The two girls stared at him with a tired, ready-to-go-home fog in their eyes, so Dain reacted on instinct.

  He dipped his head, forced his voice down into his boots, and rumbled, ‘Evening,’ like a man twice his height would.

  Then he shoved his key into his lock and slipped inside before the girls could stare any longer.

  … Why’d I say anything at all?

  Now he’d have to keep that ridiculous gravel-voice up if he ran into them again. He rubbed his face, sighed, and decided future Dain could wrestle that hydra.

  I don’t think they know who I am, though, so… whatever.

  His bedroom was exactly what he expected for the price of a bilefrost gland: one bed with a patched quilt on the right, one sturdy desk before the window in front of him, and one simple closet on his left. An overhead lantern hung on a hook, which could be taken down and placed on the desk if he wanted to do some studying.

  Honestly, for eight hundred curons, he’d expected something a little better, but he supposed the view made up for everything. His window was east-facing, and standing behind it now, he could see the roofs of Granamere spreading out before extending out as the Elderhush Forest, and then he could see the foggy, metal-covered mountains rising around the town.

  Tomorrow morning, sunlight would bounce off those metallic faces and spear him right through the eyelids. He’d take that. Waking up with natural sunlight was better than the alarm bell relic he’d used back in Corvalenne.

  First things first.

  Hide.

  He unshouldered his Altar and immediately hesitated. Closet? Under the desk? No, that was probably too obvious. He crouched, lifted the mattress, and kept it propped up with his knee while he slid the Altar under the foot of his bed.

  Next, he emptied his satchel into the desk drawers in careful piles: mosses, herbs, and mints went into this drawer, centipede meat and chitin plates went into the one under that, and the rest of the miscellaneous material he scattered wherever still had space. Wenna or some other innkeep was most definitely to come in to clean every once in a while, so seeing magic materials in a merchant’s room would only confirm his backstory.

  With that, he turned back to the bed.

  Fluffy. Warm-looking. He fell on it face-first and sank with a grunt. The mattress breathed up the day’s cold and sweat and instantly forgave him, and for a foolish second he expected Corvalenne’s scents—pine soap, Aunt Renna’s pepper spice, and fresh sawdust—but of course this bed smelled like someone else’s life.

  He stared into the quilt stitching until it blurred.

  Traveling will be a lot of getting used to new beds, huh?

  Better get used to it quickly, then.

  And he’d be happy to just fall asleep now, but his stomach protested with a low growl.

  … Right.

  No breakfast and lunch.

  He rolled off the bed, smoothed his tunic, made sure his paper wrappings weren’t screaming for attention, and crept downstairs.

  The tavern was still quiet and dead as a chapel. The hearth had a soft warm glow, and the lanterns did their best to pretend at company, but there were still only three people down here: Wenna behind the counter, still polishing her glasses to death, and the two adventurers he’d bumped into earlier sitting around a small round table, eating plates of turnip mash and crusted meat with a side of gravy.

  He glanced at them as he made his way to the counter. The older girl of the two was hard to ignore: tall, broad-shouldered, and built like Obric miners, though she was dressed in adventuring garb that almost passed for a maid’s attire. It had the frilled sleeves and the apron strings of service clothes, except reinforced with leather seams and pale patches at the elbows and waist. Her long black braid also ran down her back like a heavy rope, and her swordstaff leaned against her chair within an easy hand’s reach.

  Eighteen, nineteen, maybe? Can't be that much older than me.

  In contrast, the younger girl was almost a perfect counterpart. She couldn’t be more than Dain’s own height, and was dressed in proper adventurer garbs with long trousers, long sleeves, and boots and belts and some basic leather armor around the joints. He’d say she looked like an actual adventurer, but her long and wavy black hair decorated with silver pins really stood out—that, and the fact that she didn’t seem to have any relics on her.

  Looking at them now, he had no idea why they were even out there in the Elderhush Forest today.

  “... Evening,” he said, taking the corner stool at the counter and folding one arm on the wood. “Can I have—”

  “Just sit tight,” Wenna said without glancing up. “Dinner’ll be served in a bit.”

  He let a grin tug at one side of his mouth as he looked around the empty tavern. “So much for ‘high demand,’ innkeep.”

  “Keep that attitude up and I’ll charge you extra.” Then she vanished into the back kitchen. Ten seconds later, she came back out and slid a plate across the counter. It was the same dish the two girls were eating: a thick slice of crusted meat with gravy and turnip mash. “What happened to Corvalenne scared off most of my regulars. Folks are going home and barring their doors. The only outsiders left in Granamere are you and those two.”

  As Wenna resumed her polishing, he picked up the fork on the side of the plate and dug in. The meat was something between a mountain goat and ‘does it matter I’m starving’, but the gravy was actually quite respectable. It even had a taste of some mineral in it. Not that he really cared. Food was food, and he was positively starving.

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  While he scarfed down his dinner, a voice outside cut through the chew.

  “News! Corvalenne news! Fresh prints off pigeon-post! Come and see, come and see!”

  He glanced over his shoulder, spoon halfway to his mouth. A newsboy with half a dozen Implement-Class bronze pigeon constructs had set up shop around the water fountain, trying to sell newsletters to anyone passing by.

  Dain swallowed another mouthful of meat, licked gravy from his thumb, and kept his voice easy.

  “So,” he said casually, “what happened to Corvalenne, anyways? What’s the border army figured out so far?”

  Wenna set the glass down with a soft click and reached for the next. “I don't know much.”

  “You’re not a very good innkeep, then.”

  “And you’re not very bright, merchant, if you think news would reach Granamere anytime soon even if the border army did figure anything out,” she shot back. “We’re just a small border town. You want news around the bell? Go further east to Braskir. You’re sure to drown in news there.”

  Before Dain could press back, one of the two girls behind him spoke up.

  “That’s right,” she slurred. “Information won’t reach Granamere quickly at all, which means if there’s anything people here need to know, they’ll learn it when it’s too late to run away. That’s why we’ve gotta investigate it ourselves.”

  He glanced over. It was the younger one with the wavy black hair who spoke, but now she had a pink flush high on her cheeks and a cup clutched in both hands.

  Can’t hold her liquor, huh?

  While the older girl murmured calm things and failed to tamp the younger one’s spark, Dain let his gaze stray to the swordstaff again. The stone shaft was scarred, but the blade was gleaming bright silver. He wouldn’t have guessed it if he hadn’t already seen it in action back in the forest, but it was an earth-type Elementum-Class relic.

  And how would an amateur adventurer have access to an Elementum-Class relic?

  Unless…

  He filed his notion with a crack of his neck, and then he gave them his best, easiest smile over his shoulder.

  “Curious pair,” he said lightly. “And what do you think’s gonna happen to Corvalenne?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” The younger girl lifted her chin and slurred with the solemnity of a judge. “The Obric Border Army will report that Corvalenne was destroyed by Auraline themselves so they can blame Obric for the attack. After all, if Obric is called the aggressor, the Curator Church won’t name Auraline the first striker and interfere. In the worst case scenario, the Curator Church might even—” she hiccuped, “—ally with Auraline to ‘restore order’ and sit on Obric.”

  Wenna’s polishing slowed. Dain’s fork paused half an inch above the gravy, and he kept his voice pleasant. “That’s a bold claim, little miss. How would you know the Obric Border Army didn’t actually sink Corvalenne, though?”

  “Because they didn’t.”

  “Are you sure? I heard people say they heard the earth rumbling around the hours when Corvalenne was destroyed. That has to be the Three-Titled hero’s work, right? Who else can make the earth rumble like that?”

  “Borik Hallowmortar is a hero of Obric. He didn’t do it.”

  “And how would you know that? Didn’t he fight in the war and achieve great valor? Sure sounds like he’s more than capable of sinking a little border town.”

  The younger girl’s flush deepened. “He didn’t! He wouldn’t do something like that! I—”

  The swordstaff maiden moved with decisive grace, clapping a hand over her companion’s mouth and smiling at Dain without the meaning behind it.

  “Pardon me, sir,” she said curtly. “She’s had more than she’s used to tonight. These are chancy times, and we should all keep our lips sealed if we have nothing proper to say. No offense meant.”

  “None taken,” Dain said, amused despite himself. Then he turned back to the counter, facing Wenna. “Can you keep an ear out for information related to Corvalenne, anyways? I wanna know what the earth says.”

  “You’ve got ears, too. Use them yourself.” She flicked a towel over his clean plate, taking it away. “Bath’s upstairs. There’s a towel in your closet.”

  “Kind policy.” He slid off the stool with a nod. “Thank you for the meal—”

  “Your accent is shit, by the way, but since I won’t be getting any new patrons for the foreseeable future, I’ll let you off the hook and not ask,” she said over her shoulder, not looking at him as she returned to the kitchen. “Just don’t cause any trouble. You bring any shit to my inn, you’re getting the boot.”

  “... I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  With that, he started for the stairs, but as he passed by the table the two girls were seated around, the younger one tilted her head back and tried to stare at him.

  “You, mister,” she slurred. “You—I want to talk to you a little more.”

  Dain kept the same unhurried pace, lifted his hand in a friendly little wave without looking back, and skipped up the stairs without replying.

  He’d rather not have the two girls hand him a rope to hang himself with.

  After the bath, steam still clinging to his skin as he scrubbed his hair with his towel, Dain slipped back into his lantern-lit room and turned the lock with a click.

  Outside the window, Granamere was already drowning in the dark. A few lonely street lamps burned faint gold around the main square he had a full view of, but the rest of the town had folded in on itself like a mine door shutting for the night.

  It was different from Corvalenne. Corvalenne had been a town that worked late into the night. After all, any carpenters hammering beams and any masons setting bricks would sweat less in the cooler, chiller night air. Granamere didn’t bother. Most mining work was done underground where the temperature was consistent, so now that it was dark out, most people were simply back in their homes.

  He tossed his towel onto the chair and flopped onto the bed with a grunt. Gods, he was sore, but at least he wasn’t starving anymore.

  He lay back, stared at the ceiling, and started ticking off tomorrow’s plan.

  First: map the important vendors. Find the materials shop, the relic shop, and any stall that smelled like opportunity. Second: locate the Seeker’s Guild and see if there were jobs for someone willing to put in the grunt work. Odd jobs meant coins, and coins meant gear. He needed curons to get proper wrappings for his prosthetic and his Altar, spare clothes that didn’t scream ‘I just walked out of a forest’, and just a few more reliable tools for the road.

  Preferably, the work involved harvesting magic materials, since those could double as offerings to Belara. The more relics he could stack on himself, the easier he’d sleep.

  And Granamere isn’t the closest town to Corvalenne for nothing. If any of the three one-eyed went into Obric after destroying Corvalenne—maybe to lay low for a while—they might have passed through this area.

  Hell, they could be here right now, and I wouldn’t know it.

  But assuming none of the one-eyed were hiding out in Granamere, he’d have to earn enough to move onto Braskir. He’d heard the name of the town before—it was one of the larger towns in Obric, near the capital—so if there was any information about a mysterious masked cult to be found, he’d find it there. Whispers and rumors flowed where money flowed best, and Braskir was a wealthy town.

  With that, he tugged the cord by the bedstand, and the lantern overhead gave a resigned flicker before plunging the room into complete darkness.

  He exhaled, closed his eyes, and let himself sink into the mattress.

  … How relaxing.

  It was the kind of sinking softness he could get used to.

  Only, the sinking wasn’t stopping.

  Before he knew it, the bed gave way beneath him, and he felt himself falling straight through.

  What?