By the time Char and Benjamin reached the outskirts of Hallow's Rest, the sky had turned a deep shade of slate gray, and the first few drops of rain had begun to fall.
Benjamin, ever practical, pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. "We'd better get inside before this turns into a storm."
Char nodded, already feeling the chill settle into his bones. His body was still sore from both training and travel, and the last thing he wanted was to be caught in the downpour.
They followed the winding path through the village, passing modest houses with flickering lanterns in their windows. The scent of freshly baked bread and wood smoke filled the air, making Char's stomach ache with hunger. It was a peaceful place—far from the danger and intrigue of Oryn-Vel, and an almost jarring contrast to the violence they had faced just a day prior.
Soon, they reached the townhouse, a sprawling, multi-leveled structure at the heart of the village. It was warmly lit, the golden glow of lanterns spilling from its windows, and even from the outside, Char could hear the murmur of voices, the clinking of mugs, and the occasional burst of laughter.
When they stepped inside, Char was met with the overwhelming sense of comfort.
The townhouse was not just an inn—it was a bustling hub of village life. Wooden beams arched overhead, framing the high ceiling, and the air was thick with the scents of cooked meats, spiced cider, and damp wool from travelers escaping the rain.
Small stalls lined the walls, selling everything from trinkets to handcrafted charms, and a long communal tablestretched across the center, where locals and travelers alike sat eating, drinking, and swapping stories.
"This'll do," Benjamin grunted, shaking the rain from his cloak.
Char barely heard him, too busy taking everything in. He had spent so much time in the crowded, tense streets of Oryn-Vel that he had forgotten what a place like this felt like—somewhere welcoming, somewhere that didn't feel like a battlefield waiting to happen.
Benjamin clapped him on the shoulder, snapping him out of his thoughts. "Go find something to eat. I'll handle the rooms."
Char hesitated. "Shouldn't we stick together?"
The older man snorted. "What, you need me to hold your hand?"
Scowling, Char muttered, "Fine," and turned away, disappearing into the crowd.
Char wandered through the townhouse, weaving between stalls and tables, taking in the sights.
A woman was selling woven bracelets that supposedly brought good fortune. A man with burn-scarred hands was shaping tiny metal figurines with an iron rod, while a group of children watched in fascination.
And then there was the magician.
Char nearly walked past the small, rundown stall before he caught sight of the handwritten sign, barely legible in the dim light:
"MERRICK THE MAGNIFICENT—MASTER OF ARCANE MYSTERIES!"
What Char saw, however, was not particularly magnificent.
The magician—a thin, frazzled-looking man in an oversized purple coat—was standing on a rickety wooden crate, arms outstretched dramatically. A handful of unimpressed villagers were watching, some yawning, others looking on with pitying expressions.
"And now!" the magician, Merrick, declared. "For my most daring feat yet! I shall summon forth—fire from the very air itself!"
He waved his hands in an elaborate flourish, muttered something under his breath, and…
Nothing happened.
The silence stretched. Someone coughed.
Merrick frowned, shook out his hands, and tried again, this time with even more exaggerated movements.
Still—nothing.
A man in the crowd sighed. "Get on with it, Merrick."
"W-wait! I've got it this time!" Merrick insisted, his voice desperate. He reached into his sleeve, fumbling for something—then suddenly, a tiny flicker of flame appeared between his fingers.
For a moment, it seemed like he had succeeded—until the fire sputtered out almost immediately, leaving behind only a wisp of smoke.
There was a long pause.
Then someone snickered.
A child muttered, "That's it?"
A woman groaned, "Just do the card trick."
Merrick visibly deflated. His shoulders slumped, and he scratched at his scruffy beard. "...Fine," he mumbled, reaching into his pocket for a deck of cards.
Char, for some reason, felt bad for him.
Here was a man who had clearly seen better days, trying—and failing—to impress an audience that had already made up their minds about him.
Char knew what that felt like.
On impulse, he stepped forward, just as the crowd was beginning to disperse. "Hey, wait."
Merrick looked up, surprised.
Char gestured vaguely. "Do the fire thing again."
The magician blinked. "You want me to try it again?"
"Yeah."
There was a brief pause. Then, looking absurdly hopeful, Merrick straightened up and cleared his throat.
"Ahem. Very well! I shall attempt, once more, the summoning of arcane flame!"
He raised his hands, eyes narrowing in concentration. He muttered something again, this time slower, more deliberate—and suddenly, a small, bright flame appeared in his palm.
It flickered and wavered, but this time, it lasted.
Char grinned. "See? That's actually kind of cool."
Merrick visibly brightened, his chest puffing up. "Ah, well, I suppose when one has trained as long as I have—"
The flame vanished.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Merrick coughed loudly and hurriedly reached for his deck of cards. "And now! A classic display of sleight of hand—"
Char chuckled, shaking his head. He didn't know why, but he suddenly felt a lot lighter. Maybe it was just the sheer ridiculousness of the moment. Maybe it was because he was finally somewhere safe, even just for one night.