A week passed in a quiet rhythm that was more restorative than any vacation Leo had ever taken. Mornings were for exploration and planning, his mind alight with the possibilities listed on the [Renovations] menu. Afternoons were for practice. He would stand in the center of the vast, empty lobby, breathing deeply, coaxing the faint, F-rank aura to life in his palm. It was still weak, a flickering ember of light, but with each passing day, it grew a little brighter, a little more stable. It was progress, tangible and real.
Lyra, his first and only tenant, was a ghost. She kept to her room, healing from wounds both physical and psychological. He would find meals he left outside her door gone, replaced by a clean plate. It was a silent, respectful cohabitation. The Inn was no longer empty, and that was enough for now.
On the eighth night, under the strange, starless twilight of the Inn's sky, a new pair of eyes watched the silent building from the swirling mists that marked its property line.
Silas, of the Shadow-Pawed Clan, lay stretched out on the branch of a gnarled, leafless tree, as comfortable as if he were lounging on a velvet cushion. His long, black cat-like tail twitched idly, the only part of him that betrayed any impatience. His slitted pupils, which could pierce the deepest gloom, were fixed on the unassuming facade of the Threshold Inn.
For the past week, the underworld of thieves, spies, and information brokers had been buzzing with one story: the utter humiliation of Duke Carrington and his pet Archmage. The details were fantastical, absurd. A holy warhammer turned into bread? An S-Rank siege spell nullified without effort? A priceless magic carriage deconstructed for cosmic scrap? It was the kind of tale that was too ridiculous to be true, which was precisely why Silas believed it. The truth was often far stranger than fiction.
And where there was strangeness, there was opportunity. Information about this place, about its mysterious Master, was a commodity that could fetch a king's ransom. Silas wasn't here for gold or jewels; he was a connoisseur of a much finer treasure: secrets.
With a final, decisive flick of his tail, he decided he had waited long enough. He melted off the branch, his descent a fluid, silent drop that made no more sound than a falling leaf. His movements were a dance of pure stealth, honed by years of practice in the most heavily guarded vaults and castles in the kingdom.
He approached the Inn with a professional's caution. His senses, far sharper than any human's, reached out, probing for magical traps, pressure plates, or spiritual wards. He found nothing. Absolutely nothing. The perimeter was completely unsecured.
Arrogance? he mused, a smirk playing on his lips. Or a trap so sophisticated I can't even detect it? Either way, the challenge was intoxicating.
He didn't dare touch the front doors. That was the fool's entrance. Instead, he circled the building, a shadow hugging the foundation. The walls were smooth, seamless stone, offering no handholds. But for Silas, that was hardly an obstacle. He flexed his fingers, and his claws, sharp as razors, extended from his fingertips. He found purchase in the microscopic cracks in the stone, and began to climb.
His ascent was silent and swift, a spider scaling a wall. He felt a thrill of victory as his hands grasped the edge of the roof. He pulled himself up, rolling silently onto the dark, tiled surface. He had done it. He had breached the outer defenses of the most mysterious building on the continent. It was almost disappointingly easy.
He crouched low, his tail lashing gently behind him as he scanned his surroundings. The roof was a maze of steep angles and strange chimneys that puffed out nothing. His goal was to find a skylight, a window, any point of entry to observe the interior and its master. He began to move across the tiles, his padded feet placing each step with practiced, weightless precision.
One peek, he thought, his heart thrumming with the thrill of the heist. One little piece of information. Who are you, mysterious Innkeeper?
He took another step, placing his foot down on a flat, slate-grey tile that looked identical to all the others.
And the world went wrong.
He felt no click of a pressure plate, saw no flash of a magical rune. But for a split second, a line of text, written in a language he didn't know but understood perfectly, flashed in his peripheral vision.
[Rule: No Trespassing on the Roof After Midnight]
Before he could even process the words, the roof beneath him seemed to come alive. The tiles rippled, not with malice, but with a kind of playful energy. From the very surface of the roof, a form began to materialize. It was made of soft, condensed moonlight, and it was shaped into a paw. A giant, cartoonishly oversized cat paw.
Silas froze, his professional instincts utterly useless in the face of such profound absurdity. He stared as the giant, soft paw, easily twice his size, reared back. It didn't radiate killing intent or magical power. If anything, it radiated a sense of gentle, paternal disappointment.
Then, it pushed him.
There was no impact, no violence. It was a firm but impossibly strong shove, like being moved aside by a friendly giant. He was lifted off his feet, his body tumbling through the air in a completely undignified sprawl. He let out a surprised yelp, his thief's grace forgotten. He saw the Inn shrink away from him as he flew in a perfect, gentle arc through the misty night air.
His flight ended as abruptly as it began. He landed not on hard ground, but in the soft, leafy embrace of a large, thick bush just outside the tree line where he had started his infiltration. He was completely unharmed. Not a single scratch, not a bruise. Only his pride was shattered into a million pieces.
He lay there for a long moment, tangled in branches and leaves, staring up at the starless sky. He pushed himself out of the bush, spitting out a leaf, and looked back at the Inn. It stood there just as it had before, silent, unassuming, and completely impenetrable.
It hadn't tried to kill him. It hadn't even tried to hurt him. It had simply… ejected him. Like a bouncer throwing out an unruly patron. Gently.
Silas, the master thief who had never been caught, the shadow who had never been seen, had just been defeated by a giant, polite, spectral cat paw.
His mission to steal a secret had failed. But now, his desire to learn about this place was no longer just professional curiosity. It was a burning, all-consuming obsession. He had tried the back door. Tomorrow, he decided, he would try knocking.