Chapter 36: Hotel

The Hotel Forgotten Souls was a palace of distraction nestled at the edge of unreality. Its walls shimmered faintly with memory, each tile and surface imbued with fragments of lives long spent. If the Veil was built on trauma and trials, then this place was built on the impulse to forget. To drift.

The group entered the grand lobby under a canopy of amber lanterns and half-whispered music that seemed to echo from somewhere just behind the walls. The receptionist—an enchantress in a velvet-red dress with platinum hair and eyes like sugared fire—greeted them with a smile that stretched a little too wide to be entirely real.

"Two rooms available," she purred, her fingers dancing across the register, nails sharp like glass petals. "Enjoy your stay. Everything else is... on the house."

And so they stayed.

The next few hours bled into one another in a haze of warmth, flickering lights, and the addictive comfort of being nowhere in particular. Grimpel vanished into the smoking joint, claiming he needed to "calibrate his spiritual nerves." Nylessa and Selvara retired to their room with murmurs of healing and wine, while Clive and Verrin lingered in the lounge. The hotel had no clocks, and time obeyed no logic. It was always dusk, always warm.

The smoking joint buzzed with fragrant mist and idle laughter. Grimpel sank into a velvet beanbag that adjusted to the shape of his hunched frame, the glowing pipe of mistleaf hovering beside him. He took a long drag, exhaled with a satisfied grunt, and looked around.

"Ever see a rabbit smoke its own dreams?" asked a slender man with antlers and silver eyes, passing Grimpel a carved obsidian pipe.

"Can't say I have, friend," Grimpel chuckled. "But I'd pay to watch."

A woman with scales for skin sat nearby, strumming a harp that shimmered with firelight. "This place knows how to mend a weary soul. We came through Veil six. Haven't left in... years? Hours? Who knows."

Grimpel grunted thoughtfully, letting the smoke curl through his thoughts. "What if it never lets you leave?"

The harpist only smiled and plucked a single string. The note rang out like a memory, then vanished.

Meanwhile, Verrin had found the Gambling Arena. He moved with a loose grace, like a man who had no fear left to lose. The tables welcomed him like an old friend. He sat at one where the chips were golden teeth, the dealer a masked angel with black wings.

He placed a single memory—sealed in a crystal shard—as a wager. The others at the table watched him with curiosity, respect, and a touch of fear.

Cards flicked through the air like razors. The game was silent, strange. But Verrin played without hesitation. Whether he won or lost, it was unclear. But he stood eventually and left with his hands empty, and a strange peace in his eyes.

Elsewhere, Nylessa and Selvara lay in their room, the lights dim, warm scents curling from the bath where petals floated. Selvara's wounds had faded into pale reminders. Her beauty returned like dawn breaking fog. Her skin was smooth alabaster, glowing faintly from the oils Nylessa had applied. Her white-blonde hair shimmered with soft curls, spilling across her collarbone.

Nylessa herself was striking. Her blonde hair was braided to one side, her skin a warm bronze tone that caught the candlelight and held it. Her limbs were strong, sculpted from years of battle and magic. Her eyes were violet, deep and alert even in comfort. The simple robe she wore did little to hide her curves, and she let it hang off one shoulder as she poured another glass of blood-wine.

They talked, soft and real.

"You almost died back there," Nylessa said. "I said horrible things..."

"We were in the Veil," Selvara replied. "It speaks through you. Not of you."

"Still. I meant none of it."

Selvara smiled faintly. "You're the reason I'm still breathing. That's all that matters."

Outside their door, Clive wandered the hallway lined with golden doors, passing creatures of all kinds lounging in armchairs or floating gently in the air, smoking sweet dreams from crystal pipes. He paused before their room, hesitated, and knocked.

No answer.

"Hey. Just checking in. Selvara, you okay?"

He pushed it gently, and the door creaked wider.

Inside, he caught a glimpse of soft candlelight and the rustle of clothes. Selvara was standing near the bed, naked from the back, her skin pale and smooth, the faint scar on her side barely healed. Nylessa, sitting on the bed with her back turned, was slipping on a robe. The sound of fabric sliding over skin echoed too clearly.

Clive froze.

"Uh. Sorry—I just wanted to check on... you know, her health. I didn't mean to..."

Selvara turned slightly, startled but calm. She looked tired, her voice a whisper. "I'm alright. You don't have to worry."

Clive tried not to stare. He failed.

Nylessa looked over her shoulder and saw him—his breath caught, posture stiff, muscles tense beneath a loose tunic he hadn't bothered to tie.

She looked down, noticed the obvious tension in his trousers.

A smirk bloomed across her lips. Not cruel. Not mocking.

Just... amused.

"Well," she murmured, standing fully and walking toward him, the robe half-draped, half-open. "Someone missed us."

Clive turned scarlet, stumbling for words.

Nylessa's smirk deepened.

Outside, laughter echoed from the banquet hall. Dreams drifted like incense. And the Veil, for once, felt very far away.