The rain fell on the Floodplains, a cold, steady curtain that turned the world to gray mud and muffled sound. Nesha stood at the inn’s front window, her breath fogging the glass. Two weeks. The Horns had left two weeks ago, a thread of bright, loyal energy woven into the inn’s foundation. That thread had thrummed with steady purpose for days. Then, yesterday, it had gone taut. Then thin. Then silent.

Vivian was upstairs, humming as she rearranged their private room, the fae woman’s contentment a soft pulse in the web. Nesha felt it, a counterpoint to the cold dread settling in her own stomach. She pressed a hand to the windowpane. The magic in the walls whispered of absence. Of endings.

A shape emerged from the rain.

It was a person, stumbling, falling to their knees in the muck a hundred yards from the inn’s door. Nesha didn’t think. She was out the door, the cold rain slapping her bare skin, the enchanted strap a negligible barrier against the downpour. Her feet, somehow always sure on this ground, carried her swiftly across the sodden earth.

The figure was a woman. A Human woman, caked in mud and something darker. Her armor was gone. Her arms… Nesha’s breath hitched. Where her arms should have been, from the shoulders down, there were only ragged, blood-crusted stumps bound with filthy, soaked cloth.

“Hey,” Nesha said, her voice soft, cutting through the drumming rain. She knelt, the mud cool under her knees. “Hey, look at me.”

The woman’s head lifted. Her face was pale, etched with shock and pain, but her eyes were a fierce, clear blue. Yvlon Byres. Of the Silver Swords. One of the other teams.

“Inn,” Yvlon rasped, the word a torn thing. “Saw the smoke. Knew… knew the place.”

“You’re here,” Nesha said. She didn’t touch her. Not yet. “You made it.”

“Only me.” Yvlon’s gaze was fixed on a point past Nesha, seeing something else. “Skinner. The masks. Forty thousand. A massacre. They’re all gone.” A violent shudder wracked her. “Ceria… she broke her wand. Gave me a chance. The ice… it took my arms. It took her hand.”

The words landed like stones in the mud. Nesha felt each one. Calruz. Gerial. The others. The bright, curious thread of Ceria Springwalker, the half-elf whohad seen the inn’s potential. Gone, or worse. Thepla inn’s web felt the loss, a hollow ache in its pattern.

“Can you stand?” Nesha asked, her Midwestern practicality surfacing through the horror.

Yvlon tried. Her legs buckled. Nesha moved then, sliding an arm around her back, careful of the terrible wounds. She was strong, this new body impossibly so, and she lifted the armored woman as if she were a child. Yvlon’s head lolled against Nesha’s chest, the warmth of her skin a stark contrast to the rain-chilled metal and leather.

“Just hold on,” Nesha murmured, starting back toward the glowing windows of the inn. “You’re home now.”

The common room was empty, the fire low. Vivian stood at the foot of the stairs, her playful smile dying as she saw them. Her fae eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, widened, then hardened into something ancient and grim. She didn’t speak. She simply turned and ran upstairs, returning moments later with armfuls of clean linens and a basin.

They worked in silent tandem, the rhythm of care overriding shock. They laid Yvlon on a thick fur rug before the hearth. Vivian used a knife to carefully cut away the ruined, blood-soaked bindings. Nesha fetched warm water and the inn’s subtle magic, calling on it to cleanse, to soothe, to begin the work of healing that went beyond flesh.

The stumps were brutal. Cleanly severed, as if by a monstrously sharp blade, but inflamed, the skin angry and hot to the touch. Frostbite, Yvlon had said. Ceria’s last spell. Nesha poured water, her hands steady. Yvlon didn’t scream. She bit her lip until it bled, her entire body rigid, those blue eyes staring at the ceiling beams.

“Breathe, honey,” Nesha said, her voice a low hum. “Just breathe through it. We’ve got you.”

Vivian finished wrapping the wounds in clean, soft cloth. She sat back on her heels, looking at Yvlon’s face. “The others?” she asked, her voice uncharacteristically quiet.

“Dead,” Yvlon whispered. “Or trapped. Olesm. Calruz is… mad. He led us into it. He’s still in there. Ceria and Olesm… they went into sarcophagi. To hide. I don’t know if they live.” A tear finally escaped, cutting a track through the grime on her cheek. “My team. My brother. Gone.”

The fire crackled. The inn seemed to hold its breath, the magical web trembling with the influx of this raw, devastating truth. It wasn’t pleasure that fed it now. It was grief. Profound, shattering loss. And the web drank it, not with hunger, but with a solemn, absorbing silence, weaving this new, dark thread into its tapestry.

Nesha felt it happen. The inn accepted Yvlon. Not through a ritual of welcome, but through an offering of survival. The price had been paid in blood and frost and madness.

“You need to sleep,” Vivian said, brushing a strand of hair from Yvlon’s forehead. “The magic will work better if you rest.”

“Can’t,” Yvlon gasped. “See them. When I close my eyes.”

“You’re safe here,” Nesha said. She lay down beside her on the fur, not touching the wounds, but close enough that Yvlon could feel the heat of her body. Vivian lay down on her other side, a curving, protective wall of warmth. “The inn won’t let anything in. You feel that? That’s the walls. That’s the foundation. It knows you now. It’s holding you.”

The rain fell on the Floodplains, a cold, steady curtain that turned the world to gray mud and muffled sound. Nesha stood at the inn’s front window, her breath fogging the glass. Two weeks. The Horns had left two weeks ago, a thread of bright, loyal energy woven into the inn’s foundation. That thread had thrummed with steady purpose for days. Then, yesterday, it had gone taut. Then thin. Then silent.

Vivian was upstairs, humming as she rearranged their private room, the fae woman’s contentment a soft pulse in the web. Nesha felt it, a counterpoint to the cold dread settling in her own stomach. She pressed a hand to the windowpane. The magic in the walls whispered of absence. Of endings.

A shape emerged from the rain.

It was a person, stumbling, falling to their knees in the muck a hundred yards from the inn’s door. Nesha didn’t think. She was out the door, the cold rain slapping her bare skin, the enchanted strap a negligible barrier against the downpour. Her feet, somehow always sure on this ground, carried her swiftly across the sodden earth.

The figure was a woman. A Human woman, caked in mud and something darker. Her armor was gone. Her arms… Nesha’s breath hitched. Where her arms should have been, from the shoulders down, there were only ragged, blood-crusted stumps bound with filthy, soaked cloth.

“Hey,” Nesha said, her voice soft, cutting through the drumming rain. She knelt, the mud cool under her knees. “Hey, look at me.”

The woman’s head lifted. Her face was pale, etched with shock and pain, but her eyes were a fierce, clear blue. Yvlon Byres. Of the Silver Swords. One of the other teams.

“Inn,” Yvlon rasped, the word a torn thing. “Saw the smoke. Knew… knew the place.”

“You’re here,” Nesha said. She didn’t touch her. Not yet. “You made it.”

“Only me.” Yvlon’s gaze was fixed on a point past Nesha, seeing something else. “Skinner. The masks. Forty thousand. A massacre. They’re all gone.” A violent shudder wracked her. “Ceria… she broke her wand. Gave me a chance. The ice… it took my arms. It took her hand.”

The words landed like stones in the mud. Nesha felt each one. Calruz. Gerial. The others. The bright, curious thread of Ceria Springwalker, the half-elf who had seen the inn’s potential. Gone, or worse. The inn’s web felt the loss, a hollow ache in its pattern.

“Can you stand?” Nesha asked, her Midwestern practicality surfacing through the horror.

Yvlon tried. Her legs buckled. Nesha moved then, sliding an arm around her back, careful of the terrible wounds. She was strong, this new body impossibly so, and she lifted the armored woman as if she were a child. Yvlon’s head lolled against Nesha’s chest, the warmth of her skin a stark contrast to the rain-chilled metal and leather.

“Just hold on,” Nesha murmured, starting back toward the glowing windows of the inn. “You’re home now.”

The common room was empty, the fire low. Vivian stood at the foot of the stairs, her playful smile dying as she saw them. Her fae eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, widened, then hardened into something ancient and grim. She didn’t speak. She simply turned and ran upstairs, returning moments later with armfuls of clean linens and a basin.

They worked in silent tandem, the rhythm of care overriding shock. They laid Yvlon on a thick fur rug before the hearth. Vivian used a knife to carefully cut away the ruined, blood-soaked bindings. Nesha fetched warm water and the inn’s subtle magic, calling on it to cleanse, to soothe, to begin the work of healing that went beyond flesh.

The stumps were brutal. Cleanly severed, as if by a monstrously sharp blade, but inflamed, the skin angry and hot to the touch. Frostbite, Yvlon had said. Ceria’s last spell. Nesha poured water, her hands steady. Yvlon didn’t scream. She bit her lip until it bled, her entire body rigid, those blue eyes staring at the ceiling beams.

“Breathe, honey,” Nesha said, her voice a low hum. “Just breathe through it. We’ve got you.”

Vivian finished wrapping the wounds in clean, soft cloth. She sat back on her heels, looking at Yvlon’s face. “The others?” she asked, her voice uncharacteristically quiet.

“Dead,” Yvlon whispered. “Or trapped. Olesm. Calruz is… mad. He led us into it. He’s still in there. Ceria and Olesm… they went into sarcophagi. To hide. I don’t know if they live.” A tear finally escaped, cutting a track through the grime on her cheek. “My team. My brother. Gone.”

The fire crackled. The inn seemed to hold its breath, the magical web trembling with the influx of this raw, devastating truth. It wasn’t pleasure that fed it now. It was grief. Profound, shattering loss. And the web drank it, not with hunger, but with a solemn, absorbing silence, weaving this new, dark thread into its tapestry.

Nesha felt it happen. The inn accepted Yvlon. Not through a ritual of welcome, but through an offering of survival. The price had been paid in blood and frost and madness.

“You need to sleep,” Vivian said, brushing a strand of hair from Yvlon’s forehead. “The magic will work better if you rest.”

“Can’t,” Yvlon gasped. “See them. When I close my eyes.”

“You’re safe here,” Nesha said. She lay down beside her on the fur, not touching the wounds, but close enough that Yvlon could feel the heat of her body. Vivian lay down on her other side, a curving, protective wall of warmth. “The inn won’t let anything in. You feel that? That’s the walls. That’s the foundation. It knows you now. It’s holding you.”

Yvlon’s breathing hitched. She turned her head slightly, her cheek pressing into the soft fur. Her eyes were still open, fixed on the fire. “It’s quiet,” she murmured, the fight leaching out of her voice. “In my head. For the first time since… it’s quiet.”

“That’s the house,” Vivian whispered. “It takes the sharp edges. Lets you just… be.”

Nesha watched the flames dance. She felt the web around them, a living lattice in the stone and wood. It cradled Yvlon’s broken spirit, not to consume it, but to buffer it. To hold the weight so she didn’t have to. It was a different kind of magic. A deeper welcome. One born of necessity, not desire.

Yvlon’s eyes finally drifted shut. The tension in her jaw softened. The rigid line of her shoulders sank into the fur. Sleep took her, sudden and deep.

Nesha and Vivian stayed where they were, silent sentinels. The rain tapped against the windows. The fire popped. Nesha reached across Yvlon’s sleeping form, her fingers finding Vivian’s. They laced together, a bridge over the wounded woman between them.

“Forty thousand undead,” Vivian said, her voice barely audible. “A creature called Skinner. And Calruz went mad.”

“He was always a little mad,” Nesha replied, thinking of the Minotaur’s fierce, focused energy during their welcome. “Just… contained. Until it broke.”

“Ceria,” Vivian said. The name hung in the air. “She’s clever. If anyone could survive in a tomb, it’s her.”

Nesha nodded, but the hope felt thin, brittle. She focused on the practical. “Yvlon can’t stay on the floor. We need to get her to a bed. But moving her…”

“The house will help,” Vivian said. She closed her eyes, and Nesha felt the request pulse through their joined hands into the web. A gentle, lifting intention. The fur rug beneath them seemed to grow firmer, more supportive. The air in the room thickened slightly, becoming buoyant.

Together, with the inn’s magic easing the weight, they rose, guiding Yvlon between them. She stirred, a faint groan escaping her lips, but didn’t wake. They carried her up the stairs, the steps seeming to flatten for their passage, and laid her in the large bed in the room the Horns had used. The sheets were cool and clean.

Vivian pulled the blanket up to Yvlon’s chin. She stood looking down at the sleeping warrior, her expression unreadable. “What do we do with a guest who has already paid everything?”

Nesha ran a hand through her chestnut hair. “We let her heal. The magic’s working. I can feel it knitting at the edges, keeping the fever down. But her arms…”

“Are gone,” Vivian finished, her tone matter-of-fact. “The inn can’t grow new limbs. Not yet, anyway.”

They retreated to the doorway, watching the steady rise and fall of the blanket. The inn’s web had settled around the room, a watchful, guardian presence.

Downstairs, the common room felt too large, too empty. The silence was different now. It wasn’t the quiet of waiting. It was the quiet after a storm has passed, leaving wreckage in its wake. Nesha walked to the hearth, adding another log. The sparks flew upward.