After an hour of navigating the tense, rubble-strewn streets, Shane's hope was wearing thin. Every inn he passed near the city's more intact center was either boarded up, commandeered by the city guard, or had a crowd of displaced citizens clamoring at its door. The dungeon break had created a flood of refugees.
Just as he was considering the grim prospect of finding a ruined building to squat in, a flickering lantern illuminated a weathered sign carved with a night-blooming flower: 'The Nightblum Inn.' It was tucked away on a side street, less grand than the others, its windows grimy but its door open. It was his last, best option.
As Shane stepped into the inn, he was greeted by a cacophony of sounds and smells that assaulted his senses. The air was thick with the pungent aroma of cheap ale, mingling with the sour odor of unwashed bodies and the lingering scent of old smoke. The common room was crowded, filled with rowdy patrons engaging in various activities. Burly men in workman's clothes drank heartily, a group of travelers in dusty cloaks huddled in intense conversation, and a few solitary figures were hunched over their cups, their postures speaking of exhaustion or despair. In one corner, a slightly out-of-tune bard strummed a lute, his song nearly drowned out by the din.
He found an empty stool at the end of a long, scarred wooden table and sat, keeping his head down. A moment later, the innkeeper, a broad man with a thick beard and a stained apron, approached him, wiping his hands on a rag.
"What'll it be?" the man asked, his voice a low rumble.
"What do you have?" Shane replied, trying to sound more confident than he felt.
"The ale's strong, the stew's warm. That's what there is," the innkeeper said, not unkindly, but with the impatience of a man with a full room.
"That's fine. Ale and the stew, then," Shane said.
The innkeeper gave a curt nod and retreated toward the kitchen. He returned a few minutes later, slamming a large, frothing clay tankard of dark ale in front of Shane. "Food's a few minutes more," he grunted before moving to another customer.
Shane's throat was parched from dust and panic. He picked up the heavy tankard and, without thinking, took a deep, desperate gulp.
It was a mistake. The liquid wasn't the weak, watery beer he'd unconsciously expected. It was like drinking fire. The potent, bitter brew burned a path down his throat, shocking his system. He choked, sputtering a mouthful back into the cup and onto the table, coughing violently as his eyes watered.
A roar of laughter erupted from the men seated around him. One of them, a giant of a man with a broken nose, slammed his own tankard on the table. "Look at this one! The boy's trying to drown himself on his first sip!"
The innkeeper glanced over from the bar, a faint, weary smirk on his face. "I did say it was strong."
Face burning with a mixture of embarrassment and the ale's fiery aftertaste, Shane wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He gave the laughing men a weak, acknowledging nod and decided to sip the ale slowly, the liquid still feeling like a punishment. As the warmth spread unpleasantly in his stomach, Shane felt a warm, loose feeling spreading through his limbs. The sharp edges of his fear and the sting of his wounds were beginning to blur. The 'Dragon Spice Ale' was living up to its name, and he was getting tipsy without realizing it.
He caught the innkeeper's eye as the man passed by. "Do you have any rooms available?" Shane asked, his words sounding just a hair slower to his own ears. He offered a faint, unsteady smile. "I don't care if it's small or not. I just need somewhere to rest. Seems this dungeon break must have been a blessing for innkeepers like you."
The innkeeper stopped, his gaze assessing Shane with renewed interest. "Lucky for you, we have one room left. You came at the right time." He picked up a wooden cup and began polishing it with a rag. "Forty copper marks, and it's yours for the night."
Now, Shane didn't know the local economy well, but the number felt heavy. More tellingly, he caught the subtle shift in the postures of the men at the next table a slight pause in their drinking, a knowing glance exchanged.
The ale-fueled warmth in his chest flared into a spark of boldness. He leaned forward, his voice dropping into a tone of mock outrage that was only partly feigned. "Forty copper marks? For a room in this... charming establishment?" He gestured vaguely at the chaotic common room. "Why don't you just ask for my whole dead family's bones while you're at it?"
The innkeeper let out a booming laugh that shook his broad chest. "Hahahaha! Just pulling your leg, kid. Fine, twenty copper marks for the room, plus five for the ale and food."
Shane's food finally arrived, a bowl of thick, lackluster porridge with chunks of unidentifiable meat and wilted vegetables floating in it. The taste was as uninspiring as its appearance, but driven by a deep hunger, Shane ate. He learned his lesson from the ale and didn't rush, but a new problem quickly emerged. Unlike the warm soup he'd ordered, the porridge was steaming hot and packed with a fiery, lingering spice that set his mouth ablaze.
"Goddamnit!" he coughed, fanning his mouth with his hand. "Why is everything so freaking spicy here? Do you guys have a personal beef with my tongue?!" In a panic, he grabbed the tankard and downed another large gulp of ale, which only seemed to spread the fire rather than quench it.
The innkeeper watched him, a knowing look in his eyes as he leaned against the bar. Shane's face was flushed a bright red, and he was now drinking the potent ale as if it were water, desperately trying to cool the inferno in his mouth.
"You aren't from around here, are you, kid?" the innkeep asked, his tone a mix of statement and question. It was clear that a local would never have such a dramatic reaction to the common spices of Duskmor.
After hearing the question, Shane pretended to cough, buying himself a precious second to think. He wiped the ale from his lips and adopted a somber expression.
"I am," he began, his voice dropping as if sharing a confidence. "But you could say I was... sheltered. My father didn't allow me to go out much. He was kind of embarrassed that his only son was a talentless freak, so he locked me up." He gave a weak, self-deprecating shrug. "Well, it all worked out great in the end, I suppose."
The lie was a shield. The fewer people who knew he was a stranger with no ties to the city, the safer he was from anyone searching for an escaped slave.
The innkeeper's boisterous demeanor softened into a look of genuine, if gruff, sympathy. "Ohhh, sorry you had to go through that, kid. It's a shame, but many families still believe untalented children are a mark of disgrace." He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering. "So what happened? They finally allowed you to come out, or..." he trailed off, giving a knowing wink, "did you sneak out?"
Shane let out a short, hollow laugh that had little to do with humor. He took another deliberate sip of the spicy ale, the burn now a familiar companion. "No," he said, his tone flat and final. "They died. During the dungeon break. So now I'm free to do whatever I want."
The statement hung in the air between them, stark and unadorned. It was the perfect, tragic cover, extinguishing any further questions with the cold finality of a shared city-wide grief.
Wanting to shift the conversation away from his fabricated, tragic past, Shane leaned forward as if sharing a keen interest. "Speaking of stories," he began, his voice lower, "do you know anything about the Vitreom race? Or about Enchanting? I've always been fascinated by their stories, even if my father called it a waste of time for someone like me."
The reaction was immediate and unnerving. The innkeeper froze, the rag in his hand stilling on the counter. His friendly demeanor evaporated, replaced by a sudden wariness. He looked up, his eyes scanning Shane's face as if searching for something. Then, he leaned in so close that Shane could smell the ale on his breath.
"Listen, kid," the innkeeper whispered, his voice a low, gravelly thread meant only for Shane's ears. "If you value your life, don't mention that name outside. Not in my inn, not in the market, not to anyone." He pulled back slightly, his gaze intense. "That kind of curiosity gets people disappeared. The Sundered don't take kindly to anyone digging up the past, especially that part of it."
He straightened up, his voice returning to a normal volume, though it was still edged with tension. "If you want to know about Enchanting, visit Renee's store. Now, if you're finished, your room is the last door at the top of the stairs. Don't cause any trouble." He turned and walked away, effectively ending the conversation and leaving Shane with a chilling warning and more questions than answers.
A drunk Shane eventually pulled himself up the creaking stairs, his body heavy with exhaustion and ale. He found the room—a cramped space with a narrow bed and a single, rickety chair—and slumped onto the thin mattress, not even bothering to remove his stolen clothes. The world spun gently in the darkness.
A last, sober flicker of paranoia cut through the alcoholic haze. The ring. He wasn't comfortable sleeping with such a valuable, and now apparently conspicuous, item on his finger. Focusing his will, he felt the familiar mental command. The ring on his finger vanished, stored safely within the system's inventory. Only then did he let the darkness take him, falling into a deep, dreamless slumber.
---
Hours later, the faintest creak of the door hinge did not stir him. Two shadows slipped into the room, moving with practiced silence. Moonlight from the single window outlined their forms as they began a swift, efficient search.
One figure patted down the empty chair and ran hands under the thin mattress. The other quietly opened the room's lone, small cupboard, finding it bare.
"There's nothing in here," the first figure whispered, his voice tight with frustration. "It's just him. I thought the informant said he was from a rich family? This is a beggar's room."
Indeed, Shane had nothing. Every possession he owned, from the coins to the now-invisible ring, was either on his person or in a metaphysical storage space they could never access.
The second figure finished a futile sweep under the bed and stood up, cursing under his breath. "I can't even find that ring he wore downstairs. Did someone get to him before us? Fuck."
With a final, angry glance at the sleeping form that had cost them their time, the two shadows retreated as silently as they came, leaving Shane completely unaware of how his newfound caution had just saved him from a far worse wake-up call.