"Please, take your seats." Mistress Yu spreads her arms like a hostess welcoming guests to a wedding. Except her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. Those stand too still. Too empty. "We have been waiting for you."
The food arrives. Served by villagers who don't breathe properly. Who move as if they learned the motions only recently. One step. Pause. The next step. The eyes—always straight ahead. Never blinking.
The tables in the tavern are now overloaded. Roasts still steaming. Jugs of wine, red as fresh blood. Fruit baskets where the apples seem to gleam—too perfect, too waxy.
Tarin sniffs. "Smells... good." He wants to believe it. Wants it so badly that his shoulders sink half a centimeter. "Really good."
"Of course." Mistress Yu places a hand on Tarin's shoulder. Her fingers are ice-cold, even through the fabric of his doublet. "Yulong is known for its delicious food, is it not?"
Tarin flinches. "Yes. Yes, it is. Indeed."
Jaro, a guild member from Tarin's group, is already clicking his teeth, his stomach growling. The others—Vara, Loran, the younger adventurers—they all have the same hungry look. Too many days on the road. Too little sleep.
The tavern presses against them like a living thing. The beams creak in rhythm with a heartbeat no one here possesses. On the walls hang pelts—bears, wolves, something that looks like deer but with antlers twisted too far. Too twisted.
Tarin sinks onto the bench. The wood is damp. Not sweaty—damp. As if someone had wiped the tables with a cloth that wasn't quite clean. His gaze still on the pelts. "Are these new?"
"Yes, our guests from Glutheim gifted them to us."
"I wasn't aware that such things are welcomed in Baiteng?" says Tessa.
But instead of receiving an answer, a man speaks from the shadows. "You come from Marenlor?" He steps from the darkness. A Mel'gar. He wears the clothing of Glutheim, but the fabrics hang wrong. Too loose for one accustomed to work. "A long journey."
"A mission." Tarin reaches for the bread, lets it lie. Too white. Too uniform. "We came to help. Yulong asked for support."
"And you came." The Mel'gar smiles. His teeth are too long for his face. Or Tarin imagines it. "How... heroic."
"We want no conflict, certainly not over political matters." Tarin raises his arm slightly, forming a de-escalating gesture. "We don't wish to reopen old wounds."
"Marenlor is a Kaelonian name, but it should mean Melandor!"
Vara from Tarin's guild quickly asks a question to change the subject: "Aren't there adventurers from the village of Glutheim who never returned from their missions?"
No answer, but instead Tessa clears her throat and asks again, insistently. "Liyen. And Mother Lan. Are they well?"
Suddenly the question hangs in the air like smoke. Mistress Yu, who had just stood at the counter, freezes mid-movement. Her elbow remains in that unnatural position, her hand cramped around the jug.
Then: "Unfortunately." One word. Two syllables. Too heavy for what they should mean. "The bandits. You know how young Li was. Always the first to fight. The last to flee."
Tessa's face turns to stone. "She is dead?"
"Fallen bravely." Mistress Yu's voice trembles. Perfect. A mixture of grief and pride, measured like wine in a jug. "Mother Lan as well. When she saw her daughter fall... a mother does anything for her child. Does she not?"
She looks to the twins. Elin and Lora have huddled together on the bench, small hands cramped together. Mistress Yu's tongue glides over her lips. Too quick. Too wet.
"Yes," says Tessa. Slowly. Each letter like a stone. "She does."
Suddenly Jaro bites into a drumstick. Fat sprays. "God, this is..." He chews. Swallows. "This is really so good." He laughs, the first real laughter in days, and the tension in the room breaks like a string.
"Tarin." Tessa's voice is a whisper. "Jaro."
"I know." He turns, studies his guild member. "Jaro, how impolite of you," says Tarin with an embarrassed smile. Jaro also looks slightly embarrassed. "Sorry, it is truly delicious. The food in Baiteng is always so tasty. Whenever I come to Yulong, I look forward to the food."
Everyone laughs.
"We all know each other so well already. No inhibitions, simply dig in."
"We eat," says Tarin. Loud. Determined. As if he could drown the uncertainty in his words with volume.
Mistress Yu inclines her head. A nod that is too deep, too quick. "Very gladly."
The others reach for the food. Vara, the adventurer who normally lives only on dried meat. Loran, who prays before every meal, now too hungry for prayers. The twins get soup, steaming, yellowish.
"Don't eat," whispers Elin. Too loud. Far too loud in the sudden silence.
Lora stares into her bowl. "There are... worms in it."
Tessa freezes with embarrassment. "Lora!"
"Herbs," says Mistress Yu. She is behind them, no one heard her come. Her hands rest on the girls' shoulders, heavy as iron. "Medicinal herbs. Good for growing."
Tarin wants to stand. His knee hits the table, the wine sloshes over, red on red. "Perhaps the children should sleep first. The journey was..."
"Exhausting." Mistress Yu finishes his sentence. Her fingers dig deeper into Elin's shoulder, the girl flinches, no sound crosses her lips. "For all of us. Therefore: Eat. Drink. Rest."
She raises her own jug. The wine within doesn't move right. Too thick. Too... different.
"To Yulong," she says. "To hospitality," Tarin quickly adds.
The villagers raise their jugs. In unison. Without sound. The guild members hesitate, then they drink. Jaro the longest, the deepest. The wine runs over his chin, darkens his beard.
Tarin sips. The taste is... sweet. Too sweet. Like overripe fruit already rotting. He spits discreetly into his cloth, hopes no one sees. Tessa does the same, her eyes meeting his over the table's edge. Something is wrong, their gazes say. But what?
Tarin bites into the bread. It tastes of nothing—or of too much. Honey that is artificial. Meat that has lain too long. He chews, swallows, and something in his stomach twitches.
Then he sees Jaro's face.
He sees the eyes. Still open, still awake, but the pupils too large, too black, as if someone had dropped ink into clear water. Jaro's mouth moves. No sound. Only lips forming words he cannot speak.
"Jaro?" Tarin's voice sounds foreign in his own ears. Too loud. Too quiet.
He turns. Vara holds her fork in her hand, half-raised to her mouth, frozen mid-movement. Her eyes meet his, and in them lie no questions anymore. Only realization. And fear, as old as the world.
Jaro's head falls onto the table. Not slowly—suddenly. His face hits the wooden board with a sound that is wet. Too wet. Something runs from his mouth. Not wine. Thicker.
Vara shakes him. "Jaro?" Shakes harder. "Jaro, wake up, you drunkard, this isn't..."
She breaks off. Because Jaro's eyes are open. Because they gleam. Because he breathes, but is no longer there.
"The food," says another adventurer, named Tarian. He stands, sways, reaches for his sword. Which isn't there. They surrendered it at the door, politely, hospitably. "There was something in the..."
He collapses. Knees first, then hands, then face. The plate beneath him shatters, ceramic splinters into his flesh. He doesn't feel it. Even laughs, a stupid, gurgling sound, while the blood runs.
"Tarin!" Tessa jumps up, the children by the hands. Elin and Lora hang in her arms, heavy as sacks. Their eyes are half-open, the pupils too large. "What have you done?"
"I?" Mistress Yu steps back, hands raised, the smile finally genuine. Too broad. Too many teeth. "I only helped. Hunger is so hard to endure. Is it not?"
The other villagers—they move now. No longer stiff, no longer wrong. Fluid. Like mist, like water, like something that learned to play human and now casts off the mask.
Tarin pulls Tessa back, toward the door. His legs don't obey properly, heavy as lead, the world tilts. "The children," he gasps. "Take the children and..."
"Where are you going?" A voice from the shadows. The Mel'gar again. He stands before the door, which they hadn't seen him reach. His eyes glow. Red. Not the red of wine-light—true Red, pulsing, alive. "The banquet has only just begun."
Behind him, at the windows, before the walls—eyes. Dozens. Hundreds. The villagers of Yulong, who are villagers no more. The Offspring.
"Run," Tarin tries to say. But his tongue is too thick, the words come as a whisper. "Tessa, run..."
She doesn't run. She can't. The twins in her arms, limp as dolls, and the door blocked, and everywhere these eyes, this hunger.
Mistress Yu steps closer. Her face changes. Stretches. The skin tightens over bones too sharp, too long. "Don't worry," she coos, and her voice no longer comes from her mouth, but from the room itself, from the walls, from the floor beneath their feet. "It will be quick. Very quick."
She licks her lips. The tongue is too long. Too sharp.
"Hunger," she says, "is the only thing that remains."
Outside the Tavern, Thirty Minutes Earlier
Liyen presses herself flatter against the cool stone wall. The plaster crumbles beneath her fingers, smells of salt and mold and something she cannot name. The light from the windows brushes over her face—warm, golden, wrong. Inside, the adventurers laugh. Still.
She takes a step. Then another. The shadow of a projection covers her, three seconds, four. Her heart hammers in rhythm with a bird throwing itself against a cage.
Then she feels it.
Not sound. Not movement. Absence. The air grows thinner where she was, and Liyen turns—too slow, far too slow—while the mist thickens.
Three figures. From nothing. From darkness.
The Tall One suddenly stands left behind the wall. His limbs stretch at wrong angles, as if someone had assembled a human skeleton with dedication but without instruction. The Small One—woman? girl?—hangs upside down from a roof projection that no longer exists, her claws scratching rhythmically against the wood. Click. Click. Click. The Strong One materializes directly around the corner beside Liyen, so close that she can smell his breath. Of copper. Of ash. Of hunger.
"Do you smell that?" The Tall One's voice comes from the mist, not from his mouth. "Living. Fresh. Awake."
Liyen draws the bow. Her fingers tremble, and she hates herself for it, hates the fear that freezes her bones to ice. The arrow lies on the string, useless, three enemies, no cover, no chance.
If I must die, she thinks, and the image of Yaoming stands before her, not clear, only the impression of warmth, of hands that once held hers, then with honor.
"I come, Yaoming," she whispers. The name tastes of farewell. "I follow your Qi."
She breathes in. Out. The Tiger Spirit doesn't answer—it never answers—but the ritual steadies her hands. A little. Enough.
"Tiger Spirit," she murmurs, and her voice is only breath, "strengthen my breath and clear my---"
The bushes move.
Not much. A rustling, as if a night owl had shaken out its wings. But the three Noctusborn—they freeze. Mid-movement. Mid-hunger. Their heads turn in unison, too far, too fast, and Liyen sees the curiosity in their red eyes. The greed.
"There," hisses the Small One. Her tongue is too long for her mouth. "Something... shining."
They float toward the bushes. Not run—glide, as if the ground beneath them had ceased to exist. The Tall One first, claws extended, ready to grab, to tear, to seize.
Liyen holds her breath. What is it? An animal? A trick? A gift from the gods she doesn't deserve?
The small Qi-Flame leaps from the bushes.
It is smaller than Liyen remembers it. Tinier. A spark that shines too bright for its size, too awake for a thing without a face. It whirs—not flies, dances—and hovers, exactly at eye level with the Tall One.
"Chiu," it makes. A sound. A name. A mockery.
The Tall One reaches. His hand becomes a claw, too fast for Liyen's eyes, air crackles where it passes. He closes his fist. Tight. Destructively tight.
Then he opens it.
Empty.
Not smoke. Not light. Nothing. The Qi-Flame has ceased to exist, or it was never there, or---
"Chiu!"
Before his nose. Ten centimeters. The Flame pulses, white, and for a moment—a single, human moment—Liyen sees something in the Noctusborn's eyes. Confusion. Then rage.
The Strong One lets out a scream—not a word, only sound—and strikes. His fist is a hammer, a boulder, it shatters bone, stone, reality.
The Qi-Flame is gone.
The fist hits the Tall One's face. The crack is loud, too loud, fleshy and hard at once. The Tall One staggers, his jaw hangs crooked, black liquid drips from his mouth, and he laughs. Gurgling. Bubbling. Then he straightens, the jaw grinds back into position, and both—he and the Strong One—stare upward.
The Qi-Flame sits on the Strong One's head. Dances on it. Tickles.
"Down," growls the Strong One. His voice comes from the depths, from the belly, from something that was never human. "Down, you---"
The Small One leaps. From the roof, from nothing, from her place in the world that she never had. She lands on the Strong One's shoulders, her claws dig into his flesh—not deep enough—and she strikes. Quick. So quick. Liyen sees only light, only shadow, only the reflection of something sharp that tears the air.
The Strong One roars. Not from pain—from surprise.
The Qi-Flame is before his nose. Then before the Small One. Then behind her, at her ear, whispering: "Chiu."
The Small One turns. Strikes. Hits the Strong One again, this time at the neck, black blood fountains spray, he grabs her, throws her, she lands on her feet like a cat, ready to---
The Qi-Flame flees.
Not fast. Not slow. Playful. It whirs a spiral around the Tall One, lets itself almost be caught, not quite, almost again, and the Small One follows. Pursues. Forgets.
Liyen breathes out. Her lungs burn, she hadn't realized she held her breath. The three Noctusborn are gone, behind the house, in the mist, in the hunt, and she---
She hears the laughter from the tavern. The false laughter. The end.
"Damn." Her voice trembles. She clenches her fists, lets them loose again, feels the nails in her palms. "Use your tiny brain, Liyen. What would Ma do now?"
Mother Lan, who searched burning houses for survivors without hesitation. Who never screamed, never ran, only acted.
"What would Paps do now?"
Father, the clever strategist. Who smiled when others wept.
Liyen closes her eyes. Hears the steps of the Noctusborn behind her, far away, too near. Hears the still life in the tavern—the eating that is no longer chewed, the heads falling onto tables, the sleep that comes.
She cannot fight. Not against all at once. Not against these things.
But she can be loud.
The whistle cuts through the night like a knife through silk. High. Shrill. Impossible to miss.
Inside the tavern, the laughter breaks off.
And Liyen runs. Not away. Toward. To the window, to the light, to death or to salvation—there is no difference anymore, only movement, only the next breath, only the whinny of Luobo, who answers from somewhere in the darkness.
Come, she thinks. Please, come.
The Qi-Flame whirs past, a heartbeat long, warm on her cheek. "Chiu," it whispers, and sounds almost like promise.
Then it is gone.