As Arda stepped into the hall, he was met with an unsettling emptiness. A large fireplace, framed by meticulously arranged stones, cast flickering shadows across the room. Three armchairs sat before it, their backs absorbing the dance of the flames.
The walls were lined with aged wooden panels, carrying the dust of forgotten years. Mounted upon them were the preserved heads of animals, their glassy eyes staring into nothingness. A gray wolf, its snarl frozen in time, stood beside a majestic stag with towering antlers. The dim firelight reflected off their lifeless eyes, giving them an eerie semblance of awareness.
A grandfather clock leaned against the wall, its steady ticking the only sound breaking the silence. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood, burning logs, and the faint musk of time long past.
The fireplace's glow barely reached the corners of the hall, leaving them swallowed in darkness. Though nothing was visible within, Arda couldn't shake the feeling that something was there—watching, waiting.
Five people occupied the room, their presence oddly out of place in such a setting. One of them, an elderly man with thinning white hair, sat in an armchair near the fire, engrossed in a book. His sunken face, marked by age, bore an expression of quiet concentration. He was dressed like a gentleman of another era—his suit pristine, a watch chain glinting on his chest.
By the fireplace, a man and a woman stood in conversation. The woman had short hair and sharp brown eyes that fixed intently on her companion. Her skin bore traces of freckles, or perhaps remnants of a tan long faded. She wore practical clothing—a sturdy leather-reinforced coat and durable pants.
The man beside her was dressed in a similar fashion. Ironically, his hair was longer than the woman's, falling past his shoulders. He had a strong jawline, light stubble, and an air of quiet confidence. Standing at around 190 cm, his presence was commanding.
The remaining two figures were the ones Arda had seen earlier. The young girl still lingered near the entrance, watching him curiously, while the broad-shouldered man leaned against the fireplace, his stern gaze locked onto Arda.
As Arda stepped further into the room, the murmuring pair turned toward him. The long-haired man smirked.
"So, our last unfortunate guest has finally woken up."
The elderly man closed his book with a quiet thud. "Don't say it like that, Geralt. Whether it is fortune or misfortune—fate will decide." His gaze settled on Arda, studying him intently.
Under the scrutiny, Arda felt uneasy. Unsure of the etiquette in such a strange situation, he hesitated before speaking. "Good morning, everyone." Then, glancing at the darkened windows, he corrected himself. "Or should I say good evening?"
"What does it matter?" the woman scoffed. "Morning, night… we're trapped here either way. Time means nothing."
"Hmph." The burly man grunted. "I wouldn't say that. In a few hours, one of us will be dead." His sharp eyes flicked toward the woman. "Talking so carelessly… could it be that you're the culprit?"
Her hand instinctively moved to her waist—searching for something that wasn't there. Though she found nothing, her expression remained unfazed. "I won't deny that I'm in a bad mood. But not in the way you think."
"P-please don't fight!" the young girl blurted out, her voice anxious.
At her plea, the woman's expression softened. She turned to the girl and gave a theatrical bow. "As our princess commands."
Princess? Arda frowned. What's a princess doing here?
Actually, that wasn't the only strange thing—these people all seemed familiar with each other. Yet Arda… didn't recognize any of them.
That worried him. It was best to keep quiet until he understood more.
The long-haired man sauntered over to one of the armchairs and sat down with practiced ease. "Shall we stop wasting time and get to the point?"
The room fell into a mutual silence as the others followed suit, settling into their seats.
The elderly man turned to Arda, his green eyes gleaming with wisdom. "Are you waiting for an invitation, young man?"
Arda chuckled nervously. "I was just considering the best seat." Two remained—one beside the burly man, the other next to the leather-clad woman. The former shot him a glare that could rival a bear's.
Arda stepped toward the woman. "The company of a lady seems like the better choice."
She lifted her head, amusement flashing in her eyes.
"That is… if you don't mind, my lady."
"Shhh, dark boy," the long-haired man interjected. "That mare already has an owner."
Mare? Arda blinked. Did he really just call her that—to her face?
The woman only chuckled. "If you care so much about your mare, cowboy, why'd you leave her unattended?"
At that, the man stood and strode over to Arda, stopping just inches away. A ten-centimeter height difference put Arda at an unfortunate angle—close enough to count the hairs in the man's nostrils.
Ugh. Disgusting.
Unable to endure the sight, Arda sidestepped and took the vacant seat at the far end of the couch. The young girl beside him gave a small nod, which he returned before sitting down. When he glanced back, the long-haired man had reclaimed the seat next to the woman, draping an arm over her shoulders.
This place wasn't just old-fashioned—it was filled with old-fashioned people. The moment another man showed up, the cowboy had gone straight into 'protect my woman' mode.
"So, old man," the woman spoke, turning her attention back to the elder. "What happens now?"
The elderly man nodded, his expression grave as he surveyed the room. Then, he spoke. "Now that everyone is here, we can finally share what we know."
"Ugh, finally! I still don't see why we had to wait for the last one," the long-haired man muttered.
The old man remained unshaken. "To avoid repeating myself endlessly. You were the second-to-last to wake, so you don't care. But I was the first. If I had explained everything every time someone woke up, I'd have said the same thing five times over."
At that, the long-haired man huffed but didn't argue.
"Now then," the old man continued, leaning forward. "Let's first establish where we are. You younger ones might not know, but this place is quite famous in Elm Town. We are in the Yakut family's mountain lodge."
"The Yakut family? I know them!" the young girl said excitedly. "My grandfather told me stories!"
"Let him finish, kid," the short-haired woman cut in.
The girl's excitement dimmed as she mumbled under her breath, "I'm not a kid."
Arda frowned. First 'princess,' now 'kid'? So the princess comment had been sarcasm, a jab at her innocence.
The old man leaned forward as he lowered his feet back down. His voice dropped to a whisper, his words slipping from his throat like a hushed secret:
"Ten years after that incident, a storm struck the town. But this was no ordinary storm. You couldn't see a thing. The air howled with an eerie wail. There was something inside the wind... whispers, almost. Something we couldn't name, yet we felt it deep in our bones. That night, many people had the same nightmare. A shadow… tall, thin, yet so filled with rage that even its very bones seemed to crack and groan. It had no eyes, yet you felt it watching you. Its breath was the wind, and its voice… the creaks and snaps hidden in the night."
The old man bowed his head slightly, his eyes darkening for a brief moment.
"And by morning… six people had vanished."
His words landed like a stone, making the air in the room feel heavier.
The young girl, her face pale, her voice trembling, asked, "T-they were never found?"
The old man slowly shook his head. "No. It was as if they had never existed. Their houses were untouched, their belongings left as they were—nothing was missing… except for them. And they never returned."
The short-haired woman hugged her arms around herself. "But… how is that possible?" The usual playful look on her face was gone. She was beginning to understand just how serious this was.
The old man fixed his gaze on her. "You think it's impossible, don't you? But people in town talked about it for years. The storm… was the Yakut family's curse. That night, those who disappeared didn't simply vanish… They were taken."
He closed his eyes for a moment, his voice trembling just enough to show he wasn't making this up.
"The head of the Yakut family… even in death, he found no peace. His fury merged with the sky, roamed within the wind. And that night, within the storm, he returned. He took six people. No one knows where he took them. But some… some say they heard their screams."
The young girl swallowed hard. "Screams?"
The old man nodded. "Carried by the wind… in the dead of night… If you listen closely, you can still hear them. Distant, yet chilling. Because once that storm has blown through, it always comes back. And each time it returns… it takes more."
The old man took a deep breath, his voice hoarse. But he continued.
"Those six were searched for everywhere, but they were never found. It was as if they had vanished into thin air. However, a rumor spread among the townspeople…"
At this point, his voice took on a strange tone, as if he were carefully weighing every word.
"They said the storm was born from the fury of the lost Yakut family leader. And those six… were taken by his spirit to the mountain lodge. There, they faced his trials. Their goal was to survive them all and claim the family's inheritance."
His eyes narrowed.
"But… none of them succeeded."
As his words settled, the room seemed to grow colder.
Everyone knew now—this was no coincidence.
The storm had returned.
And now, six people stood here once again.