Chapter 1: The New Innkeeper

A lantern flared to life at the top of the stairs, its amber glow casting long shadows across the empty tavern below. The flickering light wobbled as the innkeeper descended—first his silhouette, then his slender, furred form emerging into view.

He was tall for a marten, with sleek, dark brown fur and a pale throat patch barely visible beneath his crisp black-and-grey apron. His clothing was simple but neat—practical in cut, with just a hint of flourish in the cuffs and collar. He moved gracefully, every step light, careful, deliberate.

In silence, he crossed the floor, unbolting the cellar door. The creak of hinges echoed downward into the cool dark. One by one, he hauled up casks of bitterroot ale and stone-mash cider, rolling them gently across the floor with a soft thump of wood on wood. Then came wedges of pale cheese, wrapped in beeswax and moss, and strings of sausages still heavy with smoke. These he hung above the bar with care, checking the knots, adjusting their drape like a weaver.

The tavern walls swelled with the scent of cured meat and old timber. The lanternlight caught him in strange poses as he worked — at times, his shadow split and writhed against the walls like antlers or claws, distorted by the angle of the flame.

He polished pewter mugs until his claws left no mark, whispering all the while in a slow, curling tongue — a language that had no business being spoken above ground. Every few sentences, he would stop and exhale over a mug, as if warming it — and the breath that misted out of him carried not steam, but a dry, metallic tang, like old iron or deep cellar stone.

Outside, dawn pressed faintly at the windows.

Then — a pause. The stillness shifted. The marten’s ears twitched. Something had changed in the air.

The bell above the back door jingled.

He did not move at once.

Instead, he walked to the door with slow, precise steps and placed a paw on the handle. Then—just a crack—he opened it.

There was no one there.

Only fog. Pale, clinging. Curling into the frame like a curious hand.

Then, without a sound, he stepped forward into view. Closer than he should have been. Far too close.

The hare outside started, stumbling back a pace.

Standing in the doorway was the marten, now fully revealed. His smile came slowly, teeth glinting faintly, and the breath that rose from his mouth brought with it that same cold, metallic scent.

“Gooood morniiing,” he said at last, in a low, velvety trill.

“I’m Mr. Merrit. The new innkeeper of the Thorn and Thistle.”

The hare, blinking, clutched a crate of vegetables to his chest. “Er… where’s Mudtoe? Sneazel?”

“Family emergency,” Merrit said quickly, as if the words had been waiting on his tongue. “Off to the East. Very sudden. Very tragic. But the handover was swift. I’ve always wanted a tavern, and this one—” he spread his arms just enough, “—it’s simply perfect, don’t you think?”

The hare gave a cautious nod. “Right. I’m Mr. Cottonbriches. Been delivering produce here fifteen seasons. Good stuff. Fresh picked. Eggs midweek.”

“Oh, how delightful,” Merrit purred, accepting the crate with both paws. “You’ll be back Friday then? Splendid.”

He leaned forward just slightly, his nose almost touching the hare’s ear. “You’ll find everything in order here. A smooth hand behind the bar. A warm hearth. And”—his voice dipped like a finger into a bowl—“no secrets.”

Cottonbriches said nothing. He backed away to his cart.

“Good luck, Mr. Merrit,” he muttered. “Welcome to Grimthorn Hollow.”

The marten bowed deeply, one paw across his chest. “Delighted to be here.”

He shut the door with a soft click.

Then turned.

And grinned.

Not the grin of a charming new innkeeper. This one was thinner. Sharper. A glint of something ancient flickering just beneath the surface.

He carried the crate toward the kitchen. His steps made no sound.

By the hearth, the old firewood lay still—except for a single straw, drifting faintly in the warm updraft. And beside it, a faint imprint in the dust. Like something had stood there during the night.

Watching.

He paused only long enough to notice.

Then passed on into shadow.

Outside, the windmill groaned faintly in the distance.

And somewhere deep within the walls of the tavern, muffled and low, a floorboard creaked. Followed by the sound of something shifting. Breathing. Waiting. Something weasel-shaped and very, very quiet.

Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3