"True Order is found not in the silence of a temple, but in the chaos of a roadside tavern, where every smile can hide a blade, and every silence weighs the price of a life."
The carriage, swaying, slowed its pace, and the wheels crunched through the frozen mud. The driver, with an indifference honed by years, halted the horses at a shabby tavern. The building, hammered together from weather-darkened wood, seemed to have grown into the earth. On a heavy oak sign, creaking mournfully in the wind, was engraved the name "The Solitary Crow" and a bird whose clumsy, angular outline more closely resembled a child's drawing.
I opened the door, jumped to the hard ground, and, inhaling the frosty air, offered my hand to Catherine. She took it with ease, but her fingers were cold.
"Arta, are you sure we should stop here?" she asked cautiously. Her voice was quiet, and her gaze slid with unconcealed anxiety over the dilapidated walls and dimly lit windows.
"No. But if you hadn't spent the entire evening in Mistwood yesterday, we would have made it further," I replied, meeting her blue eyes, in which even more questions were now added to the anxiety.
"Oh, don't start again!" She released my hand and playfully put her hands on her hips. "We had a wonderful time and ate rabbit skewers. Where else would you have tried such a thing?" a teasing note sounded in her voice.
"I don't know. But as you can see, everything has a price. If you had listened to me, there would have been no problems, and we would already be resting at 'The Songbird's Nest.' And now…" I shook my head, looking at the thickening twilight. "Now we have two options: either spend the night here or look for another driver in the dark."
Catherine sighed in disappointment, and a cloud of steam escaped her lips.
"This is awful! We have to spend the night in this?" She cast a disdainful glance at the two-story structure, from whose windows seeped a crimson, unhealthy candlelight.
"There's nothing to be done. Let's go, have supper, and we'll set off tomorrow."
Catherine reluctantly nodded, and we headed for the tavern. The heavy door yielded with a prolonged groan, and we were immediately enveloped in a suffocating mix of smells: cheap, sour alcohol, stale pastries, and something rotten and damp, like earth in a cellar. There was not a single woman inside—Catherine and I were the only ones. The stares of the regulars—dull, heavy—predictably fixed on us, as if appraising, weighing, undressing.
"Arta, I don't feel right," Catherine whispered, moving so close that I could feel the warmth of her breath.
"I understand. What did you expect from drunken men?" I grunted ironically, not slowing my pace.
"I don't know…" her voice was barely audible. "Is it safe here?"
"Safety is a relative concept. One must always be prepared for any problems," I answered dryly and approached the innkeeper.
He was a gray-haired man with a long, tangled beard and a dirty, yellowed shirt, belted with a rough leather strap. He was lazily wiping a pewter mug with a rag of questionable cleanliness.
The innkeeper gave us an oily, appraising look.
"What can I get for you, ladies?" he asked, trying to make his hoarse, smoke-roughened voice less coarse.
"We need a simple supper and a room with two separate beds," I said calmly, looking him directly in the eye.
"No separate beds." He smirked, revealing yellowed teeth. "There's one room with a large bed, the rest are taken. But it's the 'suite,' so the price will be higher," he announced hoarsely.
"'Suite'? We need two separate beds," I repeated, shaking my head.
"I told you, all the rooms are taken. If you'd come later, there'd be nothing at all," he smirked again.
I looked questioningly at Catherine. I did not want to share a bed with her—after all, she was an anomaly, an unpredictable variable in my flawless equation.
"In that case, we'll need two blankets," Catherine intervened. Her back straightened, and her voice sounded firm and uncompromising. "Are you at least capable of that?"
"Are you sure we should sleep in the same bed?" I asked quietly.
"And do you want to sleep outside, Arta?" she parried skeptically and fixed her gaze on the innkeeper again, who was watching our squabble with interest. "So what about the blankets?"
"I'll find you blankets. One gold piece for the night and supper," he grunted.
"One gold piece?!" Catherine exclaimed, her cheeks flushing. "Are you out of your mind?! Have you seen what this place looks like?"
"Not my problem. Either pay or get out," he grunted, dismissing her with a flick of his wrist before returning to the mug.
Catherine crossed her arms over her chest, her lips pressed into a thin line. She was ready to argue to the last.
"We'll take it," I interrupted her, taking a gold coin from my pouch and placing it on the sticky counter.
The innkeeper put down the rag, took the coin, brought it to his eye, and then shamelessly tested it with his teeth. A faint mark remained on the surface of the new coin, which bore the coat of arms of the Tarvarian Empire.
"Sit at a free table. I'll give you the keys after supper," he said, hiding the coin in his tunic with a satisfied look.
Almost all the tables in the dark corners, where we could have remained unnoticed, were occupied. Catherine and I had to sit at a small, wobbly table almost in the center of the room. We placed our things under the table and, without much interest, surveyed the surroundings, which were too oppressive even for this time of day. The low ceiling pressed down, and the air was heavy with smoke and indistinct murmuring.
"Arta, why did you agree?" Catherine asked, disdainfully brushing breadcrumbs from her chair. "This is daylight robbery!"
"Dark night robbery," I corrected, sweeping the crumbs from the table and my chair. This establishment had clearly never heard of basic order.
"Well, you know what I mean," Catherine replied calmly. "I understand that your indifferent and cold-as-two-abysses violet eyes don't notice trifles, but this place is simply awful!" Catherine touched her forehead, and a light strand of hair fell onto her hand.
"I notice everything. But wasn't it you who said it's better here than on the street?" I clarified. "Or do you think we would have had a wonderful time burrowed in a snowdrift somewhere?"
Catherine let out a strangled groan.
"I understand you, Miss Compromise." She looked wearily at the darkened deer antlers hanging above the old stone fireplace. "To be honest, I didn't think I'd feel like an exhibit in a display case," she added skeptically, glancing around at the drunken men who were loudly conversing about something, periodically casting greasy looks at us.
"Catherine, the world is not a fairy tale. If you think strangers will value you for your deep inner world, you are sorely mistaken," I replied calmly.
"Arta, tell me honestly, is that why you dress like this?" she nodded at my modest, plain traveling attire.
"No. As you can see, you can be wrapped up like a nun, but in certain places, you will still be perceived as nothing more than an attractive piece of flesh."
"Brr…" Catherine shook her head, and her hair became even more disheveled. "Disgusting, but true. You're right."
"Uh-huh…" I replied calmly.
A sullen, balding man slammed two wooden bowls of vegetable stew, two pieces of bread, and two cups of herbal infusion onto our table with a crash. Without even deigning to look at us, he went to serve other customers.
"Well, 'suite' service," Catherine said, picking up a wooden spoon and dipping it dubiously into the stew.
"The main thing is that it's edible." I ran my fingers over the plates, and thin golden threads of Order, invisible to the naked eye, pierced the food, finding no impurities.
"Arta, tell me, are you really so afraid that you check the food in every inn?" she asked, lifting the spoon and watching the sticky, gray sludge drip back into the bowl.
"No. But you remember the situation with Evelina, don't you? What would have happened if I hadn't checked that wine?" I asked, picking up my own spoon.
Catherine's face instantly grew serious, and she lowered her spoon into the bowl.
"Let's not talk about that here. I'm still afraid I'll accidentally say too much and you'll die." Catherine leaned toward me, her eyes darkening. "I hate this damned blood pact," she said, almost in a whisper.
I nodded, and we began our supper.
The food turned out to be not as bad as one might expect from such an establishment, but we finished quickly for a different reason entirely. For Catherine, it was an ordeal—a desire to escape the intrusive stares as soon as possible. For me, it was the feeling of a suspicious, focused energy, which, unlike the scattered lecherous glances, was directed not at the surface, but inward, like a thin needle.
Taking the keys from the innkeeper, we climbed the creaky wooden staircase to the second floor. Room 15 was located almost at the end of a shabby, dimly lit corridor that smelled of stale dust and unwashed bodies.
"It's disgusting here," Catherine said, pinching her nose and instinctively grabbing my sleeve.
I silently opened the door, and we entered. It was a small room, paneled in dark, dried-out wood. Incense smoldered on a small table, its sweetish smoke barely masking the unpleasant aromas of the tavern. And most importantly—there was a huge bed, which, judging by its sagging mattress and questionable stains on the coverlet, was used for far more than just sleep. The bed was unmade, and two blankets lay in crumpled heaps at the foot.
I began to make the bed with the yellowed but clean-washed, lye-scented linen, and Catherine willingly helped me. Our movements were silent and coordinated.
"Well, this is not how I imagined it," she said, disappearing behind the shaky door of the wardrobe to change.
"And how did you imagine it?" I asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and fixing my gaze on the flimsy door, locked with a rusty metal hook.
"I don't know, but definitely not like this," came a voice with a smirk from behind the wardrobe door.
"You know, Catherine… someone was watching us. Not just looking. Watching."
"You're telling me. Someone was watching us all through supper. I don't even want to think about the dirty thoughts they had in their heads," Catherine growled with irritation, emerging from behind the wardrobe door in a long blue nightgown.
"I'm not talking about that," I said calmly, turning my head toward her. "I felt someone's gaze, and it was… unusual. Focused."
"You can even tell with gazes now?" She came and sat beside me. The mattress groaned pitifully beneath her.
"I know it sounds strange, but I really felt something," I replied, trying not to reveal all the details, but to make it clear that all this was too suspicious.
"Listen, Arta, believe me, if you felt something, I won't take it lightly," she replied. She held her breath, and I saw her hands, resting on her knees, clench into fists.
"Alright, let's sleep. I hope everything will be fine," I said, shaking my head.
"If you want, we can take turns on watch," Catherine immediately suggested.
"No need. The door is closed, the one window is also latched shut. If someone tries to break in, we'll hear it," I objected. "Besides, we need to get some sleep. The carriage ride is very tiring."
"Yes…" Catherine replied, yawning. "Are you going to change? I want to put out the candles already."
"A minute." I stood up, changed behind the wardrobe door, and was soon in a plain white nightshirt.
"You look like a ghost in this setting, Arta," Catherine said with a laugh, blowing out the candle on her side.
"So be it," I replied, extinguishing my own candle, after which the room plunged into a thick, almost tangible darkness.
I covered myself with my blanket; its rough fabric scratched my skin. I relaxed my body and analyzed what had happened. And only when I had almost completely drifted off to sleep, on the verge of wakefulness and oblivion, did I feel a light, almost weightless touch. The tips of her fingers touched mine.
***
The early morning of the third day of our journey met us with an icy silence. The "Solitary Crow" tavern was the same chaos as yesterday, and outside the dirty, frost-covered windows, snow-covered hills were visible. Descending, I smelled the scent of cold ashes, pine needles, and the same cheap alcohol.
This time, we were able to sit at a carelessly hewn table by the window, behind whose icy patterns the world seemed gray and formless. We ordered breakfast and were soon served a plate of oatmeal, which by all signs was not the freshest.
"Are you sure this oatmeal is edible?" Catherine asked, poking disgustedly at the wooden plate. "It looks even worse than last night's stew."
"At least it's not poisoned and contains the necessary nutrients for your body," I replied calmly, tasting the congealed, sticky porridge.
Catherine snorted, but a twinkle danced in her eyes. The long road to Liranis had strangely brought us closer. In the enclosed space of the carriage, even my silence seemed to her a form of dialogue.
"Sometimes it seems to me that you don't care what you eat. If you were served crumbled pages from some dusty book, breakfast would be ready."
"I'll start eating dusty pages right after you," I replied without a trace of a smile.
Catherine laughed.
"We still need to find a driver. I hope we don't have to trudge for tens of kilometers senselessly," I noted coldly.
"We won't have to," Catherine waved her hand.
Breakfast ended quickly. We took our bags and went outside. Only a portly man with a face like an underbaked loaf of bread followed us with a heavy, unreadable gaze.
Outside, I approached a slightly drunk man and addressed him in a polite tone, "Excuse me, could you tell us where we can find the nearest driver?"
The man grunted with displeasure and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "They're all out on runs. I've forgotten the last time I saw one," he answered cheerlessly. "It's winter, the roads are bad. But…" he lowered his voice, and for a moment his drunken eyes became sober and cunning, "ask the stable boy in the courtyard. The kid's quick, maybe he knows someone."
His reaction was illogical. Why would he be keeping track of drivers for so long? He did not look like a guest who had been staying here for several days, and his drunkenness seemed feigned.
"Thank you, we will ask him," I replied, understanding that even a faint chance of quickly finding a driver was better than trudging for hours along snow-covered roads.
We went out into the courtyard. The cold air hit my face, smelling of wet hay, manure, and a faint anxiety. The stable was old, made of time-darkened wood. At the entrance, we were met by a boy of about fifteen in a worn sheepskin coat.
"Looking for a driver, ladies?" he asked, sniffling, as if he already knew my question. His smile was too wide. "There's one. Reliable. He's just behind the stable, getting the horses ready. Come on, I'll show you."
He led us around the corner. The space here was enclosed: a blank wall of the tavern, a high fence, and a leaning shed. And three men. They were not getting horses ready. They were waiting. They wore simple traveling cloaks, but under them, one could guess leather armor and the heavy hilts of swords. The one in the center—tall, with a scar cutting across his cheek—smirked when he saw us.
"Well, here are our little birds," he drew out the words. His voice was hoarse from cheap tobacco.
Catherine froze, her hand instinctively clenching.
"What do you want?" I asked. My voice sounded even, without a single note of fear.
"Us?" The leader laughed, and his laugh sounded dull and unpleasant. "We want nothing. But our client… he very much wants to meet an Order mage like you. Or do you think we didn't notice how you checked your food for poisons yesterday?" he grunted.
Now it was clear that I had been carefully watched since last night. Catherine, hearing their words, turned pale. This was not a random encounter, but a carefully prepared trap.
One of the mercenaries, more impatient, stepped forward. "Let's just finish with them and go."
The leader stopped him with a gesture. "Quiet. We have orders. We need to wait for 'Tom.' We're not getting paid for corpses, but for delivery." He gave us an oily look, lingering on Catherine with open interest. "Besides, we'll have time… first, we'll have some fun with them, and then we'll cut their throats, if 'Tom' gives the word."
From around the corner came two more men: the one who had watched us in the tavern and the one who had met us at the exit. Their eyes were full of open, animal lust.
At that moment, the world ceased to exist for Catherine. I saw how terror paralyzed her, how her pupils dilated, how her breath caught in her throat. She was not facing an enemy. She was facing absolute, mundane evil that left no choice.
They moved toward us, hoping for easy prey, but I was not going to play games with half-witted rapists.
I stepped forward, shielding Catherine. "What a pity," I said in the same calm voice. "That your 'Tom' will never see his order."
Before they could understand what had happened, I was already acting.
The space around us compressed and darkened for a moment. Darkness magic absorbed the sound, turning the world into a silent canvas. A tiny golden sphere appeared beside them, and in the next instant, five rays of Order shot out of it with a hiss, piercing through the bodies of each of them, precisely where their hearts were located. They choked on blood and, in the same instant, collapsed to the ground like sacks of bones.
We heard no scream, no agony—only surprised, deathly gasps and scarlet blood on the cold, dirty snow. The stable boy, who had seen it all, froze with his mouth open, and then a strangled croak escaped his throat, and he, stumbling, broke into a run. I did not stop him. He was merely an instrument, a boy who likely did not comprehend the nature of the game he had been paid to play.
The sphere dissipated, and the silence once again became ordinary, filled with the distant noise of the tavern. Only the smell of ozone and warm blood disturbed the usual rhythm.
I turned to Catherine. She stood as if petrified, her body trembling finely. She looked at the corpses, then at me, and in her eyes was a primal horror, mixed with… something else. Perhaps, with understanding.
I gently took her hand. Her fingers were as cold as death. "We need to leave immediately. They are clearly not acting alone."
She did not answer, only her eyelid twitched almost imperceptibly. I led her away from that courtyard, from that tavern—to the road on which we would have to walk for the next few hours.
Only when we had found a driver a few hours later and were seated in the carriage did she finally speak. Her voice was a barely audible whisper, "You… you… killed them."
"Yes," I answered.
"So… simply," she said in a trembling voice.
"Here, either you kill, or they kill you. It is the simplest way to survive."
"But…"
"Catherine, for a woman in such cases, it does not end with a simple death," I answered coldly.
She swallowed and fell silent, looking for a long time at her trembling hands. Then she slowly looked up at me, and there was no more fear in her gaze—only a deep, unconditional trust.
"Thank you, Arta…" she whispered. "You… you saved me."
I just nodded. However, she did not understand the main thing. I had not only saved her. I had saved my unique variable—a rare soul in the universe that deserves my trust. And the price of this salvation was marked by five corpses on the dirty snow near the "Solitary Crow" tavern.