Brewing Trouble at the Emberwood Inn

The cobble stone streets of Cindermarket bustled with life and the air was thick with the aromas of spiced pastries, sizzling meats, and woodsmoke from countless hearths. Merchants shouted over one another, hawking everything from exotic fabrics to enchanted trinkets, while performers juggled flaming torches to the delight of small crowds. The town pulsed with energy as preparations for the Lanternflare Festival reached a fever pitch.

The letter had arrived without fanfare—a formal notification of her uncle's death, coupled with instructions on how to claim her inheritance: the Emberwood Inn. The rest of its contents were unremarkable, save for the small pouch of coins that accompanied it. Not enough to start a new life outright, but enough to keep her from turning back. Barely.

She paused at the edge of the bustling market, letting the chaos of the festival swirl around her. A baker's stall nearby wafted the scent of warm pastries into the cool air, making her stomach twist with longing. She hadn't eaten properly since leaving the last village, but there was no time for indulgence. Coins were hard to come by, and her destination loomed like a heavy cloud on the horizon.

Her eyes drifted to the crumpled letter in her hand, the paper soft and worn from constant handling. She unfolded it again, though she could recite its contents from memory. The Emberwood Inn lies at the edge of the Cindermarket. It's yours now.

Yours now. The phrase curled bitterly in her thoughts. It sounded more like a warning than a gift and standing here, surrounded by life and laughter she couldn't seem to touch, a small part of her whispered that this might be another cruel twist of fate.

What could possibly be waiting for her that would make this journey worth it?

She adjusted her bag with a wince, the strap digging into her sore shoulder. Her boots were scuffed and caked with dust, the soles thin from miles of uneven roads. She hadn't dared stop longer than necessary—there had been no one to meet her halfway, no one waiting to make the journey easier.

There hadn't been anyone at all since her mother's death. The thought made her chest tighten, but she shook it off, forcing herself to focus. One more turn, one more street. The inn would be there. And when she found it, she would rest.

As she navigated the crowded streets, her thoughts churned. She barely remembered her uncle—a distant, brooding figure from childhood, shrouded in stories of failed ventures and bad debts. Why leave the inn to her? The question gnawed at her, but no amount of speculation could produce answers. Not yet, at least.

Turning down a quieter alley, she paused, the clamor of the market fading behind her. There it was: the Emberwood Inn.

As Meralyth reached the sagging building, her fingers brushed the rough hem of her cloak, calloused and cracked from years of learning her mother's trade. Her mother's voice floated through her memory, calm and firm, as it had been on the days she'd handed Meralyth a hammer and made her fix what she'd broken.

Nothing's ruined, not really. If you've got your hands and your wits, you've got enough. The memory tugged at her, settling over her shoulders like the weight of her bag. Her mother's lessons had shaped her, had carried her through the leanest years after her mother was gone. She let out a quiet breath and looked up at the crumbling shutters and faded sign. This inn wasn't ruined, not yet. She just needed her hands and her wits.

And maybe, she thought, biting her lip as she pushed the door open, a miracle or two.

The groan of the heavy door gave way to a hollow silence as Meralyth stepped inside. The air was stale, cool, and thick with the faint scent of mildew and ash. Dust hung in lazy motes, catching the dim light filtering through crooked shutters. She tightened her grip on her travel bag and glanced around, taking in the neglected state of the room.

The inn's main hall was vast but eerily quiet. Wooden tables lay scattered across the floor, some overturned, their surfaces marred with scratches and water rings. A cold hearth dominated one wall, its soot-streaked bricks framing a pile of damp ashes. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, pooling under the sagging beams of the ceiling.

Her stomach sank, but she squared her shoulders. "It's not much," she muttered under her breath, "but I suppose neither am I."

Meralyth shifted uneasily, her footsteps echoing in the emptiness as she crossed the room. Her eyes scanned the details: cobwebs stretched across the corners, shards of glass glinted near the base of an empty lantern, and faint scuffs on the floor hinted at furniture that had been moved—or hastily abandoned.

She exhaled sharply. "It's not a disaster…" she muttered, setting her bag down near the bar, "but it's close."

Her eyes drifted toward the staircase at the far end of the room, its wooden steps drooping under years of neglect. A faint, flickering hope stirred in her chest—perhaps the rooms upstairs would be better than this. She imagined a soft bed, warm blankets, maybe even a window that didn't leak the chill of the night.

It wasn't much to ask, was it? But the thought crumbled as quickly as it formed. If the state of the main hall was any indication, those rooms would be no better. Dust and grime would cling to every surface, and who knew what else might have taken residence in her absence. Even if by some miracle one of the beds was usable, she doubted she'd feel any less cold or any more welcome.

Besides, she thought, biting her lip, there was no sense dirtying something she'd just have to clean tomorrow. The whole place would need more than a little effort to bring it back to life. No, the rooms could wait. She wasn't about to waste time or energy fussing over luxuries she couldn't afford, not now.

She turned away from the stairs, already bracing herself for the night ahead. A pallet would have to do. It wasn't like she hadn't slept on worse before.

Her gaze fell to the bar itself—a long, weathered counter of dark wood, its surface scarred with knife marks and burns. Behind it, rows of empty shelves stood as a testament to better days. She reached out, running her hand over the grain of the wood, habitually testing its sturdiness. The bar groaned slightly under the pressure but held.

Something caught her eye—a small, locked drawer tucked beneath the counter. It was out of place among the otherwise open and exposed shelves. Meralyth crouched, brushing away cobwebs and dirt as she inspected the lock.

"Locked, of course," she murmured, fishing a small hairpin from her pocket. She twisted the pin deftly, her fingers nimble from years of fidgeting with tools during her mother's carpentry lessons. A satisfying click followed, and the drawer creaked open.

Inside was a folded letter, its parchment yellowed with age. Meralyth's brow furrowed as she unfolded it, her eyes skimming over the slanted handwriting.

"Meralyth,

If you're reading this, it means I'm gone and your just as clever as I ever hoped you be. This place is yours now. The Emberwood Inn holds more than you know—more than anyone knows. Trust no one but Cassian. The forge must remain hidden, no matter the cost. If they find it, everything I worked to protect will be undone.

You'll find your way, I'm sure of it. Take care of the inn, and it will take care of you.

—Eryndor"

Meralyth's stomach tightened as her eyes flicked back to the words "trust no one but Cassian" and "the forge." Her uncle's voice echoed faintly in her memory, though she could barely recall his face. Who was Cassian? Why leave her the inn? And what was the forge? The cryptic message offered no immediate answers, only more questions.

She folded the letter carefully and tucked it into her bag, her mind buzzing with possibilities. Standing, she dusted off her hands and glanced around the room again. The shadows seemed deeper now, the silence heavier. Whatever her uncle had meant, it was clear she wasn't just inheriting a building.

The inn held secrets. And those secrets were now her responsibility. She glanced around the dim room, imagining it as it might have been once—full of laughter, warmth, and light. A haven for travelers and adventurers. It wasn't just an inheritance; it was a challenge to restore something worth remembering.

The scrape of her boots against the dusty wooden floor was the only sound in the dimly lit room as Meralyth moved to retrieve her travel bag. Her fingers brushed the worn leather strap, but she froze mid-motion. A faint creak from behind her—subtle, deliberate—shattered the silence.

"You've barely been here two minutes , and you're already picking locks?" The voice was smooth, tinged with dry amusement, and came from the doorway to the hall.

Meralyth spun around, her heart leaping to her throat. A man leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, with a faint smirk tugging at his lips. His dark brown hair fell in disheveled waves around his sharp features, and his green eyes glinted with a mixture of curiosity and calculation.

Instinctively, her fingers gripped the strap of her bag like a lifeline. "Who are you?" she demanded, forcing her voice to remain steady despite her racing pulse.

The man straightened, his movements unnervingly fluid, and took a slow step into the room. "Cassian," he said simply. "I'm guessing that makes you Meralyth."

She stiffened at the sound of her name. "How do you know that?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

Cassian tilted his head, gesturing faintly toward her bag. "Lucky guess. Or maybe it's the letter sticking out of your pocket with your name on it." He leaned slightly closer, his smirk deepening. "Though I'll admit, I expected someone… different."

Meralyth's fingers instinctively tucked the letter deeper into her bag. She didn't like the way he studied her, as though peeling back layers she hadn't offered to reveal. "Are you squatting here?" she shot back. "Because if you are, you're going to have to leave."

Cassian chuckled softly, a low sound that grated on her nerves. "Squatting? Hardly. I've been running this place—or what's left of it—since before your uncle passed. I'm the bartender, though I suppose the title feels a little hollow when there's no one left to serve."

"Convenient," she muttered, crossing her arms. "And why would you stay after my uncle died?"

Cassian's smirk faltered slightly, replaced by a flicker of something more guarded. "Loyalty," he said after a pause. "He trusted me to keep things running, or at least to keep an eye on the place." His gaze shifted, landing briefly on the drawer she had pried open. "Though I doubt he'd approve of you digging through his things."

Meralyth bristled, unwilling to let him take control of the conversation. "Well, it's my inn now, isn't it? That makes it my drawer."

Cassian shrugged, unbothered by her retort. "Fair enough," he said, moving behind the bar. "I suppose that means the mess is yours to clean up, too."

Meralyth's irritation flared. "Are you always this charming, or is it just my lucky day?"

Cassian met her glare with an unapologetic smile, though his tone softened. "You'll find I'm full of surprises, Meralyth. But here's something you should know—this place has rules. And right now, I'm in the middle of a meeting." He motioned toward the hallway behind him. "Do us both a favor and don't interrupt."

Without waiting for a response, he turned and disappeared into the shadows of the back hallway.

Meralyth stood there, her jaw tight as frustration and curiosity warred within her. His cryptic remarks gnawed at her, intertwining with the unanswered questions from her uncle's letter. Trust no one but Cassian. The phrase rang hollow in her ears as she looked around the empty inn.

For now, she had no choice but to start cleaning—and to decide if her uncle's trust in Cassian was well-placed or a mistake.

Meralyth leaned back on her heels, wiping a streak of grime from her forehead. Her arms ached from scrubbing the bar's surface, which was finally free of its sticky residue, though its deep scars remained. She glared at the overturned chairs and dusty tables scattered around the room, a sinking feeling settling in her stomach.

"This is impossible," she muttered, dropping the rag onto the counter with a dull thud. "Who leaves someone a wreck like this and calls it an inheritance?"

The sound of muffled voices drifted from the hallway Cassian had disappeared into earlier. She had been trying to ignore it—focusing instead on cleaning and making sense of her situation—but now it pulled at her attention. He'd mentioned a meeting. A meeting about what? The inn wasn't exactly teeming with customers or staff.

Meralyth's frustration bubbled over. She straightened and brushed her hands off on her already-dirty cloak. "If this place is supposed to be mine, then I have every right to know what's going on," she told herself, her voice firm even if her resolve wavered slightly.

Before she could second-guess herself, she crossed the room quietly, her boots barely making a sound on the worn floorboards. The closer she got to the hallway, the clearer the voices became—low and calm but laced with tension. She hesitated for only a moment before stepping into the shadowed corridor.

A door near the end of the hallway was ajar, faint light spilling into the darkened space. Meralyth pressed herself against the wall and crept closer, her pulse quickening as the voices grew distinct.

Cassian's voice was steady, calm, and deliberate. "Neutrality zones like the Emberwood Inn are non-negotiable. That's what the Bloodmoon Accord ensures. If you think otherwise, take it up with someone who cares."

Another voice responded, low and gravelly, its tone dripping with disdain. "You can't keep this place hidden forever, Cassian. Sooner or later, someone will expose it—and you along with it."

Meralyth's breath hitched as she crouched lower, her ear straining to catch every word.

Expose what?

Cassian's voice darkened, a quiet authority cutting through the tension. "The forge stays protected. That's not a discussion. And I suggest you remember where you stand before you make threats you can't back up."

The other voice snorted. "For now. But it won't stay this way. Not with her here."

Her?

The faint scrape of a chair echoed through the room, and Meralyth's stomach twisted. The meeting was ending, and she needed to get out of sight. Scrambling silently, she retreated down the hallway, her boots barely making a sound as she ducked into a small alcove near the storeroom.

Moments later, Cassian stepped into the hallway, his expression unreadable as he escorted the cloaked figure toward the exit. The figure didn't glance in her direction, its boots scuffing lightly against the floor as it disappeared into the shadows of the inn.

Meralyth held her breath, pressing herself further into the alcove, heart pounding against her ribs. She dared to hope Cassian hadn't noticed her. His gaze swept briefly across the hallway, his face betraying nothing, before he turned to follow the figure.

Just as he passed her hiding spot, his hand shot out, gripping her wrist firmly. Meralyth gasped, her instincts screaming to yank away, but his grip was steady and unrelenting.

He pulled her out of the darkness with a calm precision, his green eyes locking onto hers with a mix of irritation and faint amusement. "I warned you not to interrupt," he said quietly, his tone sharp but devoid of anger. "Listening to things you don't understand isn't just rude—it's dangerous."

Meralyth scowled, trying to pull her arm free, but Cassian's hold remained firm. "If this place is mine, I have every right to know what's going on."

Cassian leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, warning tone. "You might own the deed, but you don't own the secrets. Not yet," he said, his tone softening as if in reluctant acknowledgment. "Secrets demand more than curiosity—they demand sacrifice. Be sure you're ready for the cost." His gaze flicked to the main room before releasing her wrist and straightening. "Now, why don't you stick to cleaning and leave the rest to me?"

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and strode down the hallway, disappearing into the shadows once more.

Meralyth stood frozen for a moment, her pulse racing and her mind buzzing with a mix of fury and confusion. You don't own the secrets. Not yet. The words gnawed at her, tangled with everything else she'd overheard.

Her glare lingered on the hallway where Cassian had disappeared. "We'll see about that," she muttered, dragging an overturned chair upright with a loud scrape. Her muscles burned from the effort, but she welcomed the ache—it grounded her, reminding her of the countless days she'd spent repairing and rebuilding after everything fell apart. If Cassian wanted her to prove herself, she'd start here, with the mess her uncle left behind.

The weight of his cryptic warning settled heavily in the silence, but frustration soon gave way to resolve. If she couldn't get answers from him now, she could at least focus on what she could control. Squaring her shoulders, Meralyth picked up another chair. The inn was hers, secrets or not, and if Cassian wasn't going to share the whole story, she'd prove she didn't need him to.

She threw herself into the task with grim determination, each stroke of the cloth channeling her irritation. Dust swirled in the lamplight as her movements grew sharper, her jaw tight with defiance.

By the time she sank back onto her heels, her breath fogging faintly in the cooling air of the room, the light filtering through the shutters had faded into deep twilight, casting the inn in long, shifting shadows. The front room was finally clean—or at least no longer an outright disaster.

She glanced at the few tables she'd managed to repair with supplies she found in the storeroom: mismatched nails, splintered planks, and a rusted hammer that should have been retired years ago. The tables wouldn't win any awards for craftsmanship, but they stood upright, and that was enough for now.

Her arms ached, her hands raw from scrubbing and sanding. She dropped into a chair, exhaling deeply. The emptiness of the inn pressed against her as she surveyed her handiwork. There was still so much to do, but for now, the silence felt oppressive, as though the walls themselves held their breath.

Shaking off the unease, she gathered her bag and made her way toward the back hallway. She'd spotted an empty storage room earlier, its shelves lined with old linens, forgotten tools, and crates of dubious contents.

The door creaked as she pushed it open, revealing the cramped, chilly room. Her eyes landed on a solitary lantern, its metal tarnished and wick buried in soot. With practiced hands, she lit it, the tiny flame flaring briefly before settling into a fragile dance. The light struggled against the draft that whispered through the cracked stone, leaving the room dimly illuminated, more shadow than warmth.

Meralyth rummaged through the shelves, unearthing a threadbare blanket that smelled faintly of must and lavender. She wrinkled her nose but held onto it, folding it over her arm as she continued her search.

Her eyes fell on a half-empty crate tucked in the corner, its wooden slats bowed with age. She pulled it forward, finding a few moth-eaten cushions and a stack of coarse linens. With a resigned sigh, she arranged her finds into a makeshift bed on the floor, spreading the blanket on top. It wasn't much, but it would do.

"Luxury accommodations, courtesy of the Emberwood Inn," she muttered, eyeing the lumpy cushions.

Meralyth sat down heavily, her travel bag settling beside her. She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, its frayed edges a poor defense against the creeping chill. The bag doubled as a pillow as she lay back, her gaze fixed on the dim ceiling above.

The day's events replayed in her mind—the cryptic letter, Cassian's frustratingly evasive demeanor, the voices in the hallway. And the forge. The word loomed in her thoughts, carrying a weight she couldn't yet grasp. It felt hot even in memory, like embers sparking beneath her skin. If it was worth hiding, what kind of danger had she inherited?

She shifted, the cushions beneath her hard. Her mother's voice echoed faintly in her memory. There's always a way forward, Meralyth. You just have to look for it.

Her throat tightened as she squeezed her eyes shut. "I'll make this work," she whispered to the dark, her voice barely audible. "I have to."

The lantern sputtered once before extinguishing completely, plunging the room into darkness. Meralyth pulled her cloak tighter, it doing little to ward off the cold.

Sleep came slowly, her mind circling the same restless questions—the cryptic letter, Cassian's evasiveness, the threat-laden voices in the hallway. And the forge. Her mother's voice whispered faintly, echoing old lessons.

The hardest battles forge the strongest hearts.

But what kind of battle had her uncle left her to fight?

And who else was willing to strike first to claim the prize?