The reek of stale beer and unwashed armpit clung to the air inside the tavern like a cheap shroud. Outside, the drizzle had escalated into a proper, miserable downpour, drumming against the grimy windowpanes. Inside wasn’t much better. I hunched over a sticky table in the darkest corner, nursing a cup of lukewarm water I hadn’t paid for, trying to look simultaneously invisible and non-threatening. It was a balancing act I’d gotten depressingly good at.

  My deep hood was pulled low, casting my face into shadow. Essential for survival. Less essential, but providing a small measure of comfort, was Murk. My… companion. He was a Gloom Wisp, a pathetic little creature of sentient shadow and condensed melancholy, currently huddled in the inner pocket of my worn, patched cloak. He didn’t do much, besides occasionally emit a faint, mournful chime like distant wind chimes or subtly darken the shadows around him. He fed on ambient misery, which meant he’d been practically feasting since we’d crossed into the human realms. Right now, he was probably the size of a respectable hamster, vibrating faintly with second-hand despair. Lucky him.

  I was trying to psych myself up to ask Bortus, the tavern owner – a man whose gut preceded him into any room by a good five seconds – if he needed any help. Washing dishes, swabbing floors, cleaning out the privy… I wasn’t proud. Pride was a luxury afforded to those who knew where their next meal was coming from, or who hadn’t been unceremoniously booted out of their home dimension.

  My hand tightened around the chipped rim of the cup. Home. That was a laugh. The smog-choked, sulfur-scented streets of Ashgate, capital of the Seventh Circle’s most bureaucratic province, hadn't felt like home in years. Not since the Imp Authority Compliance Division had taken an interest in my… lineage. Half-Imp, Half-Dryad. An aberration. An impurity. My father’s fleeting fancy for a creature of the Green had resulted in me: too gentle for the pit, too sharp-edged for the forest. My horns were small, easily hidden. My tail, thin and spade-tipped, stayed coiled around my waist beneath my tunic. But my skin had a faint undertone that wasn't quite sickly yellow or healthy green, and my dryad heritage apparently manifested as a distinct lack of enthusiasm for casual cruelty, petty torment, and the proper filing of soul-condemnation paperwork.

  They’d called it "ideological incompatibility" and "potential environmental contamination." Whispers followed me – whispers about my Great-Aunt Morwenna, another "botanically-influenced eccentric" who’d vanished decades ago after scandalizing polite demonic society by suggesting potted plants might improve office morale. Apparently, a distaste for misery was a hereditary weakness. My existence was an affront to demonic purity standards. So, out I went. Banished. Persona non grata in the only world I’d ever really known.

  Steeling myself, I slid off the bench. Murk pulsed nervously in my pocket. Easy, little guy, I thought. Just gotta ask. Worst he can say is no.

  Though, humans being humans, "no" was often accompanied by pitchforks, holy symbols, or just good old-fashioned screaming and running.

  Bortus was polishing a tankard with a rag that looked dirtier than the tankard itself. He grunted as I approached, not even looking up.

  "Need any help, sir?" I kept my voice low, rough, trying to sound like just another vagrant. "Scrub floors? Muck out the stables? Anything."

  He stopped polishing, squinting at me suspiciously. His gaze travelled over my ragged cloak, lingered on the deep shadow of my hood. "Ain't got coin for help."

  "Room and board?" I tried, hating the hopeful tremor in my voice. "Just for a few nights? I work hard."

  "Board, eh?" He finally looked up, his piggy eyes narrowing. "Lemme see your face, then. Don't hire folk I can't see."

  My stomach plummeted. This was always the hard part. Slowly, reluctantly, I pushed back the edge of my hood just enough to reveal my face – the slightly pointed ears, the faint greenish tint under the grime, the way my eyes were maybe a little too large, a little too dark. I kept my hair strategically messy over my forehead, hoping he wouldn't notice the curve of my horns.

  His eyes widened. The tankard slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the wooden counter. "Gah! What in the Nine Hells are you?" He recoiled, snatching a heavy ladle from a hook like a weapon. "Demon-spawn! Get out! Get out of my tavern!"

  Murk let out a tiny, despairing chime from my pocket. Figures started turning, muttering. Fear and disgust radiated from them like heat off coals.

  "I'm not going to hurt anyone," I said quickly, backing away, pulling my hood back up. "Just looking for work."

  "Work?" Bortus spat, brandishing the ladle. "Your kind works mischief and misery! Begone! Before I call the Watch!"

  "Alright, alright, I'm going." My voice was tight. The familiar sting of rejection burned behind my eyes, but I refused to let them see it. My imp half wanted to hiss, to trip him with a flick of my tail, to maybe set his apron slightly on fire. My dryad half just felt weary, bruised. I turned and pushed through the now hostile crowd, ignoring the muttered curses and hastily sketched warding signs.

  Outside, the rain hit me like a slap. Cold, stinging drops plastered my cloak to my skin in seconds. The muddy street seemed determined to suck the worn soles right off my boots. Defeated, I trudged away from the dubious lights of the village, away from the flimsy promise of shelter. Where now? The next town was miles away. My stomach growled, a hollow, aching sound. Even Murk seemed subdued, no longer vibrating, just a cold, heavy lump in my pocket.

  The road dissolved into a soggy track winding through dripping woods. The light was fading fast, the grey sky deepening towards charcoal. Finding a relatively dry spot under a thick, ancient oak seemed like the best I could hope for tonight. Maybe I could gather some damp leaves for a bed. Glamorous.

  I sank down onto the damp moss at the base of the tree, pulling my knees to my chest. The bark scraped rough against my back. Rain dripped steadily from the leaves overhead. Utterly, comprehensively pathetic. This was it. Rock bottom. Exiled, penniless, friendless (except for a sentient blob of gloom), and about to spend the night in a ditch. Maybe the Imp Authority was right. Maybe I was a failure, unfit for any world.

  Murk stirred, pushing a shadowy tendril out of my pocket to rest gently on my hand. It felt cool, strangely comforting. He absorbed ambient misery, yes, but sometimes… sometimes it felt like he was trying to take mine away, even if just for a moment.

  "Thanks, Murk," I whispered, my voice thick. "At least I've got you."

  He chimed softly, a sound barely audible over the rain.

  And then, something else became audible. A low hum, like a thousand trapped wasps. The air grew thick, tasting of ozone and something else… something dusty and dry, like forgotten libraries and brittle contracts. Directly in front of me, the rough bark of the ancient oak seemed to… waver. Like heat haze on a summer road. The wavering intensified, coalescing into a shimmering, vertical tear in reality itself. It glowed with a faint, unhealthy purple light, about six feet tall and three feet wide. A portal. Right there. In a tree.

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  I scrambled backwards, heart pounding against my ribs. Murk zipped back into the safety of my pocket like a startled shadow-eel. Portals weren't usually good news in my experience. They tended to lead to places you didn't want to go, or spit out things you really didn't want to meet.

  This time, it was the latter. Something stepped through.

  It wasn't tall, perhaps reaching my shoulder. Leathery, functional wings, like a bat's but stiffer, were folded neatly against its back. Its skin was the colour and texture of old parchment, stretched taut over sharp bones. It wore a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles perched precariously on the end of a long, pointed snout, and clutched a thick scroll sealed with black wax that dripped sluggishly, defying the rain. It wore a starched collar and tiny, precise cuffs, looking absurdly formal for someone who’d just stepped out of a magic hole in a tree.

  It peered around, its beady black eyes fixing on me huddled at the base of the oak. "Ah. Lyra Meadowlight? Progeny of Impitor Malakor and Dryadalis Phyllia?" Its voice was dry, rustling, and carried an unmistakable air of officious boredom.

  I just stared, mute.

  "Excellent," it continued, consulting a smaller, spectral checklist that shimmered into existence in its clawed hand. "Identity confirmed. Atmospheric conditions suboptimal, location rustic, subject appears… somewhat distressed. Within acceptable parameters." It ticked something off with a sharp claw.

  "Who… what are you?" I finally managed.

  "Executor, Third Class, Bexilius Quillfin," it announced crisply. "Infernal Adjudicator's Office, Department of Escheated Properties and Peculiar Bequests. We handle the loose ends, so to speak." It tapped the large scroll. "Regarding the final disposition of the assets belonging to one Morwenna Vyleleaf, deceased. Your Great-Aunt."

  Morwenna? The eccentric aunt? Deceased? My mind struggled to process. "I… I never knew her."

  "Irrelevant," Quillfin snapped, clearly impatient. "Bureaucratically, you are her closest designated kin not currently incarcerated, disintegrated, or otherwise indisposed. Ergo, the estate defaults to you. Standard procedure. We attempted contact earlier, but your… restricted status within Seventh Circle territories made direct service problematic." He sniffed, a sound like tearing paper. "Cross-jurisdictional paperwork is a nightmare."

  "Estate?" I repeated dumbly. "What estate?"

  "Ah, yes. The crux." He unfurled the large scroll with a flourish. It was covered in dense, spidery script that writhed faintly. "Whereas the aforementioned Morwenna Vyleleaf, being of marginally sound mind and negligible demonic standing, did transition to a different operational paradigm on the third cycle of the Weeping Moon…" He scanned down, muttering legalistic jargon under his breath. "...bequeaths her sole significant terrestrial asset, namely, the property known as 'The Grand Morwenna Hotel,' located at coordinates…" he waved a dismissive claw, "...somewhere exceedingly inconvenient in the mortal realm, along with all extant contents, spectral or otherwise, liens, curses, and outstanding obligations, to her Great-Niece, the aforementioned Lyra Meadowlight."

  He rolled the scroll back up with startling speed and thrust it, along with a large, incredibly ornate iron key, towards me. "Congratulations. Or condolences. Perspective varies."

  I stared at the key. It felt heavy, impossibly so, radiating a faint coldness. A hotel? A grandhotel? It sounded… impossible.

  "There's also a personal addendum," Quillfin said, producing a smaller, folded note sealed with green wax that smelled faintly of moss and ozone. "Less binding, more… sentimental. Highly irregular." He passed it over with an air of distaste.

  My fingers trembled as I broke the seal. The handwriting inside was looping, chaotic, surprisingly vibrant.

  My Dearest Lyra,

  If you're reading this, then the old place is yours. I know we never met, child, blame infernal politics and my deplorable lack of social climbing skills. But I've heard whispers of you – the girl with roots and shadows both. Like me, perhaps.

  The Grand Morwenna isn't just brick and mortar, Lyra. It's… asleep. Sad. It remembers laughter, music, light – things the Seventh Circle finds terribly gauche. It needs life breathed back into it. Not the cold, grasping 'life' our kind usually deals in, but warmth. Connection. Maybe even a bit of chaos, the good kind.

  They called me mad for loving it, for seeing potential beyond profit margins and torment quotas. They probably call you difficult for not fitting their mould. Don't listen.

  You have a unique blend, child. Shadow and leaf. Fire and earth. Only you can understand the Hotel's peculiar heart. Only you can make it bloom again, in its own strange way.

  Don't let it crumble into dust and silence. Fill it with life, Lyra. Your kind of life.

  With Fondest, if Distant, Regards,

  Your Aunt Morwenna

  Tears pricked my eyes again, but this time they felt different. Hotter, sharper. Someone… believed in me? Someone saw my mixed blood not as a defect, but as something unique, something needed?

  "Touching," Quillfin said dryly, interrupting my thoughts. "Now, if you'll just take the key, we can finalize the transfer."

  Still reeling, I reached out and took the heavy iron key. Its coldness seeped into my palm, a strange mix of dread and… something else. A spark. The tiniest ember of defiant possibility rekindling in the desolate landscape of my chest.

  The moment my fingers closed around the key, Quillfin darted forward and grabbed my arm in a surprisingly strong grip. "Procedural necessity!" he chirped. "Expedited relocation clause, subsection B."

  Before I could react, he pulled me bodily towards the shimmering portal in the tree trunk. The world dissolved into a nauseating, kaleidoscopic tumble of colour, pressure, and the smell of burnt sugar. Murk let out a silent scream of shadow in my pocket.

  Then, with a jolt that rattled my teeth, we landed. Hard. On cracked, mossy flagstones. The rain was falling here too, perhaps even harder, drumming against stone instead of leaves.

  Quillfin instantly released me, smoothing down his spectral cuffs. "There. Property delivered. Title transferred. My duties are concluded." He glanced around at our surroundings with undisguised contempt. "Frankly, if it were up to me, I'd recommend demolition. Far more efficient use of dimensional real estate. But sentimentality overrides practicality, as usual."

  He stepped back towards the portal, which still shimmered improbably against the backdrop of a towering, dark shape. "Adequate fortune to you, Miss Meadowlight. Do try not to accidentally unleash any Class Four or higher entities within the first fiscal cycle. It generates… paperwork."

  And with that, the Scroll Devil stepped back into the swirling purple light. The portal snapped shut with a sound like tearing silk, leaving behind only the rain, the gloom, and the scent of ozone fading on the damp air.

  Silence descended, broken only by the relentless drumming of the rain and the mournful sigh of the wind whistling through unseen cracks. I slowly pushed myself up, shaking, soaked to the bone, key still clutched tight in my hand. Murk cautiously peeked out of my pocket, a tiny patch of deeper darkness against my wet cloak.

  I looked up.

  And up.

  Looming before me, swallowing the grey sky, was the Hotel.

  It wasn't just grand; it was monstrous. A vast, sprawling edifice of dark stone, gothic arches, and menacing gargoyles that leered down from shadowed eaves. Multiple stories rose into the mist, punctuated by towers capped with crooked spires and balconies draped in thick, strangling ivy. Countless windows stared out like empty eyes, many shattered, others boarded haphazardly. The roof sagged in places, tiles missing like rotten teeth. A huge, ornate portico, its stone cracked and stained, sheltered a pair of massive, dark wood doors that looked like they hadn't opened in a century.

  To one side, almost hidden by overgrown, thorny bushes, a tarnished brass plaque bore heavily stylized, barely legible script:

  The Grand Morwenna Hotel

  Est. ??? - Vacancy (Eternal)

  The air felt heavy here, thick with more than just rain. It thrummed with old magic, neglect, and a profound, bone-deep loneliness that resonated with my own. My aunt wanted me to fill this place with life? It felt more likely to swallow me whole.

  Rain plastered my hair to my face. The iron key felt impossibly cold in my hand. Murk let out a low, apprehensive chime.

  And then, high above, in a window on the topmost floor, a single pane of glass, previously dark, suddenly reflected a faint, flickering light. Like a candle had just been lit in an otherwise dead house.

  Or like something inside had just woken up.