fae don't steal what's not offered."

She picks up the rose. Turns it in her weathered fingers. Its petals do not bruise.

"So when I see a young woman wearing a princess's face and acting like she's drowning, and a stranger shows up the same morning the castle turns inside out looking for something — I pay attention. Because I didn't know what was happening to my girl until it was too late. Maybe I can't fix that. But I can at least warn someone else before they walk into the same trap."

She sets the rose down carefully on the barrel, as if it might shatter.

"That's what I gain.”

The innkeeper gestures towards the door leading back to the common room. "You should eat your porridge. The sun is climbing, and we've said what we can down here. The court mage might be listening.”

She climbs the stone stairs ahead of you, her footsteps heavy and deliberate. At the top, she pauses, glancing back.

"The bread and porridge stay warm for about another ten minutes. After that, I'll have to charge you for a fresh pot."

It's an invitation to sit. To think. To decide what comes next.

The common room is unchanged: the two old men have resumed their murmured conversation, the scribe scratches at his parchment, sunlight falls across the empty table where the rose no longer sits. The innkeeper disappears behind the bar, busying herself with wiping down mugs, giving you space.

You're alone with the morning, the cooling breakfast, and the weight of everything you've learned.

I turn back towards the table and sit down, picking up the spoon. "A few more minutes won't hurt. I might as well eat while I think.”

The porridge is good — hearty oats sweetened with honey, a hint of something warm like cinnamon or its local equivalent. The bread tears easily, still soft from the oven, butter melting into its crevices. Simple food. Honest food. The kind that doesn't ask questions.

Through the window, Thornwell's morning unfolds: a cart rattles past loaded with turnips, a cluster of children chase a dog down the main street, a blacksmith's hammer rings in a steady rhythm from a nearby forge. Ordinary life. The kind of life that has no idea a cursed princess just offered you her heart in a forest clearing.

Your spoon clinks against the bowl.

The coin pouch sits on the table beside your elbow. Enough for several nights, she'd said. Maybe longer, if you're careful. A room upstairs, a hot meal each day, time to gather your thoughts before deciding what to do.

Or you could finish breakfast, walk back toward those golden spires, and walk through a gate that someone will try to stop you from entering.

The rose is gone. The innkeeper is pretending she didn't just tell you about the fae border and her hollow daughter. The morning is perfectly, deceptively ordinary.

The spoon hovers over the bowl.

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