The cozy warmth of the lobby seemed to chill by several degrees. The name 'Wyvern Hunters' Guild' hung in the air like a death sentence, heavy and absolute. The quiet, domestic peace they had built over the past few weeks felt like a fragile glass sculpture, and that name was the hammer poised to shatter it.
Lyra's face was a stony mask, but her eyes held the grim look of a soldier who knows she is hopelessly outmaneuvered. "They don't make mistakes," she said, her voice low and steady, as if reciting a catechism of doom. "They don't get side-tracked. If they are in this region, it is because their quarry is, or will be, here. Their trackers are legendary; some say they can follow the scent of a soul on the wind."
"My network is going crazy," Silas added, his usual sleek confidence replaced by a tense energy. He was pacing his corner of the lobby, his tail lashing like a whip. "But it's all panicked noise. No one has a visual. No one knows the target. The Black Arrows are ghosts until they decide to strike. All we know is their destination: the Greywood Mists."
The Greywood Mists. The swirling, non-space that surrounded the Inn.
They were coming here.
Leo felt a cold knot tighten in his gut. This was different from the Duke and his Archmage. The Duke was a pompous fool who could be bankrupted. The Archmage was an academic who could be out-thought. But this Guild… everything about them screamed predator. They were a force of nature, a pack of wolves that had caught the scent of blood.
"Can the Inn… can your rules stop them?" Lyra asked, looking at Leo. It was the first time he had seen a crack in her knightly composure, a flicker of genuine fear.
"My rules apply to my property," Leo said, forcing a confidence he didn't entirely feel. "The 'No Unauthorized Violence' rule should hold. But they are hunters. They are smart. Like the Archmage, they might not try to attack directly. They might just wait."
A siege by the most dangerous trackers in the world. The thought was suffocating. His Inn was a sanctuary, but it could also become a cage.
As if summoned by their dread, the very atmosphere outside the Inn seemed to shift. A low, mournful howl of wind began to press against the walls. Through the one-way window of the front door, they could see the pearlescent mists darkening, churning with a new and violent energy. A storm was brewing in the space between worlds.
A sudden, deafening CRACK of thunder shook the entire building, making the bottles behind the bar rattle. This was no normal storm. It was a tempest of raw, untamed magic.
And then came the knock.
It wasn't a polite tap or an arrogant summons. It was a frantic, powerful BANG BANG BANG on the massive front doors, a sound of pure desperation, as if someone was trying to break the door down with their bare fists. Each impact seemed to land in time with the hammering of Leo's own heart.
Silas froze mid-pace, dropping into a low crouch, his claws extending instinctively. Lyra had her sword out before the second knock had finished echoing, her body a coiled spring of readiness as she placed herself between Leo and the door.
"They're here," she breathed, her voice grim. "They moved faster than we thought."
The knocking came again, louder this time, more desperate, punctuated by another crash of otherworldly thunder.
Leo stared at the doors, his mind racing. This didn't feel like an attack. It felt… panicked. Hunters were patient. They were predators. They didn't knock.
"Don't open it, landlord," Silas hissed. "It could be a trick. A magical lure."
He was right. It was the logical, safe thing to do. Keep the doors sealed. Hunker down in his impenetrable fortress and wait for the danger to pass.
But as a third, weaker set of knocks sounded, a different instinct took over. It wasn't the instinct of a frightened man, but of a proprietor. He had established this place as a sanctuary. He had signed contracts based on that premise. Its reputation, the very 'Value' it generated, was built on the idea that it was a safe harbor for those in need. What was the point of a sanctuary that kept its doors locked to the desperate?
He let out a long, weary sigh, a sound that was profoundly out of place amidst the tension and the storm.
"We're going to need a bigger sign," he said, walking past Lyra.
"Leo, what are you doing?" she demanded, her eyes wide with alarm.
"My job," he replied simply. He reached the door, placed his hand on the wood, and took a deep breath. "Opening for business."
He commanded the doors to open. They swung inward with a low groan, revealing a scene of pure chaos. A torrential, silvery rain fell from a black, churning sky of mist. The wind howled like a banshee. And standing on his threshold, illuminated by a flash of brilliant lightning, was a woman.
She was soaked to the bone, her long, silver hair plastered to her face. She wore a simple, elegant white dress that was now torn, mud-stained, and clinging to her frame. A dark, ugly-looking wound marred her shoulder, a deep gash that looked suspiciously like it had been made by a wickedly barbed arrow. She was trembling, not from cold, but from sheer, soul-deep exhaustion.
But even in this desperate state, her beauty was breathtaking, ethereal, and not entirely human. And the power that rolled off her in waves was unlike anything Leo had ever felt. The Archmage's power had been a bonfire. This woman's was a star. It was a vast, ancient, and overwhelming presence that made the F-Rank aura in his own chest feel like a single, flickering candle in the face of a supernova.
She looked up, her eyes meeting his. They were the color of molten gold, and in their depths swirled a storm of fear, pain, and fierce, defiant pride.
Her lips parted, and her voice, though strained and breathless, was clear and melodic.
"I hear," she said, her golden eyes locking onto his, "that you offer sanctuary."
She took a single, faltering step across the threshold into the warmth of the Inn.
"I wish to rent a room."