We descended the stairs once I had finished changing, to find the inn's common room alive with morning clamor. The smell of fresh bread and herbs curled through the air; laughter and chatter swirled in smoky coils above crowded tables, punctuated by the rhythmic clink of cutlery.
"Oh, lookie, Ronette," I murmured, elbow nudging his ribs. "We've got some company for breakfast."
Ronette groaned, last night's chaos still etched across his soul like a bruise. "I just want to eat my breakfast in peace."
But peace had never been part of my repertoire. I steered us toward a table near the loudest crowd, plopping down with a flourish worthy of a stage bow. Ronette slouched opposite me, shoulders drooping, the picture of resigned dread.
Plates soon arrived—warm bread crusty at the edges, smoked sausage glistening with spiced fat, and eggs soft and golden. I listened as I ate, tilting my head to catch the hum of conversation at the next table.
They were repeating familiar lines, faces alight.
"That song we made last night? It'll go down in legend!"
"Can't wait to hear the bard perform it at the Harvest Festival."
Ronette stared at his breakfast, unmoving. "Great song, huh," he muttered, shadows lurking behind his eyes—the same shadows left by the torture verse he'd glimpsed on the parchment.
My own eyes sparked like struck flint. "Did you hear that, Ronette? There's going to be a Harvest Festival soon." I leaned forward, grin unfurling slow and bright. "Maybe I can play my fiddle there. Maybe that's the special occasion they were talking about!"
Ronette nearly choked on his sausage. His eyes screamed silent prayer. "Harvest crops, not harvest souls, Louis. For the love of mercy, no."
The warmth of the room dimmed as though someone had cracked a window. In a dark corner, men hunched around mugs of frothy ale, their shoulders sagging with dread, faces drawn and pale despite morning light. The air around them smelled thick and spiced, bitter enough to sting the tongue.
Ronette blinked, incredulous. "They're drinking beer in the morning?"
I tilted my chair closer, grin sharpening to a fox's smirk. "Ah," I breathed, low and eager, "I smell adventure."
With one elbow on the table, I let my ear drift into their hushed circle, catching words slipped out between the scrape of mugs and the low murmur of worry.
A man's voice, brittle with fear, "Some folks said they saw Red Robes there."
Another, leaning in, "There? You mean…"
"The ruins. Outskirts of town. Same place."
Excitement coiled hot and bright in my chest. I turned, eyes gleaming. "Ruins?"
Ronette's brow tightened, dread darkening his gaze. "Is that their hideout?"
"Sounds like it. Shall we investigate?" The thrill of it was music to my veins.
Ronette stabbed his sausage with a jab that might've skewered a man. "And get our blood sucked? I'd rather donate to a hospital. At least they give you juice and a cookie."
I waved him off with a flick of my wrist. "Don't be such a wuss, Ronette. It's just a little prick on the neck."
"The prick of death," he muttered, nose wrinkling.
We chewed through our breakfast, bickering under our breath—tension crackling like kindling before the spark. And then, just as my hand closed around my mug, a voice sliced through the noise; quiet, cold, and terribly close.
"Don't go to the ruins on the outskirts of town after dusk. That's where the Red Hoods sing."
My heart jolted like a drum struck too hard. I turned—and there she was.
The old lady from yesterday. Eyes old as candle smoke, gaze fixed on something far beyond the inn walls.
"M'lady, what brings you here?" I asked, words spilling out wrapped in charm. With a flourish, I drew my fiddle forward like a knight unsheathing steel. Fingers danced on the strings, teasing a playful chord into the air. "Dost thou wish for a ballad with your breakfast? Perhaps a hymn of lost socks or heroic hens?"
She chuckled, laughter dry as parchment leaves rustled by autumn wind. "Nay, dear minstrel. I came to tell you a tale that every townsfolk must know. One too grave for song—but perhaps one day, you'll find a way to sing it true."
"Then do tell," I said, bowing with flourish. "For every tale told is a seed sown, and I, humble minstrel, shall tend to it with melody and rhyme."
She settled beside me, eyes misted with memory. The tavern's din thinned, falling into respectful hush. Even Ronette, half a mouthful of buttered bread raised, paused—suspended between fear and fascination.
And so she spoke.
"Long ago, before the church bell cracked and the crows fled Greymarrow, there was a kind monk named Brother Ilin. He sang to the sick, fed the poor, and led prayers each dawn. But one bitter winter, he claimed the sun had turned its back on the world… and that he'd heard a voice beneath the stone floor of the chapel."
"It spoke to him through the cold, echoing in his dreams. Promising him warmth, peace, and blood that never spoiled. A red dawn that never ends."
"One by one, the other monks followed him. They stopped ringing the bell for prayer, and started singing strange hymns by candlelight—candles made of bone and tallow, they said. The townsfolk called them the Red Robes."
"And then... the disappearances began."
"A child gone from her cradle. A shepherd found with his throat blackened, as if drunk dry. The miller's wife vanished on her way to confession—only her shawl was found, soaked red and tied to the chapel gate."
"Each time someone vanished, the cracked church bell rang once—on its own. Even though no one lived there anymore."
"Finally, the villagers climbed the hill with torches and axes. But the monks were gone. Only their robes remained, laid in a perfect circle on the chapel floor. And on the wall, scratched with something sharp and unnatural, they found words no one had taught them to read. But every elder since has passed it down in whispers.
'We go below to wait for His thirst to rise.'"
"The moon turned red that night. And the festival that followed was the quietest Greymarrow ever knew."
"Greymarrow?" I asked. "That's not the town's name?"
"The ancestors of Mr. Lerrington changed it, hoping that the tragedy would never happen again."
Ronette swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing like a drowning stone.
The old lady's gaze sharpened, voice dropping low.
"And now…"
"The red moon is coming again. Tonight. During the harvest festival."
"The same cycle. The same season. The same moon."
"And just last night, the old bell rang once. Even though the tower's been sealed for years."
"So laugh if you like, child. Dance at the festival. Wear your mask and drink your cider."
"But when the red moon rises—and it will—stay away from the chapel hill."
"And if someone calls your name in the voice of someone you love… do not answer.
The Red Robes remember."
Ronette's face drained of color, nerves strung so tight I feared they might snap. The old lady leaned in, voice as sweet as honey—yet sharp enough to draw blood.
"They say the Red Hoods," she whispered, "have a special fondness for the blood of young maidens."
Ronette whimpered—just a sound, brittle and thin—then toppled backward, skirts askew, frothing like an oversteeped kettle before hitting the inn floor with a quiet thud.
The old lady rose, brushing off her skirts, the ghost of a smile curling her lips. "Well then," she chirped lightly, "that's my cue to leave. I'll leave you two lovebirds to your… moment."
I placed a hand to my chest, gasping in mock scandal. "M'lady! Ronette is my kin, not my paramour!"
She only cackled softly. "Whatever you say, dear." And just like a lantern winking out, she vanished between tables and drifting morning smoke.
I turned back to Ronette—collapsed, limbs limp, his lace-trimmed skirt sadly rumpled. A circle of curious onlookers had already gathered, drawn by the spectacle.
With a sigh, I slung my fiddle over my back and knelt beside him. "Well, sweet sister of mine," I murmured, voice softening, "perhaps the chapel may wait for a less dramatic dawn."
One of the inn staff stepped closer, worry etching lines across her brow. "Do you need help carrying… her?"
I dipped into a low, theatrical bow. "Fear not, kind soul. For though I walk the path of melody, I possess the strength of a tragic chorus!" With deliberate flourish, I lifted Ronette into my arms like a swooning damsel rescued from a pageant play. His wig slipped crooked; one shoe dangled, forlorn.
Eyes followed as I carried him up the stairs—slow, noble steps under the weight of both my companion and the story that now clung to us like a second shadow.
And so our morning adventure ended—paused by fear, wrapped in rumor—while somewhere beyond the inn's walls, the old cracked bell waited for dusk.