Chapter 18
Written by Bayzo Albion
"The same girl from last night — the one who'd led me out of that strange village of fear — now walked beside me under the rising sun."
Morning light spilled over the quiet street, turning the cobblestones gold.
I faced the girl who'd found me half-drunk and half-lost last night—still a mystery, still the only steady point in this strange world.
Her earlier warnings about men and dangerous women echoed faintly in my mind.
She watched me with that same knowing half-smile, eyes sharp with amusement, and I did my best to pretend I wasn't already far out of my depth.
"Baronessa," she said, glancing back over her shoulder, her eyes catching mine with a fleeting intensity. "A pleasure to meet you, Gandalf of Rivia."
"Baronessa—is that a name or a title?" I asked, raising a brow, half-expecting some grandiose revelation about her status in this village of wonders.
"It's my name," she replied simply, her voice carrying a hint of amusement, as if she'd anticipated the question. "Unless you prefer addressing people by their social rank, like some courtly knight from a bygone era?"
"Not really. I just don't want to accidentally call a countess a goat and start a diplomatic incident," I said, my tone light but my mind alert, sensing layers beneath her casual demeanor.
She chuckled under her breath, a soft, melodic sound that didn't quite answer my probing, her silence saying more than words. It was as if she were testing me, seeing how far I'd push before retreating.
We chatted about nothing in particular as we walked, trading banter about the village's quirks and the strangeness of its inhabitants, but every step beside her felt like trespassing into a dream, a realm where reality blurred into fantasy. The Baronessa moved as if gravity had lost its claim on her—no creak of boots, no shift of weight, not even the whisper of fabric against skin. Her heels skimmed the earth, barely touching, and the dying sun poured through her like stained glass, turning her outline half-transparent, a vision that seemed to flicker between mortal and ethereal. I had to lengthen my stride just to keep up, my boots thudding against the cobblestones in stark contrast to her effortless glide.
All the while, that scent drifted back to me—something peach-sweet laced with a spicy undertone, as if an orchard had hidden a secret spice shop between its trees, exotic and intoxicating. It was so faint it might have been my imagination, but it fogged my thoughts all the same, curling around my senses like a subtle spell, tempting me to lean closer, to breathe deeper.
After a few minutes, the path opened onto a two-storey house of timber and pale brick, standing apart from the sagging roofs and weathered facades around it. It was kept, polished, almost proud, like a noble fallen into a peasant village yet refusing to slouch, its windows gleaming with a quiet dignity. The structure seemed to hum with latent magic, its lines too perfect, its presence too commanding for a mere dwelling.
"Nice house. Especially for the Middle Ages," I muttered, scanning its windows for lurking gargoyles or boiling cauldrons, half-expecting some arcane trap to spring.
"I'll take that as a compliment," she replied coolly, her lips curving in a faint smile. Then she halted abruptly and turned, her gaze catching mine with sudden weight, pinning me in place. "Aren't you afraid of me?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications, her eyes searching mine for a flicker of doubt. I gave a small shrug, summoning my best philosopher's tone, leaning on a half-remembered quote that felt fitting, even if its origins were dubious.
"Back home in the North, we had a thinker named Friedrich Nietzsche," I began, pretending I wasn't quoting the only line I remembered from a meme that had floated through my old life's digital haze. "He once said: 'The most dangerous enemy you'll ever meet is always yourself.' So, no, I'm not afraid of you—not when I'm my own worst threat."
Her brows rose a fraction, a spark of intrigue lighting her eyes. "So you fear yourself more than you fear me? And that… makes sense to you?"
"Maybe it doesn't," I admitted with a sigh, letting a wry grin soften the edges of my bravado. "But if you think about it… I'm the one who dragged myself into this world, crafted its rules, or at least agreed to play by them. You're just one of its chapters, a page in a story I'm still writing."
A faint, unreadable smile tugged at her lips, a mix of amusement and something deeper, as if my words had struck a chord she hadn't expected. "Strange man," she murmured, her voice soft but resonant. "Strange, but interesting. Shall we go in?"
"If you're not planning to toss me into a cauldron or feed me to some enchanted beast, sure," I said, grinning as I stepped toward the door, half-expecting it to sigh open like a stage curtain and reveal whatever act came next in this unfolding drama.
Inside, the house looked… wrong in the right way, a paradox of design that felt both alien and inviting. It was both alien and inviting — a wizard's tower married to a minimalist loft, enchantment fused with precision. The furniture was elegant without being fragile—curves like calligraphy carved into wood that remembered ancient forests, sturdy yet imbued with a quiet magic that promised comfort. When I sat, the chair subtly adjusted my posture, as if a thousand grandmothers were gently fixing my spine with loving insistence. When I stood, a low table murmured softly and whisked away a couple of crumbs I swear I hadn't made yet, its surface gleaming anew.
"Now you can live here," the Baronessa said, casting a measuring glance over the parlor, the hall, and me—like she was fitting a picture into a frame, assessing how I'd fit into her world. "A cozy corner for someone who arrived from nowhere, a haven to anchor you in this strange land."
"May your shift be kind, Baronessa," I said, giving a courteous dip of the head, the formality feeling right in this space that seemed to demand respect.
"And you—what will you do?" she asked, already opening the door, one hand in the world beyond, one still lingering in this curated heaven, her silhouette framed by the morning light.
"Meditate," I said, the word slipping out with more certainty than I felt. "Then hunt. Test what this flimsy mortal chassis can do in a new reality, see how far I can push it before it pushes back." The admission flicked a switch inside me—fear and anticipation mixing like thunder with the smell of rain, a storm of possibility brewing in my chest. I've always liked that edge, the precipice where the unknown beckons.
She nodded once, no blessing, no warning, just the quiet confidence of someone who either trusted me implicitly or had already planned for every way I might disappoint her. Then she was gone, the door closing softly behind her, leaving me alone in the house's enchanted embrace.
Curiosity took over, as it always did. I opened every shelf, every drawer, my fingers itching to explore this new domain. I looked under the bed, expecting dust but finding only polished wood; behind the curtains, hoping for hidden passages but finding only sunlight; even inside the decorative vases, half-expecting a genie but discovering only air.
For a moment, I felt like a kid who'd stumbled into a shop full of enchanted toys—everything begged to be touched, examined, pressed just to see what would happen, each object humming with latent potential. One drawer hissed like a startled cat when I tried to open it, a puff of warm air warning me off. Another spat a spark straight at my hand, a tiny jolt that stung more from surprise than pain.
I burst out laughing—not from joy, but from the sheer absurd thrill of it all, the house a living entity teasing me back, challenging my intrusion with playful defiance. More than once, I seriously considered stealing something—a "token of gratitude," let's say, a keepsake to mark my arrival—but I had a rule, forged in the fires of my old life: never steal from good people. And the Baronessa, strange and enigmatic as she was, didn't seem like a bad person at all, her offer of shelter a kindness I couldn't betray.
Then I stumbled upon something truly extraordinary—a magical snowman that turned out to be… a refrigerator, standing quietly in the corner of the kitchen like a harmless decoration. Up close, I realized this was no simple trinket. It had no doors, no handles—just a faintly glowing, translucent barrier that shimmered like a frozen aurora. Through it, I could see compartments inside, each perfectly shaped like icy hollows, cradling their contents with meticulous care.
The air around it was noticeably colder, a crisp chill that invigorated rather than numbed, and from its eyes drifted a thin, silvery mist—like the breath of winter itself, exhaled in delicate wisps. Inside, food and bottles of wine were neatly arranged in rounded niches, while flasks of rainbow-colored liquids shimmered faintly in the frost, their hues shifting like captured dreams. Everything was cooled by a kind of living snow that didn't melt, wrapping around each object like soft, protective ice, preserving it with an artistry that felt almost reverent. Some fruits and vegetables were half-submerged in it, as if the snow had gently pulled them in to keep them fresh, their colors vibrant against the frosty embrace.
Curiosity won, as it always did. I slipped my hand through the barrier, expecting resistance… The cold welcomed me like a whisper from another world