Chapter 1 - The Inn

  The inn was dying, and so was Viktor’s father.

  Viktor stood by the hearth, staring at the fmes as they flickered weakly, casting faint shadows across the empty room. The fire barely offered warmth, as though the chill inside him could never be touched. His hands, rough from endless days of scrubbing floors and mending furniture, hung limply by his sides, fingers aching from the day's bor. The pain had become his constant companion, a reminder of what was slipping through his grasp.

  It hadn’t always been like this.

  Once, the inn had been the heart of their vilge—a pce where weary travelers and merchants would stop on their way to Kampest, the capital city. Viktor could still remember the loud ughter, the clinking of mugs, and the cheerful arguments over card games that filled the common room. Wagons would creak to a halt outside, boots would stamp off mud at the doorstep, and the smell of roasting meat and spiced ale would make even the most tired traveler smile. His father’s voice—booming, welcoming, alive—had always been the loudest, echoing through the walls and making the pce feel more than just a business. It was a home, a beacon of warmth and comfort for anyone who entered.

  That was before. Before the disappearances.

  It started slowly, with a few missing faces that nobody thought much about—travelers who didn’t return, vilgers who left without notice. But then more vanished. The vilge that once thrived with the ebb and flow of trade had become haunted by silence. Streets that used to be busy with chatter and cmor now y empty, devoid of life. The merchants stopped coming, choosing safer routes, and the life of the vilge began to drain away like water from a cracked pot.

  And then his father fell ill.

  Viktor gnced toward the door to his father’s small room, where the faint sound of bored breathing mingled with the crackling fire. Aren Valen, once full of stories and ughter, now y bedridden, his strength stolen by the sickness that crept over him, just as it had taken over the vilge.

  Viktor turned back to the hearth, his fists clenching involuntarily. The inn, once a symbol of his family’s pride, now felt like a weight around his neck, dragging him down. He wasn’t ready for this. The weight of the inn, the vilge, and his father’s legacy all rested on his shoulders. His mother, worn thin with worry, did her best to keep up the routine, but she was fading too. And his younger brother, Jorin, was just a boy—too small, too innocent to bear any of this.

  How much longer could he keep this up? Viktor stared into the embers, the orange glow flickering weakly as though it, too, was ready to give up. The silence of the empty room pressed in on him, heavy and suffocating.

  With a sigh, he turned away from the fire and made his way to his father’s room. He paused at the door, his hand hovering over the knob, listening to the ragged, uneven breaths coming from inside. Slowly, he pushed it open and stepped into the dim room, the air thick with the smell of sickness and stale herbs.

  His father y there, sunken eyes barely opening as Viktor approached. A candle flickered on the table beside the bed, casting long shadows across the room. Aren’s gaze found his son, a flicker of recognition briefly lighting his tired eyes.

  “How’s the inn?” Aren rasped, his voice so soft Viktor had to strain to hear it.

  Viktor swallowed the lump in his throat, forcing a smile. It was the same question, every day. And every day, the answer was harder to say. “Quiet,” he replied, keeping his voice steady. The truth y unspoken between them. The inn wasn’t just quiet; it was dying, like everything else.

  Aren tried to shift, but the effort triggered a fit of coughing. Viktor moved quickly to steady him, his father’s frail form feeling far too light. “You shouldn’t worry about the inn,” Viktor said, though they both knew the words were hollow.

  His father’s hand shot out, gripping Viktor’s arm with surprising strength. “You must,” he whispered, his eyes fierce for just a moment. “For your mother. For Jorin. Don’t let it go... it’s all we have.”

  Viktor’s chest tightened, the weight of his father’s words pressing down on him like a physical burden. He forced himself to nod. “I won’t let it go, Father,” he said, though doubt gnawed at him. He had to say it—for his father, if no one else.

  Aren’s grip sckened, his eyes closing as exhaustion pulled him back into a restless sleep. Viktor watched him for a moment, feeling helpless, then quietly left the room, closing the door behind him.

  In the kitchen, Mar was wiping down the counter, her hands moving in a tired, mechanical rhythm. She looked up when Viktor entered, her eyes filled with a mix of hope and exhaustion.

  “He’s resting,” Viktor said, sinking into a chair at the table. He ran a hand through his hair, his mind buzzing with everything unsaid.

  Mar put down the cloth and joined him, sitting across from him. Her hands, calloused and worn, rested on the table, her shoulders slumped as though the weight of the world was pressing down on her too.

  “Your father worries,” she said softly.

  “He always does,” Viktor muttered, rubbing his temples. “But he’s right.”

  Mar sighed, her gaze dropping. “We’ve been through worse,” she said, though her voice trembled, betraying her fear.

  Viktor shook his head. “I don’t think we have, Ma. The vilge... it’s emptying. The inn isn’t what it used to be. No one’s coming anymore. It’s like the nd itself is... cursed.”

  Mar gnced at him, her eyes narrowing. “Hush, Vik. We have enough problems to deal with. No need to think of more things to worry about.”

  Viktor frowned. “Secrets... or curses. Whatever it is, it’s choking the life out of us.”

  Mar’s lips pressed together, the silence settling heavy between them. She reached across the table, pcing her hand over Viktor’s, her touch warm despite the chill in the room.

  “Vik,” Mar began hesitantly, “I... think I see what you mean. I saw Mrs. Hallow today. She was out by the well, drawing water.”

  Viktor frowned, his voice ced with disbelief. “Mrs. Hallow? I thought they left weeks ago.”

  Mar shook her head, her eyes downcast. “No, they stayed. She said she and her husband can’t afford to leave, not with nowhere to go. She looked... tired. The same way we feel.”

  “Everyone’s tired, Ma. The whole vilge is falling apart,” Viktor said, his voice edged with frustration. “We’re all trapped here, like the forest and the mountains won’t let us go.”

  Mar’s face tightened. “We’re still here together as a family. That has to mean something.”

  Viktor breathed a deep sigh filled with stress and gnced out the window.

  Jorin entered then, two mugs in hand, and Mar was close behind, wiping her hands on her apron as she watched them.

  “Got room for one more?” Jorin asked, raising a mug toward Viktor.

  Viktor nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

  Jorin slid into the chair beside him, handing over one of the mugs. Mar leaned against the counter, folding her arms as she observed the two of them, a slight smile tugging at her lips.

  “The Chocomelt is still hot,” Jorin added, as if the warmth in the cup was enough to thaw the chill in the room.

  They sat in silence for a moment, sipping, the quiet hanging between them.

  “You remember that storm st spring?” Jorin asked suddenly, breaking the stillness.

  Viktor looked at him, furrowing his brow. “Which storm?”

  “The big one,” Jorin said, eyes lighting up. “The one that flooded the roads and trapped those merchants here for a couple of days.”

  “Oh yeah,” Viktor said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “The ones headed to Kampest, right?”

  Jorin nodded eagerly. “Yeah, they taught us that card game—Three Crowns or something.”

  Viktor chuckled. “Father loved that game. He couldn’t stop pying, won almost every round.”

  Mar stepped closer, pulling out a chair but not sitting down. “He had the whole room in stitches that night,” she said, her voice soft. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him ugh that hard.”

  Jorin grinned. “He kept saying it was all skill.”

  “Yeah, right,” Viktor muttered. “He just loved messing with people, knew how to read them before they even made a move.”

  Mar ughed quietly. “He didn’t care about the game. He cared about making sure everyone felt welcome.”

  “Exactly,” Jorin said, leaning back. “He always made the inn feel... I don’t know, like a second home. No matter who you were or where you came from, it felt like you belonged here. Even when times were tough, he made everyone feel like they had a pce.”

  Viktor looked down at his mug, a shadow of a smile on his lips. “Yeah, he was good at that. Made it seem like all the problems outside didn’t matter when you were inside these walls.”

  Mar nodded, her eyes distant. “He had a gift. He made people forget their troubles, if only for a while. That’s why the inn was always full, why people kept coming back. It wasn’t just about the food or the warmth; it was about the feeling of being part of something.”

  Jorin smiled wistfully. “I miss that. I miss the ughter and the stories. Remember that one traveler who always talked about the sea monsters of the North Sea?”

  Viktor chuckled. "Yeah, I remember.' He always had a way of keeping everyone hooked, even if most of what he said sounded like tall tales."

  Mar’s smile grew a little wider. “He knew how to entertain, though. And your father—he always encouraged it. He wanted this pce to be more than just a stop on the road. He wanted it to be a pce where people could truly rest.”

  Viktor’s expression softened, his eyes gncing toward the window.