Dark Whisperer

The tavern bore the faint traces of last night’s revelry. Most of the mess had been swept away by the diligent night crew, leaving only a few stubborn patches of spilled ale and crumbs for the morning shift to tackle. Chairs were righted, tables wiped down, and the floor was swept, but a hint of last night’s festivities lingered in the air.

Finnian bustled through the room, practically glowing as he directed the staff with an energy that seemed endless. “Come on, come on, let’s get this place ready!” he called out, clapping his hands and beaming at his workers. “First day of spring, folks! You know what that means—hearty breakfasts, happy guests, and plenty of coin to be made.”

A few of the younger staff exchanged glances, blinking sleep from their eyes. It was rare to see Finnian so… animated, especially after a busy night. Usually, he was gruff and terse in the mornings, barking orders without so much as a smile. Today, though, he moved through the room like a man with a secret, his steps light and quick, a song on his lips.

“Clear that table by the window—someone’s going to want to sit there and watch the morning sun.” He gestured to a barmaid, “And those tankards need to be polished before we get any more guests!” Finnian’s voice was cheerful, almost too cheerful, as he picked up a rag and began wiping down the bar. “Let’s make this a morning to remember, shall we?”

The first few guests trickled in, yawning and stretching as they sought out their usual spots. Some nodded to Finnian, surprised to be greeted by a bright, almost blinding smile. He responded with a cheerful wave, calling out, “Good morning! Take a seat, we’ll have something hot on your plates soon enough.”

The staff worked around him, some with wary smiles, others with confusion hidden behind their quick movements. “Did he… hit his head last night?” one of the younger boys muttered, carrying a tray of freshly washed mugs to the counter. An older woman nearby shook her head, her eyes on Finnian’s bouncing steps. “No, he’s just in a mood. Let him be. Whatever’s got him so cheerful… we’ll find out soon enough.”

Finnian hummed as he bustled about, his movements light and quick, as though he were dancing through the room. He seemed to be everywhere at once, straightening chairs, stacking plates, adjusting the curtains to let in more light, all with that same maddening smile.

A plate slipped from a cleaning boy’s hands and shattered on the floor, Finnian didn’t so much as flinch. He merely laughed, a bright, sudden sound that echoed through the room, startling the boy into picking up the pieces even faster.

“Accidents happen!” Finnian said, his tone almost jubilant. “No harm done. Let’s keep moving, people, spring is here, and we’ve got guests to take care of!”

The kitchen doors swung open, and the smell of sizzling bacon and fresh-baked bread wafted into the main room, prompting a few of the guests to lean back in their chairs and inhale deeply. Finnian caught the scent, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Ah, that’s it. That’s the spirit of spring! The air is fresh, the sun is shining, and everything is just falling into place.”

One of the barmaids, Lissy, dared to approach him, wiping her hands on her apron. “Mr. Finnian, are we preparing for something special today?” she asked, her voice hesitant. “You seem… excited.”

Finnian turned to her with a grin that nearly split his face in two.

“Oh, Lissy, every day can be special if you make it so,” he said softly, giving her a gentle pat on the arm. “Today just feels… right. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

She blinked, taken aback, but nodded all the same. “Uh… yes, sir.”

Finnian clapped his hands, his voice ringing out as he stepped back toward the bar. “Good! Now, come on, everyone! No dawdling. Sweep the floors, wipe down the tables, get those tankards lined up, and for the gods’ sake, make sure there’s a fresh pot of tea ready for when Selene comes in. We’ve got work to do! Spring’s here, and we need to be ready for whatever comes our way.”

The staff scrambled to obey, murmuring among themselves as they hurried to and fro. Finnian’s cheerfulness was unsettling enough, but his newfound enthusiasm for the morning cleanup was almost terrifying.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the polished brass of a tankard, and his smile broadened.

Because tonight… tonight, Selis would attend the council meeting. And things would finally go back to the way they should be.

The first light of morning crept through the cracks in the wooden shutters, casting faint golden lines across the small, tidy room Thorn had called his own. He was already awake, sitting on the edge of the narrow bed, his long-fingered hands moving deftly as he rolled up a neatly folded blanket and tucked it into his satchel. Each movement was methodical, efficient—a ritual born of years spent on the road. Thorn packed as if he were preparing to leave, the belongings that had spread across the room now vanishing back into his travel-worn pack, piece by piece.

Zephyr, tucked securely into its sheath; a small pouch of dried herbs and crushed leaves, sealed tight; a slender tin filled with a mixture of powdered charcoal and what seemed to be dusted silver—each item stowed with the care of a craftsman handling his finest tools. By the time he was finished, the room looked as if it had never been lived in. Thorn, standing amidst the empty space, felt a faint tug in his chest, a stirring of that familiar, restless urge to move, to leave behind the place he had stayed and seek out the horizon.

But today… today, he lingered.

His eyes drifted to the window, and he stepped forward, pushing the shutters open a fraction to peer out at the awakening town. Halrest, still shrouded in the mist of early morning, looked almost ethereal in the soft light.

From his elevated vantage point, he could see the swath of dark pines at the edge of the town, their branches weighed down by the last vestiges of snow. Birds darted between the trees—thrushes and jays, their calls sharp and clear. He noted the absence of the crows that had been a common sight during the waning days of winter. They had fled at the first sign of change, replaced now by creatures more attuned to life and growth. But more than that, Thorn was listening. His ears strained, picking out the notes of the town’s morning song.

The bleat of sheep from a distant paddock. The muted chatter of farmers greeting each other in hushed tones. The rhythmic clop-clop of hooves as a cart rolled through the square, laden with barrels and crates. He watched as a pair of women passed beneath his window, their faces lined with weariness, but their steps brisk and purposeful. One of them glanced up, her gaze drifting toward the tavern’s upper floor for a fleeting moment, before she turned away, already lost in the day’s worries.

Thorn narrowed his eyes, thoughtful.

What are you all so afraid of? he wondered silently.

His gaze shifted to the lake beyond the town, its surface glittering like obsidian in the dawn light. Even from here, he could see the thin crust of ice still clinging stubbornly to the shore, the dark water beneath churning slowly. The lake… it was the key, wasn’t it? He could feel it—a pull, a whispering in his blood, urging him to trace its boundaries and uncover its secrets. What was it about this place that tugged at him so? Thorn had travelled through countless villages, countless forests and fields, but this—this place—it was different.

He let out a slow breath, his fingers drumming lightly against the windowsill. Yes. He would start with the lake. He would walk its shore, explore the wilderness surrounding it, and observe the land and creatures that lived there.

With a sigh, Thorn turned away from the window and crossed the room, his hand reaching instinctively for the small, leather-bound tome resting on the bedside table. The book was worn and well-used, its cover marked with faint scratches and smudges of ink. He ran a finger along its spine, feeling the familiar hum of power that vibrated through the pages.

The tome was more than just a record of his travels. It was his guide, his confidant—the one constant in a life defined by movement and change. He flipped it open briefly, his eyes skimming over the neat rows of symbols and runes that lined the pages. Complex sigils, elegantly drawn landscapes, and cryptic notations filled the margins, each one a piece of a puzzle that Thorn had spent years assembling.

But when his gaze settled on a particular page, his brow furrowed. One of the runes—a swirling, serpentine shape coiled around a hollow circle—had been ruined. The ink was smeared, the lines blurred, as if water had soaked through the page and distorted the intricate design. A faint, dark stain spread out from the centre, marring the careful strokes he had once etched with such precision.

The warding rune, Thorn realized, a cold prickling at the back of his neck. That rune had been crafted to protect him, to ward off unseen threats. But now, it had been activated, its power expended, and he had no idea how it had happened. The rest of the tome was perfectly intact, unmarred by moisture or wear. Only this page was ruined.

It shouldn’t have been possible—the rune should only have activated in response to a direct danger. His hand hovered over the smeared ink, tracing the half-faded lines, but it was clear. Something had tried to reach him, something he’d been saved from, and yet he hadn’t felt it, hadn’t seen it. Thorn’s fingers tightened around the edge of the tome, his mind racing. The realization settled over him like a chill wind.

He snapped the book shut, the sound sharp in the quiet room. His eyes narrowed, his gaze hardening with a resolve honed from years of travel and the hard-earned wisdom of one who had learned to trust his instincts. This was no coincidence; something was wrong in Halrest. And he would find out what.

Thorn’s movements became swift and methodical as he secured the tome to his side, his senses sharpened with purpose. Whatever had been shielded from him last night, he needed to understand it—now. His gaze flicked to the door, where a series of intricate carvings adorned the wood. The lines twisted and overlapped, weaving a protective spell that was hidden from the casual eye.

A ward. A lock. A spell of binding.

It was a habit—an old, paranoid habit. But old habits had a way of keeping a man alive. The runes etched into the door were more than decoration; they were a safeguard, a silent guardian that had kept him safe during countless nights on the road.

With a single, fluid motion, he reached out and pressed his thumb against the centre of the pattern. There was a soft hum, a flicker of light, and then the markings faded, sinking back into the wood as if they had never existed. Thorn nodded once, satisfied, and pulled the door open.

As he stepped out into the hallway, the air seemed cooler, crisper. Thorn could feel the day stretching ahead of him, filled with questions that demanded answers. His mind was already turning over a plan—he would start at the lake’s edge, investigate the land itself, the place that had drawn him in. But there was no ignoring this new, urgent thread of suspicion. He would need to keep his senses sharp, his instincts keen, and his guard even higher than before.

Descending the creaking stairs, Thorn caught the faint murmur of voices drifting up from the main room, the unmistakable tone of hushed urgency. He slowed, moving with practiced silence as he approached the edge of the stairwell, his senses picking up on the tension in the air.

“More sausages for table three!” called out a server, as he hurried past, balancing a tray laden with steaming plates. “And someone get another pot of tea going, we’re running low!”

At the far end of the room, a group of farmers laughed heartily, digging into plates of eggs and toast, their voices rising above the din as they swapped stories about the fields and the coming planting season. Nearby, a young couple shared a quiet breakfast, their hands brushing together over the table, their smiles soft and sleepy. The blacksmith’s apprentice sat by the window, spooning porridge into his mouth with one hand while jotting down notes on a piece of scrap paper with the other.

“Coming through!” a barmaid shot out, who wove between the tables with practiced ease, her arms full of clean mugs. She set them down with a quick, efficient smile, nodding to a regular who tipped his cap to her. “I’ll be back with your coffee in just a moment, sir,” she said before darting off toward the counter.

Finnian stood behind the bar, his hands moving in a blur as he filled mugs, wiped down counters.

Amid the lively scene, a woman appeared, her dark eyes darting nervously around the room. She was older, with grey streaks in her dark hair, and wore the plain, practical clothes of a housekeeper. She moved with the quiet efficiency of someone who was used to being unnoticed, but there was an urgency to her steps that hinted at something more. She approached the bar, waiting until Finnian finished pouring a drink before she spoke, her voice low and hurried.

“Mr. Finnian,” she said, leaning in close, her hands twisting the hem of her apron. “What… what are we going to do about Orin’s room? It’s—”

Finnian’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes sharpened, and he glanced around the room quickly, making sure no one was listening. “Keep your voice down, Marie,” he said softly, though the warmth in his tone had cooled slightly. “And what exactly do you mean, ‘what are we going to do?’”

Marie swallowed, her hands trembling. “I mean… what are we supposed to do with— ‘it’”

“Get some of the other staff to help you, get rid of it quietly, we can’t have people in a panic.”

“… and if they ask questions?”

“Then you’ll tell them the same thing we’ve been telling everyone else,” Finnian interrupted, his tone still calm but with a hint of steel beneath it. “Orin had too much to drink.”

Marie blinked, clearly shocked. “But… but what if they don’t believe it? What if—”

“Marie,” Finnian said, his voice dropping to a whisper, his smile never wavering, “I need you to listen very carefully. You’ll clean out the room, make it look like he was never there. Get rid of anything that could make people ask questions. Do you understand?”

“But, Mr. Finnian, I—”

“Do you understand?” Finnian repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, but there was no mistaking the command in it. He reached out and gently clasped her shoulder, giving it a light, reassuring squeeze that felt anything but comforting. “Everything will be fine if you do as I say.”

Marie nodded, though her face was pale. “Yes, sir,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

“Good.” Finnian’s smile widened, and he released her shoulder, straightening up as if the conversation had been about nothing more than ordering supplies. “Now, go on. There’s plenty to be done today, and we wouldn’t want to keep our guests waiting.”

Marie’s face was taut with uncertainty, but she gave a quick, nervous nod, glancing briefly over her shoulder as if she sensed Thorn’s presence. She quickly lowered her gaze and hurried off toward the kitchen, leaving Finnian alone by the bar.

Thorn observed him in silence, his jaw tightening. His suspicions, though still unconfirmed, sharpened. There was something calculated in Finnian’s posture, an air of control that went beyond mere confidence. Thorn felt the weight of the rune’s warning even more keenly now, like a brand seared into his skin.

Finnian’s gaze flicked up suddenly, as though sensing eyes on him, but Thorn had already turned, moving away from the staircase and down the side corridor. He would keep his suspicions quiet—for now. Confronting Finnian directly would be reckless without evidence, and Thorn knew better than to underestimate his adversary. Instead, he would investigate quietly, piece together the patterns hidden beneath the town’s surface. He’d find out what lay at the heart of this mystery, and why his warding rune had been forced to shield him from something he couldn’t even see.

With a final, narrowed glance over his shoulder, Thorn slipped out of the tavern and into the cool morning air, the chill biting with a strange clarity. He adjusted the tome at his side, the weight of it steady against his hip, a reminder of the secrets he still carried. The lake’s edge awaited him.

Finnian watched him go, his smile still plastered firmly in place. But as soon as Thorn disappeared out the front door, his expression dropped, twisting into a grimace of irritation.

“Meddling wanderer,” he muttered under his breath, turning back to the bar with a sharp, agitated movement. “He’ll see soon enough.”

But the words were hollow, more for his own reassurance than anything else. Because even as he turned back to his cleaning, Finnian couldn’t quite shake the sensation that, for the first time in a long while, he was the one being watched.

With a huff of frustration, he slammed his rag down onto the counter and stalked to the back, barking orders at a passing employee.

“Finish up here. I need to—prepare for tonight.”

He disappeared into the storeroom, a dark, brooding expression on his face

The light breeze carried with it the scent of damp earth and melting snow, a reminder that spring had finally arrived. But despite the season’s usual promise of renewal, there was an odd heaviness to the air, something that clung to his senses like mist.

The bustling energy of the town seemed almost overwhelming after the silent intensity of his thoughts, but Thorn welcomed it. He needed to clear his mind, to put some distance between himself and the suffocating atmosphere of the tavern, and the unease that lingered after his stay at the Golden Keg.

The streets of Halrest were alive with activity. Men and women moved back and forth, their faces flushed with the effort of early spring as they set about their tasks—repairing broken tools, preparing the fields, clearing the remnants of snow from rooftops and paths. The snowmelt trickled down the cobblestone streets, forming small streams that snaked their way to the lake. Here and there, children laughed and splashed in the shallow waters, their voices bright against the backdrop of hurried work.

But as Thorn moved through the streets, he noticed something else. The townspeople’s movements were quick, purposeful, but there was a strange, uneasy rhythm to them. He caught glimpses of their faces—tight-lipped smiles, eyes that darted around as if searching for something just out of sight. There was a hollowness there, a haunted look that seemed out of place amidst the energy of the morning.

Two men walked past, shoulders hunched as they carried a heavy crate between them. Thorn overheard one murmur, “We need to finish before midday…” to which the other nodded, his expression tense. Further down the street, a woman bent over a pile of tangled fishing nets, her fingers working quickly to untie them, her lips moving as though repeating a prayer under her breath.

It was subtle, but it was there—an undercurrent of fear, masked by the urgency of spring tasks. Thorn’s gaze swept over the scene. The people’s voices carried on the breeze, snippets of conversation drifting past him in a patchwork of mundane worries and half-whispered hopes. Everywhere he looked, there was a sense of urgency—a need to do, to act, to seize the moment before the fleeting window of spring vanished.

But it wasn’t just the season driving them. Thorn could feel it, the way the wind carried whispers he couldn’t quite make out, the way eyes turned away too quickly when they met his. It was as if the town was racing against something, a silent threat that had already taken root and was spreading unseen.

He passed by the general store, where a group of women stood outside, chatting in low voices. They fell silent as he approached, watching him with wary eyes. Thorn gave a polite nod, but none of them returned it. Instead, they turned back to their conversation, their heads huddled closer together, their whispers more urgent than before.

It was like walking through a town on the brink of a storm—people going about their routines, but with an edge to their movements, as if they were bracing for something they couldn’t stop.

Thorn’s eyes drifted toward the lake, its surface shimmering darkly under the morning light. The water was still, almost unnaturally so, reflecting the sky above with a perfect, unbroken calm. The lake loomed at the edge the town, an unchanging, ominous presence that seemed to watch over everything like a dark, silent sentinel. It reminded him of the rune in his book, the way it had activated without warning. As if something had reached for him, and he had been spared without knowing why.

The thought sent a chill down his spine, and he quickened his pace, eager to leave the crowded streets behind. Whatever was happening here, it was connected—he could feel the threads pulling tighter, drawing him toward the lake, toward the answers he needed to find.

As Thorn reached the outskirts of the town, the bustling noise faded into a soft hum, the clamour of voices replaced by the quiet murmur of the wind through the trees. He turned once, looking back at Halrest, at the townsfolk who moved like shadows beneath the bright morning sun. For a moment, he could almost see it—the town as it was meant to be, vibrant and full of life, unburdened by the weight that now hung over it.

But that moment passed, and the reality settled back into place, heavy and inescapable. Thorn’s jaw tightened, his gaze lingering on the distant shape of the tavern.

With a final, measured breath, he turned away and stepped into the woods, the trees closing around him as he disappeared into their depths. The path ahead was uncertain, but Thorn had no intention of turning back. He would find the truth of what was happening here, even if it meant unearthing the darkness that lay hidden beneath Halrest’s surface.