The Scholar’s Warning

The inn smelled of damp wood, burnt tallow, and something faintly metallic—like rusted iron left too long in the rain. The common room was dimly lit, the fire in the stone hearth struggling to cast warmth against the weight of the cold. Shadows clung to the corners, thick and unmoving.

Elya Mornshade sat at a small, circular table near the window, tracing the rim of her cup with a gloved finger. The tea had gone cold long ago, its surface unbroken except for the occasional ripple as the wind pressed against the warped glass pane. Outside, Lorynth stirred uneasily—figures slipping between streets like stray wisps of smoke, lanterns flickering in the mist. The city never quite settled, not even in the quiet hours of the night.

She had been here less than a day, and already she could feel the weight of the place. It was in the way people spoke in hushed tones, the way they walked with their shoulders hunched as if bracing against something unseen. It was in the silence between conversations, the too-cautious glances, the way no one ever looked directly at the towers.

Something was wrong with this city.

A man sat down across from her without invitation.

Elya's hand moved instinctively toward the dagger at her hip, but she did not draw it. Instead, she studied him. He was older, his hair thinned to near nothing, his face gaunt as if he had been hollowed out by years of poor sleep. His hands, folded neatly atop the table, were long and thin, the knuckles prominent, the fingers slightly unsteady.

"I was told you're looking for answers," he said. His voice was quiet but sharp, like the edge of a knife drawn slow against stone.

Elya tilted her head. "That depends on who's asking."

The man exhaled a slow breath, something almost like a laugh. "They say knowledge is dangerous here. That it's better not to ask questions." He leaned forward slightly. "But you strike me as someone who asks anyway."

Elya held his gaze. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

The man's lips pressed together in something that wasn't quite a smile. He lifted one hand, pulling back the sleeve of his coat. The firelight flickered against his skin, revealing something just below the surface—faint, like an old bruise, but unmistakable.

A mark.

It ran in jagged lines from his wrist to the base of his palm, something that almost resembled ink but pulsed faintly, like veins beneath the skin.

"I was taken," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Elya's breath stilled.

She had heard stories of those who vanished on the night of the tolling. But never had she heard of someone returning.

She let her gaze linger on the mark. "And yet, here you are."

The man's fingers curled slightly. "Not as I was."

Elya leaned forward, lowering her voice. "What happened?"

The man hesitated. Then, he reached for her cup. Before she could stop him, he dipped his finger into the cold tea and traced a slow, deliberate shape on the wooden table.

It was a door.

Elya's pulse quickened. "You went somewhere."

The man's throat bobbed as he swallowed. He pulled his hand back, staring at the crude drawing as if it might open before him. "I don't remember everything. Only glimpses. But I know this—" His eyes flicked to hers, sharp, dark. "When you hear the bell, do not go looking for the door."

The fire crackled in the silence that followed.

Elya considered his words, the weight they carried. She had spent years uncovering lost histories, forgotten places, buried truths. Fear had never been enough to deter her before.

But there was something in the way he spoke that made her hesitate.

She studied him again. "Why tell me this?"

The man's jaw tightened. "Because you remind me of myself." His fingers curled slightly, as if resisting the urge to reach for something unseen. "And I wouldn't wish this on anyone."

He stood abruptly. His chair scraped against the wooden floor, loud in the hush of the room. Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the mist beyond the door.

Elya sat there for a long time, staring at the fading shape of the door on the table.

Outside, high above the city, the bells of Lorynth remained silent.

For now.