"Dear, hurry up, we need to open soon, or the money won't earn itself," Ben, a sturdy man of fifty with graying dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard, stood by the door. He wore a light brown shirt with rolled-up sleeves, dark trousers, and a leather innkeeper's apron, worn with time. His brown eyes, framed by wrinkles, expressed impatience.
He was waiting for Maria, his forty-five-year-old wife, to bring a large straw basket filled with fruits, vegetables, and a small amount of raw meat. Maria had chestnut hair, gathered in a practical bun from which unruly strands escaped, and her lively green eyes sparkled with indignation.
She was dressed in a simple dark purple sundress, over which she wore a white apron with light cooking stains. On her feet were comfortable flat leather shoes. The woman's skin was slightly tanned from working in the garden behind the tavern, and she sharply interrupted her husband:
"Don't rush me, I still have rooms to clean!" Her voice sounded loud, but her tone conveyed habitual irritation rather than real anger.
They were in the spacious kitchen of the tavern, where wooden cabinets and shelves lined the walls, filled with dishes, spices, and kitchen utensils. In the corner stood a massive red brick stove, and next to it was a cutting table polished over the years. Bunches of dried herbs and garlic hung from under the ceiling, filling the air with spicy aromas. Morning light, filtering through two small windows, illuminated the wooden floor, polished to a shine.
Approaching her husband, Maria gave him an angry look, thrust the basket into his hands, nudged him slightly with her elbow, and with a sarcastic smirk, slipped out the door. Ben, wincing from the push, muttered under his breath:
"Angry woman."
Then, smiling, he went out into the corridor and headed for the main entrance.
The tavern building was a three-story structure of light gray stone, adorned with intricate wooden carvings. The ornament ran along the entire facade, and in the center was a huge bird with spread wings, at least three meters in span. Its feathers were carved with such care that they seemed real, and its eyes, inlaid with dark wood, seemed to follow every passerby. For the owner, it was a symbol of freedom and new opportunities.
The main hall greeted guests with high ceilings and massive wooden beams. Along the walls were cozy alcoves with sofas upholstered in dark red leather. Twelve oak tables, surrounded by carved chairs, filled the space. The walls were decorated with ancient tapestries depicting hunting scenes and bronze oil lamps, creating soft lighting.
Ben headed for the light ash main entrance door, which stood out with its pearlescent sheen even in the dark. On either side of it were stained-glass windows with geometric patterns.
The bar counter, made of dark wood with brass inserts, gleamed with cleanliness. Behind it, bottles of all shapes and sizes were lined up, and the brass taps for dispensing drinks shone like new.
As sunflower oil hissed on the hot cast-iron skillet, Hol—a young man of about twenty-five with an athletic build—descended the spiral staircase decorated with wrought-iron railings. His clothes were made of durable gray fabric, produced on a spider farm, and the protective plates on his arms, made of a light alloy of titanium and aluminum, shone like mirrors.
Wheat-colored hair fell carelessly to the side, revealing expressive facial features with high cheekbones and a straight nose. His gray-blue eyes looked attentive, and a light stubble gave his appearance a slightly careless look.
"Hey, Ben!" Hol lazily headed for the bar counter.
"Good morning. The usual?" the innkeeper smiled and tossed chopped vegetables onto the skillet.
"Oh, yes, Ben, that would be great," Hol sat on a high stool, leaning on the counter. "Heard the news?" he drawled.
"No, what happened?" Ben briefly looked up from the meat and, turning his back, took a jar of coffee beans from the top shelf.
"A group of researchers disappeared during an expedition to the foot of the mountain," Hol stretched, shaking off the remnants of sleep. "According to official data, there were four of them. You know Jack, right?"
"Yes, we crossed paths during the migration," Ben unhurriedly brewed coffee.
"He died, Ben. Disappeared with the entire team," Hol sighed heavily. "They say the expedition was supposed to open a path to new lands. But you can't approach the mountain – there's some kind of terrible fog all around. Many have already lost their lives there, and now it turns out that it's not safe even under the mountain... Horrible."
"Not the most pleasant news," Ben muttered, lowering his eyes. "So many people died during the resettlement. It seemed the worst was behind us, but this world... It's probably even scarier than the one we left."
He began to put out the meat, which was already cooked.
Several hours had passed since the opening, and visitors began to trickle into the tavern. Some rented rooms, others came to rest in peace, and still others came to drink and discuss the latest events.
Ben continued to go about his business, trying not to interfere in the conversations at the bar. He just listened silently, poured drinks into mugs, and delivered orders, occasionally preparing light snacks to go with the drinks. The stew he had prepared was still warm, but apart from Hol, who had ordered it in the morning, no one else was interested in trying it yet.
The hall was filled with people in armor of all kinds. Hunters in worn leather jackets with numerous pockets and reinforced shoulders occupied several tables. In the corner, a group of mercenaries in light composite armor with a matte finish, adorned with battle scars and guild symbols, was located. Some guests flaunted combined armor made of reinforced fabric with metal inserts – a popular choice among scouts and caravan guards.
Special attention was drawn to a gray-haired veteran in luxurious titanium plate armor, sitting at the bar. His perfectly fitted armor, decorated with intricate engraving and inlay of rare metals, was a sign of status – in these times, only a few could afford such a thing. Next to him, two guards in chainmail with ceramic overlays – standard equipment for the city guard – were modestly accommodated.
A company of trackers in practical reptile leather armor, reinforced with metal plates, was warming themselves by the fireplace. Their equipment, covered with scuffs and homemade improvements, eloquently testified to their long journeys.
Each visitor brought their own news: some boasted of artifacts found in dungeons, others of successful deals, and still others simply listened, evaluating others' stories.
Hol, sitting at the bar, was actively chatting with the guards. Taking a sip of alcohol, he loudly asked:
"Have you heard about the sole survivor of that expedition?"
Silence fell in the hall for a moment – many listened, not hiding their interest.
"They say he barely escaped," someone shouted from the hall.
This comment sparked a wave of discussion. Some claimed the survivor had gone mad, others built theories about the expedition's true goals. Ben, meanwhile, silently wiped mugs, occasionally glancing at the heated visitors.
The noise was interrupted by a sharp shout from the captain of the guard, who was already quite drunk:
"Shut up if you want to know the truth!"
The hall instantly fell silent.
"The survivor's name is Fiona. She's in a rehabilitation center now," the guard began, pausing for effect. "According to official data, their squad was ambushed. The monsters killed the healer first – so they're not just beasts, but thinking creatures. Then Jack fell. Yes, the same Jack who was among the pioneers. According to Fiona, he didn't last a minute against their leader. She and a shooter named Heinrich tried to escape, but they got separated in the caves. Heinrich didn't make it... Fiona miraculously got out, receiving a severe stomach wound. To survive, she had to cauterize the wound and trudge for two days to the nearest camp."
The hall froze as the captain of the guard took a long sip of wine. "But that's the official version. There are rumors that there was a fifth participant in the squad," he shrugged, "maybe Fiona was delirious from the wound."
His story was interrupted by the creak of the door. A short figure entered the hall – a teenager about fifteen years old, barely reaching a meter sixty. All eyes turned to him. Some, especially those at the bar, noticed his gaze... Dead, empty.
The boy slowly looked around the hall. His torn clothes – a t-shirt and pants from the old world – hung on him like a hanger. In his right hand, he dragged a short sword, similar to a tulwar – an 18th-century Indian weapon. The blade scraped the stone floor with an unpleasant screech. In his left, he held a worn backpack, large enough to fit him. But what was most striking was the smell – a mixture of rotting flesh and an unwashed body. However, in this tavern, they were used to such things.
A few moments later, the boy was at the bar, squeezing between Hol and the guards. Ignoring them, he stared at Ben with dead eyes. Then he raised his hand and pointed at his open mouth.
Ben froze. The sight of the boy – especially how he dragged the sword, and that gaze – sent shivers down his spine. He couldn't even imagine what this child had been through. The gesture, demanding food, brought him back to reality.
"Do you have anything to pay with?" Ben asked, although the answer was obvious.
In response, the boy threw his backpack on the counter. Trying to climb onto the high stool, he didn't let go of the sword.
Finally seated, he untied the backpack and pulled out a cloth bag that exuded a corpse-like smell.
Ignoring the disapproving glances of those around him, he pushed the bag towards Ben.
He already suspected the contents, but the weight of the bag was frightening. Holding his breath, he untied it and froze. Inside lay ears – dozens, if not hundreds, of different shapes and sizes.
"How much...?" Ben's voice trembled.
The boy slowly raised three fingers.
A deathly silence fell over the hall. Three hundred ears. Three hundred killed monsters.