Chapter 2

  A few minutes later, the four of us trudged up the creaking staircase to our room — each step groaned beneath our weight, as if the wood itself resented our presence. The corridor above was surprisingly well-lit, lined with worn red carpets that muffled our footsteps only slightly. Brass candleholders flickered along the walls, casting shaky shadows over faded portraits of kings and nobles long dead. Their names, I remembered bitterly, were still taught in the academies — pointless names, for forgotten men.

  The air was still. Still and strangely cold, despite the warmth of the candlelight. There was a heaviness in the hallway, a silence that felt unnatural, like the house itself was holding its breath.

  We reached our door. It creaked louder than the staircase had.

  “I hope that thing doesn’t come off its hinges,” Simon muttered flatly — the warlock’s voice held no hint of irony. No one laughed.

  The cleric — I was now certain she served Erebos — whispered prayers under her breath, fingers running along the strange rings on her arms. The elf, ever aloof, let a small flower bloom from her palm, watching it with bored detachment. I’d seen far too much in my life to be impressed by a conjured daisy.

  The room itself was spacious but colder than the hallway. The air reeked of damp rot, old dust, piss, and something else I couldn’t place — something metallic, maybe. Or dead.

  “Twenty gold talers,” I muttered bitterly under my breath. Had the others not chipped in, I’d have chosen to sleep on a tavern bench over this sorry excuse for a room.

  A few half-hearted wishes of “good sleep” were exchanged before we each dropped onto the thin, lumpy mattresses that lined the walls. I removed my armor — the black, gleaming plates still coated with the dust of the road — and laid it carefully at the foot of the bed. My sword followed, golden hilt gleaming dully in the firelight, its eagle-shaped pommel seeming to watch the room in my stead.

  Even while lying down, the plague-priestess continued murmuring prayers, her voice low but persistent.

  “Silence, will you?” I grumbled, not bothering to hide my irritation.

  She stopped.

  At last, quiet.

  -

  We were all jolted awake by a loud, frantic knock on the door — the kind of knock that only comes from someone who’s either on fire or believes the world is ending.

  The elf sat bolt upright, alert as if she’d never actually been asleep. The heretic — I suppose I should now call her by her proper title, Cleric of Erebos — glanced sharply around the room, eyes focused and calculating.

  Simon, on the other hand, mumbled groggily, “It was one of you snoring,” before trying to roll back into his blanket.

  I, in my infinite preparedness, half-fell out of bed, scrambling for my sword and helmet. With my armor still lying neatly beside the bed and nothing but undergarments beneath the helm, I must have looked utterly ridiculous — like a knight preparing for battle at a bathhouse.

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  Before anyone else could react, the elf stepped forward and opened the creaking wooden door.

  There, on the other side, stood Markus — our host, innkeeper, and now apparent herald of doom. His expression was one I won’t soon forget. He looked at us as if he were facing down a dragon… one that had just finished a round of cards with a goblin.

  The elf regarded him with a sly, unreadable grin. The cleric stood frozen in place, hands still clutching the frayed edge of her blanket.

  Simon was halfway between sitting and lying down, his eyes nearly closed again — and his trousers had slipped low enough to be considered a statement.

  And I? Well, I was standing there with nothing but my helm on, sword in hand, looking like the very image of confused dignity.

  We must have looked completely absurd. Markus stared at us, mouth agape — and yet there was something more behind his eyes. Panic. Uncertainty. A flicker of fear. And, buried beneath it all, the ember of anger.

  Seconds passed, awkward and heavy. Then, as we all began to collect ourselves, something snapped inside him. His fear flared again — now raw and uncontrolled.

  “If you’re ready,” he blurted, voice cracking, “you need to come down to the stables. Now. It’s… it’s horrible. Gods help us all.”

  Whatever had happened, it had broken the man. His hands trembled. His face had gone pale. And he was clearly close to unraveling completely.

  Three minutes later, we were all ready — weapons belted at our sides, armor mostly in place, clothes as straightened as they could be in a hurry. I had donned my full set of black armor, save for the helm, which I carried under one arm.

  As we made our way toward the door, the priestess finally introduced herself. “Maira,” she said simply.

  I gave her a disinterested nod and moved on.

  With a grim sense of purpose, we followed Markus down the now-familiar creaking staircase, each of us preparing in our own way for whatever awaited in the stables.

  Markus led us past the guest room, saying nothing, his footsteps quick and uneven. He stopped at a plain wooden door set beside the large hearth, almost invisible among the stacked firewood and hanging pots. Without a word, he pushed it open.

  A wave of cold, earthy air rolled over us.

  Beyond the door stretched a long corridor of stables, dimly lit by a few flickering lanterns hung from wooden beams. The space was lined with stalls on either side. Fat pigs shuffled in the straw, grunting lazily, unaware of their fate. Cattle snorted and shifted anxiously, their breath curling in the cold air. The horses, tall and strong — likely belonging to the merchant caravan — munched on hay with the indifference of creatures who trusted in the routine of morning.

  The floor beneath our boots squelched unpleasantly. Wet, sticky straw clung to the soles, slick with muck, manure, and melted frost. In some corners, the ground had already begun to freeze over, turning the barn into a patchwork of slush and ice. The temperature dropped sharply here — I felt it even through my armor — but it was only Markus who shivered, the rest of us too focused on the silence.

  Something was wrong. The animals knew it. Even the pigs had quieted.

  Then we saw it.

  At the far end of the barn stood the great double doors that normally opened out to the fields — now sealed by a towering wall of white. Snow, packed so tightly against the frame that it blocked out the morning light entirely. It rose like a monolith, smooth, pristine, and cold as death.

  It was strangely beautiful. Like a sculpture from another world.

  But it was also a prison wall.

  Still, that was not what had driven Markus into panic. That wasn’t what had cracked the man.

  The true horror lay in the center of the stable, sprawled between a shivering mare and a pair of squealing piglets.

  A body.

  Small. Twisted. Unmoving.

  The stableboy.

  He lay on his side, half-covered in straw, one arm thrown over his head as if to shield himself from something. His mouth was frozen mid-scream, his eyes wide open, lifeless and white. His skin had turned a mottled shade of purple and blue, as if frostbite and something far worse had touched him.

  There was no blood. No wounds. No sign of a struggle.

  Just death. Sudden. Silent. And unnatural.

  Markus finally spoke, voice barely more than a whisper.

  “He was fine last night. I swear it… I gave him soup. He laughed. He even sang to the horses…”

  No one replied.

  We simply stared.

  The snowstorm had trapped us in this place.

  But something else… something far colder… had already gotten in.