Chapter 81 — Whispers from the Inn

The door of the inn creaked open with a sharp push, breaking the quiet of the late hour. Narissa didn’t hesitate; her hand had slammed it just enough to send a faint echo down the hallway. I followed behind, calm, collected, as always, noting the soft glow of lanterns reflecting against polished wood and the lingering scent of roasted meat and beer — remnants of the earlier crowd.


Narissa’s boots made a crisp sound against the wooden floor as she strode straight toward the inn’s steward — the man responsible for managing the inn’s affairs. A middle-aged man with graying hair and a lined face, the sort of man whose years of patience had hardened into both wisdom and caution. When he noticed her approach, the twitch at the corner of his eye betrayed slight unease.


“Excuse me!” she called, voice sharp, echoing faintly. “I need to speak to you about a noble!”


The steward blinked once, twice, then opened his mouth, hesitated, and said nothing. He stared at her, evaluating, measuring, as if assessing whether she was some troublemaker testing the walls of his establishment.


“I’m talking to you!” Narissa pressed, leaning forward on the counter, amber eyes blazing like a controlled fire.


Still, silence.


I stepped closer, letting a small weight of authority settle around me without forcing it. One subtle movement, one glance — enough to shift his attention. Then I ordered drinks: one for her, one for me. I slid two silver coins across the counter, letting the gesture speak as clearly as words could: one for the drink, one for information.


His eyes flicked to the coins, the faintest spark of realization lighting them. He leaned forward slowly, fingers brushing the smooth wood as though testing its sturdiness. “Oh… you’re talking about that bastard noble-baronet,” he muttered, voice dry and husky. Relief and irritation intertwined in his tone, as though someone had finally broken the silence.


Narissa’s eyes flared with interest. “Yes! Tell me everything — face, hair, attire, how he carries himself!”


The steward drew a slow breath, seemingly tasting the air for memory. “Face… sharp cheekbones, narrow eyes, dark brown hair, kept short, neat. Clothing… always a black coat with silver embroidery along the seams, boots polished, gloves leather, gloves always leather. A signet ring on the left hand, crest of Lord Cedric Althorne.”


I watched Narissa as she recorded every detail silently, her lips barely moving as she repeated the description under her breath. Subtle nods, glances toward me — she was already anticipating questions and connections, her mind racing even as she stood still.


“Can you tell us more about him?” she pressed, voice firm yet controlled.


The steward exhaled through his nose, a short, dry sound. “His name… Valerian Drost. Left hand of Lord Cedric Althorne of Arkwyn. Responsible for the town’s defense — the militia, the patrols, the walls. Not by heritage or favoritism, but by skill. Knows tactics, strategy, timing.” His hands flexed briefly, as though mimicking movements he had seen.


Narissa leaned a fraction closer, a subtle tension in her stance. “And… how has he been performing?”


The steward’s lips thinned, eyes darkening. “Since he came here… different. Less attentive. Last month, orcs… minor raid. Should have been handled easily, but due to poor coordination, lack of manpower, negligence… some townsfolk died. Shouldn’t have happened. Valerian wasn’t like this before.”


His voice dropped to a low murmur. “And it’s not just him. Others in authority — militia captains, watchmen — seem distracted, inattentive. Patrols inconsistent. Guards arriving late. Reports ignored or delayed. Something is drawing their focus elsewhere… or they are hiding something.”


I noted Narissa’s subtle reaction: her eyes narrowed slightly, jaw tightening, fingers brushing lightly against her dagger’s hilt. Thought running fast, connecting dots. She was already considering the cloaked figure, Valerian, and the festival’s peculiar undercurrent.


“Does he have a mansion?” she asked abruptly, voice cautious but laced with determination.


The steward chuckled dryly. “No mansion, not in the strictest sense. But a fine estate, well-guarded. Enough to rival any manor in the city. Northern edge of the residential district, near the old stone bridge, just past the square where the festival decorations start.”


Narissa’s gaze flicked to me, smirk tugging at her lips. “We go tomorrow, Aren. Quietly — gather more information from the inn, the staff, perhaps patrons who’ve seen him.”


I inclined my head, already considering timing and positioning. “Fine,” I said, calm, deliberate, as my eyes swept the steward’s posture, his subtle tensing at certain phrases. He was cautious, knowledgeable, and above all… honest, within the limits of fear and discretion.


Narissa gave a slight nod, then looked toward the stairwell leading to the rooms. “Rest now. Early start tomorrow.”


We moved through the corridor, the wood beneath our boots creaking softly, faint reminders of the inn’s age. Sylvie slept soundly, small hand clutching the blanket’s edge, eyes shut as Narissa peeked in to ensure she remained undisturbed. My attention lingered on the rising scent of the street below — the festival lights fading into calm, the distant echo of cleaning and preparation, faint traces of magic lingering in the air.


Narissa returned to the hallway, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Sleep,” she murmured softly, almost as if to herself, before disappearing behind the door to her room.


I stayed in the hallway, leaning slightly against the wall. My hands rested lightly on the chair near the window, gaze drifting to the quiet streets below. Lanterns swayed gently in the wind, casting fleeting shadows across cobblestones damp from a brief evening drizzle. The festival lights had faded into a softer glow, leaving only the distant flicker of lanterns and the faint hum of late-night activity.


My mind traced the night — the cloaked figure, Valerian’s negligence, the strange, deliberate movements of people in positions of power. Yet none of it mattered, not really. The town, the militia, the nobles — they existed outside my concerns. Observation alone was sufficient. Details were valuable, not for duty or honor, but for what they might reveal: treasures, artifacts, hints of the mysteries that had brought me to this world.


I catalogued everything: the faint residue of mana lingering in the streets, the smoke from the earlier confrontation, the subtle tension among festival staff still cleaning up after the crowd. Every detail might be useful someday, and in that, there was purpose enough.


Narissa had gone to her room to sleep, careful not to wake Sylvie. The soft creak of the door closing was the only sound accompanying the faint rustle of curtains and the distant thump of a shutter outside.


While I was engaged with the cloaked figure earlier, I had noticed two silhouettes lingering at the edges of the alley — Neon and Radon. They watched, careful not to intervene, their movements precise, unhurried, as if measuring every strike, every feint, every moment of decision.


They grasp the situation, I thought, letting a faint trace of approval settle in my mind. No interference, yet learning. Progressing on their own terms.


It was subtle, but enough to recognize that they understood the flow of events, that they could adapt, and that in time, they would become more than mere observers. For now, watching was their teacher, and restraint their lesson.


Sleep could wait. Curiosity was sharper than fatigue, and patience was a weapon far superior to action. Every motion, every subtle gesture, every minor clue was already cataloged.


Tomorrow, perhaps, I would move. Not for Arkwyn, not for duty, not for justice. Only for myself — for knowledge, for discovery, for anything that might shed light on why I had reincarnated to this world, and what secrets it still held.


The night remained calm, almost deceptive in its serenity. Lanterns flickered against the dark sky, swaying gently, as if conversing with the stars themselves. Shadows stretched across the streets below, hiding shapes and whispers. I let them remain unseen.


The game beneath Arkwyn’s celebration had begun.


And I intended to see it through — without haste, without emotion, without error.


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Neon and Radon moved through the quiet streets of Arkwyn, keeping to the shadows as they trailed the cloaked figure.


Neon’s eyes sparkled, lips curling into a grin. “Looks like our first mission might finally start.”


Radon smirked lightly, matching her pace. The faint clatter of distant lanterns and the whisper of wind through alleyways marked their path, but neither spoke again, letting their movements speak — silent, precise, ready.