Layla studied him with piercing eyes. "Your customers seem... on edge."

The innkeeper hesitated, his jovial mask slipping for a brief moment. "Just... travelers' nerves," he mumbled. "Rumors of trouble on the roads, nothing more."

Mary Ann arched a brow. "I've never seen a room full of hardened men look so afraid of 'rumors.'"

Before the innkeeper could stammer a reply, the front door banged open with a gust of cold wind. Every head in the room snapped toward the entrance, hands twitching toward concealed weapons.

A lone figure stepped inside, hood pulled low, face obscured by shadow. They moved with quiet confidence toward the bar, saying nothing as they signaled for a drink.

Tension ratcheted higher. Patrons exchanged uneasy glances, visibly relieved when the door swung shut again, locking out the chill—but not the palpable unease.

Raziel leaned toward Layla, voice low. "We should eat quickly and leave."

Before she could respond, a gruff voice hissed from the shadows of a nearby table. "You'd be wise to do the same."

Layla turned slowly, her eyes locking onto a weathered man with a scar running down his jaw. He didn't rise from his seat but met her gaze without fear—or warmth.

"This inn's no place for lingering after dark," he warned, voice roughened by years of hardship. "If you value your lives, you'll finish your meal and be gone before the next bell."

Layla held his gaze steadily. "And what happens after the next bell?"

The scarred man's lips twisted into something that might have been a smile—or a grimace. "Pray you never find out."

With that, he downed his drink in one long swallow, rose from his seat, and disappeared into the night, leaving only the faint echo of the wind howling outside.

The fire crackled louder in the sudden silence, its warmth doing nothing to ease the growing dread in the room.

______

The common room of the Silver Hearth remained cloaked in a thick, oppressive silence, broken only by the crackling fire and the occasional scrape of cutlery against worn wooden tables.

As Layla, Mary Ann, and Raziel settled uneasily at their corner table, they couldn't shake the prickling sense that unseen eyes tracked their every move.

Raziel's hand lingered near the hilt of his sword, his instincts sharpened by years of battles and betrayals.

He scanned the room again, noting subtle details: fingers twitching near hidden blades, glances exchanged between cloaked figures, and the deliberate way some patrons kept their backs pressed against the walls.

This wasn't the casual wariness of travelers in a strange land—this was fear rooted in something deeper.

The innkeeper returned with three wooden plates piled high with steaming roast meat, root vegetables glazed in honey, and thick slices of dark bread.

He set the plates down carefully, avoiding direct eye contact. "Eat up while it's hot," he urged, forcing a thin, brittle smile. "Long journey ahead, eh?"

Layla fixed him with a piercing stare. "Why are your customers so tense?"

The innkeeper's smile faltered. "Travelers get nervous these days," he muttered, wringing his hands on his stained apron. "The roads aren't safe—bandits, wild beasts, you know how it is."

Mary Ann leaned back, arms crossed. "Bandits don't scare seasoned mercenaries or hardened traders." Her voice was calm but edged with suspicion. "You're hiding something."

The innkeeper paled. "I'm just a simple innkeeper. I don't ask questions, and neither should you." His eyes darted toward the curtained windows, as if expecting something—or someone—to burst through at any moment. "Just... eat your meal and stay in your rooms until morning."

Before they could press him further, the front door creaked open, spilling icy wind into the room. Every head snapped toward the entrance.

A tall, hooded figure stood silhouetted against the night, their cloak dusted with frost. They stepped inside, closing the door with deliberate care. The firelight caught the gleam of steel strapped to their hip. The room seemed to hold its breath.

The figure made no move to lower their hood or speak. Instead, they walked with measured steps to the bar and placed a coin pouch on the counter. The innkeeper hesitated, visibly trembling, but finally took the pouch and fetched a drink.

Layla's eyes narrowed. Whoever this newcomer was, they radiated a quiet but dangerous authority. Raziel tensed, his fingers brushing his sword's hilt.

The hooded figure claimed a seat near the fire but kept their back against the wall, gaze fixed on the room with predatory stillness. The other patrons avoided looking in their direction, hunching lower over their drinks and meals.

Mary Ann leaned toward Layla, her voice barely above a whisper. "Trouble. Should I take care f it?"

Before Layla could respond, a gruff voice hissed from a nearby darkened corner.

"You'd best finish your meal and leave," the voice warned, roughened by years of hardship and battle. "This inn's no place for lingering after dark."

Layla turned slowly, her gaze locking onto a weathered man with a jagged scar cutting across his jaw. He leaned forward just enough for the firelight to catch the hard angles of his face. His expression was grim, devoid of malice but heavy with purpose.

"And what happens after dark?" Layla asked, her voice steady.

The scarred man chuckled darkly. "Pray you never find out."

With that, he drained his mug in a single, practiced motion, threw a few coins on the table, and vanished into the night, his worn cloak whipping behind him. The door groaned shut, leaving only the echo of the howling wind.

Raziel rose halfway from his seat. "Should we follow him?"

Layla shook her head. "Not yet. Let's see what happens."

As the evening wore on, other patrons finished their meals with hurried efficiency, tossing coins onto tables before rushing out into the dark. By the time the inn's old clock chimed the ninth hour, only Layla, Mary Ann, Raziel, and the hooded figure by the fire remained.

The serving girl timidly approached, wringing her apron. "Will... will you be needing anything else?" Her voice trembled with something beyond simple nerves.

"No, thank you," Layla said kindly, her expression softening. "You've done enough."

The girl hesitated, then whispered, "You... you should leave too. It's not safe here after dark."

Before Layla could question her, the girl hurried back toward the kitchen, casting one last fearful glance over her shoulder.

Raziel exchanged a sharp look with Mary Ann. "We're being warned—again."

"They're too scared to explain," Mary Ann added grimly. "Something's keeping them quiet."

Just then, the hooded figure by the fire stirred, slowly rising to their feet. Their head turned ever so slightly, as though listening to something outside—something only they could hear.

Without a word, they strode toward the door and vanished into the night, leaving nothing but the faint scent of cold steel and frost lingering in the air.

Silence fell once more, thick and suffocating. The fire crackled weakly, struggling against the chill that seemed to seep in from the shadows beyond the windows.

"We're staying," Layla declared, rising from her seat. "Whatever's out there—we'll face it."

Raziel drew his sword with a practiced motion. "Then we'd better be ready."

As they made their way back toward their rooms, the sound of distant footsteps echoed faintly from outside... followed by the low, mournful howl of something far from human.