Chapter 15

  The common room was empty and hushed, as if the very walls were holding their breath. Only the crackling fire in the hearth offered any sound, its flickering warmth casting dancing shadows across the walls. The flames popped softly, filling the silence with a strangely comforting rhythm.

  We didn’t linger or waste time taking in the stillness. Without a word, we moved behind the bar, where Markus had to be hiding—or recovering. There were no other doors in the tavern that didn’t lead either to the supply room, the stables, or the guest quarters. And unless Markus was in the habit of sleeping in haylofts, there weren’t many other options. Which meant, oddly enough, that the rest of the staff must be tucked somewhere behind the bar as well.

  Sure enough, tucked behind a curtain and a stack of old crates, we found a narrow corridor—lined with barrels, crates, and what looked like wine racks. But as we walked deeper in, the hallway changed. The raw storage area gradually gave way to smooth wooden walls, neatly paneled floors, and a ceiling that mirrored the layout of the upstairs hallway between the guest rooms. Warm light spilled from lanterns hanging in regular intervals. The place was... cozy. Surprisingly so. Despite the chill of the blizzard creeping into every seam of the inn, the hallway here felt shielded, even welcoming.

  Eventually, we reached a door. It was solid oak, polished and clean. Painted across its surface in bold, black letters was the inscription: “Owner – Private.”

  I shrugged, unimpressed. The others exchanged knowing looks but said nothing. None of us were particularly concerned about violating Markus’ privacy at this point. After all, the man had turned into an Ice Wraith. If he complained about manners, we could toss that little fact in his face.

  I reached for the handle, expecting it to creak open like any other door.

  It didn’t.

  The moment my hand touched the handle, a shimmering blue light flared across the wood. A crackling noise followed, and an invisible force snapped out from the surface of the door—harmless, but firm enough to stop me cold. A barrier spell. Magical protection.

  “Anyone know how to deal with this?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder at the group. They stood in a tight semicircle, tense but silent. The air was heavy with anticipation.

  Simon stepped forward.

  “Let me take a look,” he said calmly. He reached out with one hand, placing his palm flat against the door.

  For a few seconds, nothing happened—then the air around the door seemed to hum softly.

  “A simple ward,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes. “But well-crafted. Subtle. Meant to discourage... not maim.”

  He whispered a few words in a language I couldn’t place, and with a series of deft, circular movements of his fingers, the light faded. The barrier vanished with a soft pop, like a bubble bursting in silence.

  “There,” he said, stepping back. “All yours.”

  "Be ready for anything," I warned the others, tightening the straps on each piece of my armor one by one. "Behind this door could be anything—or just an old man with a guilty conscience."

  They took my words seriously.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Simon pulled his spellbook into one hand, already flipping to a marked page. Maira lowered her head in silent prayer, but I could feel it—dark mana gathering around her like a faint mist, heavy and charged. Vin said nothing, but both her hands were now glowing with a steady green light, pulsing like the rhythm of a heartbeat.

  I took one final breath, counted down from three under my breath, and yanked the door open.

  What lay beyond stopped us cold.

  It was a room, slightly larger than the guest quarters upstairs, but no grand secret chamber or dungeon. In the center stood a large bed, soft blankets pulled up over the round belly of a peacefully sleeping Markus. He wore a threadbare shirt that didn’t quite cover everything it should, and he snored quietly like a man without a single worry in the world.

  Shelves lined the walls—wooden, overstuffed, and somewhat chaotic. To the right, however, was what truly drew our attention.

  A workshop.

  Not just any workshop.

  A Hexer’s lab.

  But Hexers aren’t Crytomancers. Normal mages—including Crytomancers—tend to work with pure mana, the kind that flows from our world’s natural ley lines. Hexers, on the other hand, draw their power from beyond. From the Lower Realms. That includes warlocks, necromancers, some alchemists, cursed priests, and even the more magically-inclined vampires. All of them are categorized under the same name: Hexers.

  The Inquisition of Fobos hunts them relentlessly. Or so they claim. Whispers in the shadows suggest they secretly employ a few of their own.

  And our innkeeper? Markus?

  He was clearly one of them. A Hexer —and judging by the setup, an alchemist specifically.

  How could I tell? It wasn’t subtle. The symbols etched into the metal rim of the cauldron glowed faintly with tainted energy. The runes burned with the sickly, unnatural hue of mana from the Lower Realms. And then there were the books. Leather-bound. Old. Heavy.

  Vin and I stepped forward together, drawn by shared curiosity. She crouched slightly to inspect the symbols. I scanned the surface of the table.

  There were all the standard alchemical tools: cauldron, mixing bowls, mortar and pestle, iron tongs, measuring rods... and rows of labeled vials filled with colored liquids that shimmered unnaturally. A few open books were scattered around the workstation.

  And then I saw it.

  Cookbooks.

  Actual cookbooks.

  I blinked. Once. Twice.

  "Wait," I muttered, confused but slowly piecing it together, "he’s using alchemy to enhance his alcohol?"

  Vin raised a brow, and Maira, who had now stepped up behind us, folded her arms tightly with a frown. All three of us had come to the same conclusion.

  Markus wasn’t just a Hexer.

  He was a brewmaster—an illegal one. A forbidden alchemist using demonic magic to make... better booze.

  While Vin and I were still inspecting the Hexer's alchemy station, Simon had wandered over to the bookshelf near the far wall. He ran his fingers along the spines of the books, pulling one out here and there, flipping through them idly. Suddenly, he let out a quiet laugh.

  We all looked over.

  “I’ve actually heard of this kind of thing,” he said with a grin. “Tavern keepers and inn owners who secretly use magic—illegal magic—to enhance their drinks. It’s an underground art form, almost a tradition in some circles. But I’ve never seen it with my own eyes. Not until now.”

  I smirked and shook my head. “Well, it’s fascinating, sure. But I’m not going to confront him about it. And I’m definitely not turning him in to the Inquisition.”

  I glanced back at Vin and Maira. They nodded silently, clearly in agreement.

  “My only concern right now is stopping the Crytomancers… and getting out of this cursed blizzard alive.”

  Vin muttered something under her breath—probably a prayer, or maybe a curse—and turned her gaze toward the bed.

  So I stepped forward, cautiously, toward the man at the center of all this: the dark alchemist, the tavernkeeper, and—at least partially—the Ice Wraith.

  He was still snoring.

  I stood beside the bed for a moment, watching him sleep. Despite everything, he looked almost… harmless. Like a man who had once just wanted to brew good ale and run an honest business—until something darker had crept into his life.

  I reached out and gently touched his shoulder.

  The reaction was immediate.

  He jolted upright, eyes wide and wild, hands flailing slightly before he got his bearings. Unlike Maira earlier, he didn’t reach for a weapon or hiss like a startled beast. But the look in his eyes told me everything.

  Shock. Panic. And most of all—recognition.

  He knew. He knew we had found it. The lab. The magic. The truth.

  And now it was time for a little conversation.

  Or, more accurately—

  An interrogation.