Prologue

  Somewhere, in a dimly lit bedroom, a fire crackles softly, casting flickering shadows along the walls. Rain falls outside the window. The soft sound of the droplets hitting the window and roof blend into the natural ambience, setting a light backdrop for those dwelling within. A grandfather — once a renowned adventurer, a fighter tempered by steel and fire — settles into his old, creaking chair with a quiet sigh. His broad shoulders, though still strong, now stoop under the weight of years. His hands, calloused and scarred, are a tapestry of battles fought and victories won. Across from him sits a young girl, his grandchild, nestled beneath her blanket. She looks up at him, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and anticipation. For she can tell. Tonight is different. The usual tales of heroism — dragons vanquished, treasure unearthed — are set aside. Instead, a heavy silence lingers. It stretches between them like something unseen, something waiting. The old man's voice breaks the silence first, his voice coming out gruff and heavy. Each word weighted with things unsaid, things uncertain. Each thought ephemeral, almost like a dream that lingers, unsettling in its clarity. "Let me tell you a story," he begins, his voice barely louder than the crackle of the flame. "This is not another one of those fancy tales of adventuring that I participated in during my youth, no. This is a fake story, a fairytale if you would. It's my take on a tale once told to me when I was about your age." He leans forward, the light catching the lines of his weathered face, and for a moment, his eyes seem distant—focused on something far away, something only he can see. "It's just a story," he says, a faint, almost forced smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "A horror story I came up with all those years ago. But that does not make the lessons it teaches any less important. So listen closely." The child nods, pulling the blanket tighter. The grandfather hesitates for a heartbeat, his gaze distant, his hands folded tightly as if bracing himself. Then, with a soft exhale, he begins.

  The Tale Begins

  Lights, of soft yellow and pale white, shimmer over the snow-dusted hills that have tormented your party for what feels like an eternity. Ahead, nestled against the bleak landscape, lies a village, hazy and uncertain in the distance. The sight is a balm for your party's weary eyes, a fragile promise of shelter after the brutal trek through the Frosted Hills. Exhausted and running low on supplies, despair had quickly taken root amongst the six of you, gnawing away at your patience and resolve. Already, bonds that once seemed unbreakable were beginning to fray; foul tempers flared, arguments over petty matters broke out daily, and the relentless cold seeped into your very bones. And yet, here stands a hint of civilization against the winter's hold. The village holds a quiet allure. A faint promise of warmth, of food and firelight. A place that could, if only briefly, offer escape from the merciless, unending snow. As your party struggles through the deep snowdrifts, the endless white gives way to a freshly shoveled cobblestone path. Just ahead, looming in the twilight, you spot an old, weathered wooden sign, its pain faded and cracked. The name "Orymme" is painted in bold red strokes, the letters slightly askew, as though written hastily or by an unsteady hand. There's a palpable shift in the air as hope and excitement kindle amongst your group, fragile but enough to spur each of you forward with renewed vigor. As you draw closer to the city, the murmurs of your party grow livelier, the chatter filled with talk of steaming mugs, hot meals, and dreams of warm beds. Eager voices overlap, each person planning their first act of comfort upon entering the village. For a brief moment, you allow yourselves to hope. To believe that this village, Orymme, is a sign of good fortune and a place of refuge. As the winds pick up, snow begins to swirl gently over the cobblestone road, settling softly in the quiet. The stones lie perfectly clean and untouched, disturbed only by your party's seven sets of footsteps, as though no one has passed this way in days, maybe longer. Not strange in a winter this harsh and yet... The path should reassure you, a sign of civilization close at hand. Instead, the sight of the clean cobbles untouched by human footfall is... oddly disquieting.

  But this unease is soon swept away as the outline of a gate emerges from the snow haze ahead. It stands tall and ornate, framed by the soft glow of hanging lanterns. The iron gate is slightly ajar, creaking faintly with each drift of wind. No guards greet your party, no villagers hurrying to welcome you in from the cold. Just the silence of a town long settled into the hush of winter. Exhaustion pulls your party forward, right up to the gate. As you step closer, the ranger notices a small guard post off to the side. Inside, there’s a desk, a thick ledger opened to a blank page, and a quill resting in a dried-up inkpot. An abandoned chair lies slightly askew, as though someone had only just risen from it. There’s a faint, lingering warmth in the room, like the last sigh of a fire. But no footprints in the thin layer of dust that coats the floor, no signs of life, only the quiet remnants of routine left behind. You wonder, just for a moment, where the guard could be, or who last sat in this room. But the thought fades, replaced by the weariness and anticipation of shelter, easily dismissed as the exhaustion and paranoia that have gripped you all during the long journey. Surely someone was just here, they'd...just left their post for a while. With a slight shrug, the barbarian steps forward and pushes open the gate. The cold iron groans, a low, hollow sound, as if inviting you into the silence beyond.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  Orymme

  You press forward into Orymme, the streets dim and quiet, but not altogether unwelcoming. The town looks like it might once have been grand—the wide streets, the sturdy stone buildings, the wrought-iron lamps all hint at something greater, all remnants of a past far more vibrant. A village meant to be a jewel but left tarnished by time, forgotten. A few villagers shuffle about, wrapped in heavy cloaks, faces obscured by scarves and hoods. They glance your way, but their expressions are unreadable. As quickly as they appear, they disappear down narrow side streets or behind closed doors. No one speaks to you, though you get the strange feeling that someone should have. A guard, perhaps, or a villager eager to trade news from the outside world. The path leads you toward the heart of the town, where larger buildings rise on either side, their windows glowing with soft light. Shops display faded signs advertising goods and wares long past their prime, and every so often, a flickering lantern reveals a set of carved details on a door or arch, worn smooth by years of use. At its center stands a grand plaza ringed with stone statues, each one imposing and carved with painstaking detail, yet each face has been worn down by time, their expressions now unreadable. Even the statues themselves seem to gaze downward, as though avoiding your gaze. A strange, quiet charm fills the air—something half-forgotten, half-preserved. Your companions murmur softly, noting the appeal of the place—a village built on strong foundations, yet somehow never marked on any map, a town that stands sturdy and inviting.

  A large inn looms on the edge of the square, one of the few buildings that appears untouched by time. A weathered wooden sign sways above the door, its paint flaking, but the words “The Silver Hearth” remain legible. The inn, like everything else, carries faint reminders of opulence. The furniture is solid, well-crafted, though worn with years of use. A crystal chandelier hangs overhead, and the fire in the hearth casts a warm glow over the wooden beams and stone walls. A few patrons sit at tables near the fire, heads bowed over their mugs, murmuring in low voices. They glance up as you enter, but their attention quickly returns to their own conversations, their faces relaxed, peaceful. You can’t quite place why, but something about the way they speak makes it hard to remember the specifics, like polite exchanges that seem almost rehearsed. A passing phrase about “the good winter this year” or “the festival that’s always just around the corner” feels strange—normal but a touch distant, like echoes you can’t quite reach. The party settles into the inn, relieved to be indoors. An old innkeeper greets your party, shuffling forward from the back room, his eyes narrowing as he studies all six of your faces with a strange intensity. There’s a hesitation in his welcome, as if he’s seeing something or someone that is not there. But he soon brushes it off and seats you by a roaring fire. He doesn’t ask your names, doesn’t inquire about your travels, simply serves your party with practiced efficiency, bringing out bowls of stew and fresh bread that smells of rosemary and butter. The warmth of the fire and the comfort of the meal are a welcome relief, melting the cold from your bones. The stew is rich and satisfying, the fire's glow soothing, and the quiet murmur of the room, broken only by the occasional clink of mugs, offers a balm after days of harsh wilderness. As your meal comes to an end, the wizard, sensing an odd tension in the air, casually inquires if the inn has seen many travelers this season. The innkeeper pauses, his brow furrowing as if the question itself is foreign to him. Slowly, he shakes his head, muttering, "Not in recent memory." He blinks, the words seeming to confuse him, and adds, "No one that I remember." Outside, the snow has begun to fall heavier, its steady descent swallowing the village in a thick, unbroken silence. The world beyond the inn seems to fade into the whiteness, distant and unreachable. Your party, sated and weary, retreats to your rooms. For the first time in weeks, the weight of exhaustion falls away, replaced by the rare luxury of rest. The crackling fire in the hearth whispers in the background, a soft lullaby, as the warmth wraps around you. Sleep comes quickly, but in the stillness, an unspoken tension lingers in the stillness—an almost imperceptible unease that refuses to be shaken.

  The first few days drift by uneventfully. The town, though worn by time, is functional—a modest market, a small Adventurer’s Guild with notices for ordinary tasks: clearing wildlife, checking on a farmer’s field. In the market, traders exchange polite smiles and offer practical items: salted meats, dried herbs, thick woolen clothes. Conversations with the locals are brief, polite, but tinged with a strange stillness. You notice, too, the absence of children in the streets and the way laughter never quite reaches beyond closed doors. Evenings at The Silver Hearth become a ritual, where your party gathers around the hearth, watching the fire cast warm shadows across stone walls. The quiet hum of nearby patrons fades into a background murmur, voices low and cautious, as though too much noise might unsettle something just beneath the surface. The innkeeper, ever watchful, brings food and drink with an unspoken understanding, as though he’s seen travelers like you a hundred times over. There’s a stillness to him, too, like he’s been rehearsing his role for a very long time. As the week draws to a close, you realize you’ve fallen into the town’s peculiar rhythm, moving with its quiet routines and unspoken rules. A quiet pervades the town, nestled into every corner as if the town had let out a long, contented sigh. There is a stillness here, deep and complete, that feels oddly... welcoming, as though the absence of noise is its own kind of embrace.