Chapter 4

  Before I asked the others what they had found, we returned to the common room and quietly claimed a table near the hearth. The fire there had become the unspoken heart of the inn — a desperate sun in a frozen world.

  The merchants were still huddled nearby, draped in red robes, their guards seated close behind them. They stared into the flames with a kind of hopeless reverence, as if the fire might whisper the secret to surviving this apocalypse. To be fair, other than the small fireplaces in the rooms upstairs, it was our best chance at staying alive.

  At the far end of the room, the three rust-armored mercenaries continued sharpening their weapons with slow, deliberate movements — not out of boredom, but ritual. Meanwhile, the healer, whom no one had spoken to, calmly mixed dried herbs at a corner table, completely undisturbed by the tension. The trio of travelers we had seen the night before were nowhere to be found. Likely holed up in their rooms, hiding from the cold, or perhaps from us.

  We took our seats at a worn, round wooden table near the bar. No one spoke for a moment. We all exhaled in unison — the kind of breath you only let out when you’ve been holding more than air.

  Just as I opened my mouth to speak, Simon — ever unpredictable — reached into his satchel and pulled out a small, weathered deck of cards.

  “A little distraction before we share our findings,” he said, fanning the cards between his fingers. “That alright with everyone?”

  There was a moment of hesitation, then everyone nodded. Even I nodded, though I wasn’t quite sure why.

  Did I really come across as that strict? Had I been barking orders like a drill sergeant this whole time? Maybe I needed to reconsider my tone — or at least allow room for breathing.

  Simon began explaining the rules as he shuffled.

  “It’s simple, really,” he said. “We draw a theme card and place it in the center. Then each of us draws three chatter cards. There are four types: Question, Anecdote, Response, and Agreement. You play a card when it fits the conversation. For example, you might respond to someone’s story with a ‘That happened to me too’ or follow a question with a short tale. Every few turns, we swap the theme card.”

  He laid out the first theme card: "First Loss."

  “This sounds like a children’s game,” I muttered, picking up three cards despite myself. “A sentimental, sappy children’s game.”

  “It is,” Simon replied with a grin. “But it’s good for learning who people really are.”

  Maira raised an eyebrow, confused. “I thought we were going to talk about the case?”

  “We will,” I said with a sigh. “But a little variety won’t kill us.”

  Point to Simon.

  Damn that old fool — he was probably right.

  -

  I really tried to relax.

  Leaning back slightly in my chair, I drew a breath and played one of my cards — a Question card. The words felt oddly silly coming out of my mouth, but I asked anyway:

  “Have any of you ever lost a toy? Something like a doll… or anything else?”

  Vin reacted immediately. She placed a Response card on the table, her fingers almost trembling with eagerness.

  “When I was six,” she began, “I lost a carved tiger figurine. My brother made it for me.” Her voice carried a strange warmth — a child’s joy remembered through an adult’s lens.

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  But then her expression changed. The flicker of a smile vanished, and her tone dropped, as if a shadow had passed over her soul.

  “I never told him I lost it,” she said quietly. “Not because I was afraid. Just… because he left for the war in Alleroth. And he never came back.”

  Her eyes shimmered in the firelight, catching reflections of pain she hadn’t quite buried. She blinked twice, fast, forcing the tears to retreat.

  Ouch.

  That landed like a blade between the ribs. A complete mood killer.

  Desperate to break the silence, Maira laid down an Agreement card. She tried her best to offer something supportive.

  “When I was seven,” she said softly, “I lost my voodoo doll.”

  Oh no.

  The words hung in the air like an executioner’s axe.

  No one spoke.

  Even the fire seemed to pause, its crackling quieter, unsure if it should carry on. A strange, frozen stillness settled over the table. I glanced around — even the mercenaries had stopped tending their blades to glance our way.

  In my head, I groaned.

  Simon, I thought bitterly. Why in all the cursed hells did you bring out this sappy little game? And why, by the gods, did I agree to play it?

  A long, awkward minute passed. Time stretched like stale bread dough. The atmosphere didn’t just shift — it calcified. Cold. Hollow. Yet still intimate, like the quiet that follows a confession no one was prepared to hear.

  Vin’s grief evaporated as quickly as it had come, her walls slamming back into place. Maira stared down at her cards, mortified, probably reconsidering every life choice that had led her to this moment. And I — well, I seriously considered drawing my sword and ending this melodramatic nonsense by scaring the plague priestess out of her boots.

  But Simon beat me to it.

  With a disarming calm, he laid down an Anecdote card and began, in his usual rambling tone:

  “When I was a lad, I had a coin. Just a simple copper piece, nothing fancy — but it had a dent in the middle shaped like a crescent moon. I used to say it was lucky.” He chuckled quietly, shaking his head. “I lost it on a ferry crossing the Lake of Mists. Dove right into the water to try and fetch it. Nearly drowned. Didn’t even find the coin. But I did find a very angry fish.”

  That got a faint laugh out of Vin, and even Maira smirked slightly. The tension in the room softened, just enough to breathe again.

  Simon sat back and gestured casually toward the deck.

  “And with that, we begin round two.”

  Simon placed a new topic card in the center of the circle. "Embarrassing Moments." Of course, I was next.

  For a brief moment, I was tempted to throw a jab at Maira—perhaps ask if she had an Anecdote card featuring a failed blood ritual—but I swallowed the remark before it left my lips. Instead, I laid down my own Anecdote card.

  "Years ago, during my travels, I defended a small, helpless village from an enraged half-giant. The battle was intense, brutal. Mid-fight—don’t ask me how—my greaves slipped off. Took my pants with them. But hey, it distracted the giant just long enough for me to land the killing blow."

  Simon grinned first. Then Maira snorted. Vin tried to hold back a chuckle and failed spectacularly. Before long, we were all laughing—genuinely. It was the first time since we’d come together that something had truly lifted the heaviness in the air. For a moment, we weren’t Warlocks, exiles, or mercenaries on a cursed path—we were just people, sharing stories around a table.

  Encouraged, Simon played his own Anecdote card.

  "It was during a trial at the Stormspire Academy," he began, voice smoother than usual, warmed by amusement. "Final exam for Combat Mages. I stood before the archmages, ready to unleash my signature lightning spell. And right then—nothing. I blanked. Forgot the incantation entirely. Ended up stuttering some nonsense and firing off sparks like a drunk alchemist’s lantern."

  We laughed again.

  The story reminded me of another cocky mage I’d met once. Swore his fireballs were unmatched in size. His little demonstration ended with him setting his own sleeves ablaze and yelping like a kicked dog. I told that story too, and more laughter followed.

  As the game went on, the cards became less of a novelty and more of a window. I learned Vin came from an elven tribe in the East, one that revered wind and nature magic. He spoke of towering trees, rituals under starlit skies, and animals that responded to song. Maira, unexpectedly, revealed her fondness for animals as well—despite being a patron of plague and decay. She’d even once raised a dying hawk and let it perch on her staff until it was strong enough to fly again.

  And Simon… I saw something of myself in him. His past was marked by fire and loss—he’d fled his homeland during a necromancer raid when he was just a child. To this day, he didn’t know if his family had survived. But somehow, amidst all that, he’d learned to summon his old pet cat. The way it blinked into existence beside him—flickering, semi-transparent, with a twitching tail and judging stare—was both eerie and oddly hilarious.

  We kept playing, talking, laughing—until the hour grew late and the cards began to lose their magic.

  Finally, as Simon gathered the deck and slipped the cards back into the worn wooden box, I leaned forward, voice low but firm.

  "Alright," I said. "Enough games. Let’s talk about the results of our investigation in our cute crimi."