The iron key felt like a block of ice in my palm, heavy with the weight of neglect and unwanted responsibility. Rain dripped from my sodden cloak, pooling around my worn boots on the cracked flagstones before the imposing double doors of The Grand Morwenna Hotel. Murk pulsed anxiously in my pocket, a tiny knot of sympathetic dread. Taking a deep breath that tasted mostly of damp stone and old decay, I jammed the key into the enormous, ornate lock.

  It turned with a tortured screech of protesting metal, the sound echoing unnervingly in the pre-dawn gloom. Bracing myself, I pushed. The huge door groaned inwards, resisting at first, then swinging open into darkness with surprising momentum, like a sighing giant finally giving way.

  I stepped across the threshold, and the relentless drumming of the rain immediately softened, replaced by a vast, echoing silence. The air inside was thick, cool, and layered with smells: dry dust measured in centuries, the papery scent of old wood and decaying velvet, a faint, surprisingly sweet undertone like dried flowers, and beneath it all, the metallic tang of stagnant magic.

  My eyes adjusted slowly. I stood in what must have been the main lobby. It was enormous. A vaulted ceiling soared high above, lost in shadow, from which hung the skeletal remains of what might have once been a magnificent chandelier, now draped in cobwebs thick as funeral shrouds. A wide staircase swept upwards into darkness on one side, its banister carved with elaborate, flower-like shapes, though several posts were missing or broken. Dust motes danced in the faint grey light filtering through a tall, arched window grime had rendered nearly opaque. Furniture huddled under ghostly white sheets, their shapes suggesting plump armchairs and elegant tables. Everything spoke of vanished grandeur, now surrendered to time and silence.

  And loneliness. The sheer scale of the emptiness pressed in on me. It felt… hollowed out. Sad.

  Then I heard it. Or rather, felt it. A faint sound, less than a whisper, like the tail end of a long, mournful sigh, seeming to emanate from the very walls around me. It feathered against my skin, raising goosebumps despite the chill. I froze, straining my ears, hood still pulled low. Nothing. Just the whisper of wind finding its way through unseen cracks, and the frantic thumping of my own heart.

  Murk pressed against the fabric of my pocket, a small, solid weight. Just the building settling, I told myself, though the feeling lingered, like a breath held too long. Old places make noises.

  Trying to shake off the unease, I took a few more steps inside, my boots crunching softly on the dusty floorboards. My gaze fell on a thick, woody vine, as thick as my arm, coiled around one of the massive stone pillars supporting the vaulted ceiling. Unlike the vigorous ivy outside, this one was clearly dying. Its leaves were brown and brittle, crumbling at a touch, its tendrils limp and lifeless against the cold stone. It looked ancient, desiccated, like it had given up long ago.

  A pang went through me, sharp and unexpected. Not just sympathy, but a deeper resonance, a familiar ache. My Dryad half, usually suppressed beneath layers of cynicism and demonic practicality, stirred. Without thinking, I reached out, my gloved fingers hovering just above the dry, cracked bark.

  Closing my eyes, I drew on the spark within me, the ember my Great-Aunt Morwenna had somehow sensed. It was a fragile thing, often ignored, but it was there. I focused, pulling not on infernal energies, but on the faint pulse of life that even this neglected place must still hold deep within its foundations, mixing it with my own strange, half-breed vitality. A faint warmth spread from my palm, tingling up my arm. Beneath my touch, I felt a flicker, a tiny, hesitant thrum within the vine’s woody heart.

  A soft, emerald light bled from my hand, bathing the pillar in a gentle glow. I urged the dormant life within the vine, whispering wordless encouragement. Live. Just a little. You don't have to give up yet.

  Slowly, tentatively, one of the brittle brown leaves at the very tip of a desiccated tendril began to shift. Colour seeped back into it, transforming from parched brown to a pale, hopeful green. The tendril itself seemed to gain substance, straightening almost imperceptibly. And then, miraculously, a single, tightly furled bud near my hand swelled, trembled, and unfurled into a delicate, five-petaled flower the colour of pale moonlight, releasing a faint, sweet fragrance into the dusty air.

  It wasn't much. A single bloom on a dying giant. But warmth flooded my chest, a fierce, protective joy. I’d done something. Connected with this place, even in this tiny way. Murk pulsed softly in my pocket, a curious, less mournful rhythm than usual. Maybe he liked the change in atmosphere.

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  The quiet moment of connection was shattered by a sudden, loud squawk from outside, followed by frantic clattering and then a loud, booming voice that echoed even through the thick wooden doors.

  "HELLO? IS THIS PLACE OPEN? ANYONE HOME? VACANCY?" BANG, BANG, BANG went a fist – or possibly a head – against the door.

  I jumped, startled, the green light around my hand flickering out. My usual wariness slammed back into place. Humans. Loud humans. Usually bad news. Murk zipped deeper into my pocket.

  Keeping to the shadows near the pillar, I crept towards the door, peering through a grimy section of the tall window beside it.

  What I saw made me blink. Standing in the relentless rain was a young man – barely more than a boy – looking utterly harried. He was clad in what appeared to be… wooden armour? Seriously? It was crudely fashioned, like someone had ambitiously tried to carve a full plate suit out of oak planks and leather straps. Several sections were noticeably scorched, as if he’d recently had a disagreement with a bonfire. Water streamed off his helmet, which sported a slightly singed, drooping feather plume.

  Beside him stood his steed, and it wasn’t a horse. It was a large, thoroughly unimpressed white ostrich, currently attempting to peck irritably at a loose strap on the boy’s wooden greave. Its long neck craned around, surveying the decaying hotel facade with blatant skepticism.

  The boy hammered on the door again, his voice tinged with desperation. "Please! Is anyone there? I really, really need a room! Or… or just somewhere to hide for a bit!"

  Hide? My curiosity warred with my instinct to bolt the door and pretend the entire building was, in fact, eternally vacant as the sign suggested. Sighing inwardly, knowing I couldn't just leave him banging out there indefinitely – it might attract worse attention – I pulled the door open a crack, keeping my face deep in the shadow of my hood.

  "We're closed," I said, my voice deliberately rough.

  The boy jumped, startled, peering into the darkness. "Oh! You are here! Thank goodness! Look, I know it doesn't look open, but I'm in a bit of a… situation. Name's Pip! Pip Willowisp, Knight Errant… well, sort of. And this is Bartholomew." He gestured vaguely towards the ostrich, who let out another disgruntled squawk. "We just need a place to lie low for a night. Two, tops! Anywhere! A stable? A cellar? That slightly-less-collapsed-looking shed I saw round back?" His eyes were wide, earnest, and frankly, a little panicked.

  I eyed his singed wooden armour, the skittish ostrich, the sheer youthful chaos radiating from him. "Lie low from what?"

  "Ah, well," Pip stammered, shuffling his feet. "Minor misunderstanding. Involving… uh… civic property. And possibly a hay wagon. And a rather territorial goose. It's complicated! But I swear, I'm harmless! Mostly."

  Tempting as it was to hear the full story, I couldn't afford complications. "Listen, kid. This place isn't just closed, it's practically falling down. It's not fit for guests. It's probably not fit for ghosts, though I'm reserving judgement on that one. There's no food, no water, probably no roof that doesn't leak like a sieve. You're better off finding a ditch." My own recent experience echoed bitterly.

  Pip’s face fell, his hopeful expression crumbling. He looked genuinely desperate. Bartholomew the ostrich nudged his shoulder, as if in commiseration. "But… but there's nowhere else nearby! And they might still be looking!" He looked back at the hotel, then at me, his eyes pleading. "Look, I don't have much coin, practically none, but I'm good with my hands! I can fix things! Woodwork's my specialty!" He puffed up his chest slightly, trying to look capable despite the scorched armour. "I noticed your door hinge is looking a bit rusty? And that bottom step is definitely loose. I could fix those right up for you! As… uh… payment?"

  My gaze drifted from his earnest face, past the huge, groaning door he was referring to, and into the vast, dilapidated lobby behind me. I saw the water stains blooming on the ceiling far above, the missing banister posts on the grand staircase, the general air of profound structural malaise. Then I looked back at Pip, this boy in his singed wooden suit, offering to fix a hinge. A sudden, slightly hysterical image flashed through my mind: Pip, armed with a small whittling knife and fierce determination, attempting to shore up a collapsing load-bearing beam, or trying to patch the gaping holes in the roof with leftover bits of his charred pauldrons while Bartholomew offered helpful pecks.

  The absurdity of it almost made me laugh, a rusty, unused sound. Yet… he was offering help. And the hotel did need… well, everything. And that single, defiant flower I’d coaxed from the vine suddenly seemed very small and lonely in the gloom.

  Pip shivered, pulling his damp, wooden shoulders together. Bartholomew let out a soft, questioning gurgle. They both looked thoroughly miserable and completely out of options. Just like me, not twelve hours ago.

  Behind me, deep within the silent heart of the hotel, I thought I heard it again – that faint, almost inaudible sigh. This time, it felt less like sadness, and more like… anticipation?

  I looked at Pip, then back into the shadows of the Grand Morwenna. My aunt’s words echoed in my head. Fill it with life, Lyra. Your kind of life. Was this how it started? With a bumbling boy-knight in wooden armour and a grumpy ostrich seeking refuge?

  It was madness. Utter, complete madness.

  But then again, so was inheriting a haunted hotel via demonic courier.

  I gripped the edge of the heavy door, the cold metal biting into my skin. The rain continued its relentless downpour. Pip watched me, hope flickering back into his eyes.