[Lavinia's POV—The Whisper Cellar]
The moment I stepped through the hidden door behind the bar, the air changed.
Literally.
Gone were the smells of cheap ale and roasted meat. Down here, it smelled like secrets—like parchment and candle wax and the faint trace of something burnt. The stairwell was narrow and damp, the stone walls lined with glowing mushrooms (why is that always a thing in fantasy basements?) and carvings I couldn't read. Ancient symbols. Wards, maybe.
"Third left… Knock twice, once… and hum," I muttered under my breath, counting doors.
Behind me, Osric followed like the ghost of overprotectiveness.
"You know," he whispered, his voice a low warning, "this entire situation feels like the start of one of those cautionary bard tales. The princess sneaks off. The cat is cursed. The bodyguard gets blamed for everything."
"I didn't know you were so poetic," I replied sweetly. "But if I'm the heroine. I never die this early."
"…That's not comforting."
