Here is the recreated English version of the text, maintaining the narrative flow, atmosphere, and details while adhering to English grammar and stylistic conventions:
A dead silence hung heavy in the tavern hall. None of the patrons, Ben included, dared to break it, not even with a whisper. As if by unspoken agreement, everyone froze, listening intently for any sound from above. Five agonizing minutes crawled by, but nothing happened. Finally, whispers began to stir.
"He took down Karl with one strike!" a guest exclaimed.
"Quiet!" someone hissed sharply. "Don't go rousing that boy unnecessarily. Karl barely touched him, and look how that ended! What if we anger him?"
Involuntarily, gazes drifted upwards towards the ceiling, as if they could pierce the thick wood and see the source of their collective fear.
Ben, observing the murmurs, shifted his gaze to Khol.
"Why are you staring, Ben? I'm shocked myself!" Khol exclaimed, taking a deep gulp of strong liquor and twitching, trying to hide a tremor. "Did you see what that kid did? Chills!"
Ben remained silent, only casting a grim look at the Captain of the Guard.
"We'll handle it, Ben," the Captain said evenly, though tension showed in his eyes despite his calm tone. "I've already sent men for the Heritages; they'll be here by morning. And don't waste energy guessing who he is or where he's from – that will become clear later. For now, it's safer if everyone heads home."
Ben gave a silent nod and slowly stepped out from behind the bar, drawing the eyes of the entire hall. Then, without raising his voice, but ensuring every word carried weight, he announced:
"Gentlemen, you all witnessed it. Further explanations are unnecessary. The inn is closed until the Heritages arrive. I must ask everyone to leave the premises. My apologies for the inconvenience."
The inn's back corridor was narrow, with low ceilings supported by roughly hewn oak beams. Walls of unfinished stone were blotched with patches of mold in places, and silver spiderwebs glinted in the cracks between slabs. Underfoot, old pine floorboards, laid during the building's construction, creaked persistently. The air was thick with the mingled scents of pine resin, beeswax, and the deep, musty odor of age – a mixture of time and countless past guests.
The room door was heavy oak, banded with iron hinges and a bolt. When the woman pressed the iron latch, the door groaned open, revealing a tiny space. Light from the corridor spilled onto the stone floor, covered by a worn straw mat.
The room was cramped – four paces long, three wide. Against the far wall stood a crude bed with a thin straw mattress and a frayed woolen blanket. In the corner, a small hearth – a few bricks arranged as a makeshift firebox – held dying embers. A tin candlestick with a melted candle hung on the wall.
But the woman's attention was immediately drawn to a strange glow near the bed. Peering closer, she saw the boy pressed against the wall, his sword held before him. Not an ordinary blade, but one that shone, emitting a soft, bluish light as if warmed from within. An invisible field seemed to radiate from it, pushing back the night's chill from the sleeping area.
The woman carefully knelt beside the bed. Her movements were smooth and deliberate – she knew the danger of a frightened animal, and this boy reminded her of just that. As she reached slowly towards the sword, steel flashed in the gloom, and the edge of a knife pressed firmly against her throat.
"I came to dress your wounds," she stated calmly, making no sudden moves. Her hands were steady, though fear clenched tight inside her.
The boy stared with empty eyes. In the sword's light, his face looked deathly pale, with dark circles under his eyes – the marks of countless sleepless nights. After a pause, he withdrew the knife almost imperceptibly, but didn't sheathe it completely.
The woman slowly extended her hand towards the glowing blade. It felt warm, almost alive to the touch. She carefully laid it down beside the boy, within easy reach should he need it.
Pulling linen bandages and a small pot of healing herb salve from a wooden basin, she took his right hand. In the sword's glow, numerous cuts became visible – fresh ones and older ones healed into thin scars. Some wounds were so deep that the woman winced involuntarily – such marks only came from deliberate cuts.
"You don't even flinch," she whispered, applying the thick, pungent ointment to the wounds. The boy indeed showed no sign of pain, only tensing slightly when she tightened the bandage.
All the while, the sword continued to glow, filling the small room with a strange sense of comfort. Its warmth was almost tangible, like breath. The woman stole a glance at the boy – in the bluish light, his face seemed almost childlike for a fleeting moment. Then it settled back into its cold, detached mask, the look of a soldier hardened by death.
Why is she doing this? The thought flickered in the boy's mind but died as quickly as it came when a faint burning sensation flared in his right hand.
Only now did he truly see the multitude of cuts and the grime the woman was gently washing away.
Does she think I'm someone? he wondered, trying to recall her face. But his memory was a void. He remembered nothing but flashes of awareness since waking in that unknown place.
A wave of exhaustion crashed over him. He didn't want to sleep, but the long journey and the unfamiliar feeling of safety forced his body to surrender. Within minutes, his head nodded, and he plunged into unconsciousness.
"He must be utterly spent," the woman thought with pity and began tending to his left arm. It was in better condition, and the work took less time.
Finished, she gently lifted the boy, laid him on the bed, and covered him with the blanket. Then she picked up the sword and placed it near the headboard.
Exiting the room and quietly closing the door, she descended to the common room where her husband and the Captain waited by the bar.
"Have you lost your mind?!" Ben exploded, rushing towards his wife. "What were you doing up there? He didn't hurt you?!"
The woman gently grasped his forearms.
"It's alright, dear," she soothed him. "Unlike some, that boy behaved far more reasonably." A mischievous smile touched her lips. She turned to the Captain. "And Karl, sir? Will he live?"
"Hard to say definitively, but likely. The boy knew where to strike – missed anything vital," the Captain replied calmly, then gave a slight smirk. "I must admit, his movements were impressive. To wound a man that quickly and coldly… Frightening to think what he's endured."
"His arms are covered in cuts from the sword," the woman added, drawing the men's attention.
"Did he try to… end it?" Ben blurted quickly.
"No," his wife answered just as fast. "It's his blade. It seems to radiate heat. I think that's how he kept warm at night." Sadness tinged her voice. "How many nights did he spend like that?..."
The Captain frowned. "The sword glowed?"
The woman nodded.
The Captain thought for a moment, then spoke distantly: "There's a possibility that blade belonged to Fiona… from the expeditionary team at the mountain's base…"
Ben's eye twitched. He'd heard about what happened to that group.
"Wait, but the sole survivor was found three months ago. How did the sword end up with him? Or…"
The Captain offered no answer, only nodded confirmation.
Ben paled. "Righteous Gods… But how did he survive?"
"Don't jump to conclusions; it's not confirmed yet. The Heritages arrive in the morning – then we'll know." The Captain placed a hand on Ben's shoulder and added quietly, "Now, go rest. Both of you are exhausted. I'll stay here… just in case."
Watching them go, he settled more comfortably into a chair and prepared to wait.
As the first rays of sun touched the horizon, a knock sounded at the inn door.