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Afternoon.
Wyfshade Inn, Wyfwood.
Boundary Wyfellon, Wyfn-Garde.
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"Where did you say he was found?" Alaric asked as he walked alongside Richard, exiting the royal building. Richard had just briefed him on the situation, and now they were heading out to address it. In Wyfn-Garde, you couldn't just be a prince; everyone had responsibilities, including the royal family, and that often meant handling disputes or threats directly.
"At Wyfshade Inn," Richard replied. "He had two missing fingers and kept spouting nonsense. He could have seen the killer."
Wyfshade Inn was a secluded place for travelers, tucked at the edge of Wyfwood Forest. The forest itself served as a boundary between Wyfellon, the capital where the castle stood, and Wyfmoor, the Village of Shadows. It fell under Alaric's jurisdiction. This inn has been reported to have dumped dead bodies by the door and the closest households.
"Why isn't Spencer handling this?" Alaric muttered the question. "I just got married; they could at least give me a break."
Richard cleared his throat. "I hate to point out my deficiency, but I have only one eye—do you really expect me to do 'this'?" His impression of Prince Spencer, the second prince, was spot on, mimicking his lazy drawl and dismissive tone perfectly. It was so accurate that Alaric had to suppress a smile.
The second prince was a procrastinating fool, always avoiding responsibilities. Alaric was constantly called to deal with small issues before they grew bigger, mostly to keep the kingdom from blaming him for things that spiraled out of control. He had grown accustomed to the constant finger-pointing. The head councilman often tried to put Alaric in a good light, which meant sending him on tasks instead of his brothers.
"Where's the carriage?" Alaric asked.
"We could save time," Richard suggested with a sly smile.
Richard was one of the few in Wyfn-Garde who still practiced magic. He preferred creating portals for quick travel rather than using the usual methods.
Before they could act, a voice interrupted them, stopping them dead in their tracks. "Hello there, brother."
It was Genevieve.
Alaric turned to face her while Richard walked ahead, uninterested in royal drama.
"Where are you going?" Genevieve asked, approaching with slow, deliberate steps, every move of hers oozing seduction.
Alaric resisted the urge to sigh. "Not now, Genevieve," he replied, intending to walk past her, but her next words made his jaw clench.
"Don't you think it's dangerous to leave your little red rat alone?" she asked.
He ignored her and continued walking, but Genevieve wasn't having it. "I'm talking to you!" she shouted.
Alaric finally sighed and called over his shoulder, "I don't have time for this. I have work to do."
That didn't deter her. She caught up to him quickly, grabbing his arm. That's when he snapped. He despised being touched unnecessarily.
"Go back inside, Genevieve," he growled, his voice low and filled with warning. His gaze hardened as he stared her down.
Genevieve was relentless, though. "You owe me an apology," she bit out before storming off, clearly furious.
Richard reappeared beside Alaric, shaking his head. "What did she want this time?"
"An apology," Alaric muttered under his breath.
Without wasting another moment, Richard opened a portal, and within seconds, they were no longer in the castle grounds.
They appeared somewhere and the Wyfshade Inn loomed ahead, its once-proud facade was now a weather-beaten reminder of better days. Dust clung to the crevices of the wood-paneled exterior, with the faint outline of a sign barely readable in the dim light.
The forest surrounding it gave the place an eerie stillness, the quiet only broken by the occasional creak of the inn's warped shutters as they swayed in the wind. The air carried a faint musty scent, hinting at old wood and forgotten rooms. Alaric couldn't believe people still rented this.
"What a place" Lucius whispered in Alaric's head but he got no reply from his companion.
As Alaric and Richard approached, the front door, Richard muttered, "I'm not touching that,"
"Neither am I," Alaric countered leisurely.
Richard looked at him as though he betrayed him by saying that, "You're wearing gloves," he pointed out, clearly Alaric shouldn't mind touching the door if he's wearing gloves but Alaric thought differently. He simply didn't want to touch it.
"Use your shoes," Alaric commanded, his brows gesturing for him to 'go on'.
Richard pursed his lips before kicking it open with his feet and the door groaned loudly, as though protesting their presence. The sound echoed ominously in the silent clearing, unsettling the few patrons lingering on the front porch. They glanced at the new comers but also uncaringly went back to their business.
Shadows flickered inside the dimly lit space, distorted by the uneven candlelight, and the faint murmur of whispered conversations was the only noise within. The inn's once-bustling atmosphere was subdued, replaced by an unruly, almost oppressive silence, everyone who sat looked drained and uninterested with living.
Inside, the floorboards creaked underfoot with each step, the wood worn smooth from years of heavy boots and restless travelers. The air was heavy with the scent of stale ale, damp wood, and something more — something darker, almost metallic.
The few patrons inside sat hunched over their mugs, casting wary glances at each other, their conversations abruptly silencing as Alaric entered. They knew trouble when they saw it, and trouble had arrived.
At the far end of the room, a man sat at a table alone, his head hung low, two bandaged stumps where his fingers should have been. He rocked back and forth slightly, muttering incoherently. His clothes were ragged, stained with dirt and blood, and his wild eyes darted around the room, never settling on one spot for long. The innkeeper, a burly man with deep lines etched into his face, stood behind the bar, his hands gripping the counter as he watched Alaric and Richard enter.
"There," Richard muttered, nodding towards the man with the missing fingers.
Alaric's sharp gaze locked onto the man, noticing how the patrons gave him a wide berth. There was something off about him — beyond the missing fingers and crazed muttering. The energy around him was wrong, unnatural.
"What's he been saying?" Alaric asked the innkeeper as he approached.
The innkeeper's voice was gruff, but there was an edge of fear. "He's been rambling on about shadows... things following him... and a name—Wyfmoor."
At the mention of Wyfmoor, Alaric's attention sharpened. That village had its share of dark stories, but this felt different, more dangerous. He exchanged a glance with Richard, who was already scanning the man with his magic, his expression tense.
"We need to talk to him," Alaric said, his voice low.
As they approached the man, the muttering grew louder, more frantic. The man's eyes snapped to Alaric, wide with terror. He shrank back in his seat, his voice trembling.
"They're coming... from the shadows... they took my fingers... they'll take more... Wyfmoor... it's spreading... you have to stop it..."
Alaric leaned in closer, his voice cold and commanding. "What do you mean, spreading?"
But the man only shook his head violently, his words dissolving into unintelligible ramblings once more. His body shuddered, his breath coming in gasps.
"Did you see the perpetrator?" Alaric asked when the rambling reduced and the man was simply sniffing.
"Get me out of here, I can't be here" his panicked eyes held Alaric's but he was quick to avert it and returned to his whimpering.
Alaric straightened, glancing at Richard who sighed. "We're going to Wyfmoor."
Richard nodded grimly, already preparing for what lay ahead. Whatever was happening, it was clear that the danger wasn't confined to this man — it was spreading, and Alaric had a feeling they were only scratching the surface of something much darker.