Chapter 13 - Innkeeper

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My moral compass? Oh, it points straight to the top.

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Kuro chose the silent hours before dawn to make her move.

She cast a glance toward the bed where Juliana slept, her breathing a steady rhythm of deep rest. The soft sound of her exhale wasn't assurance enough, so a light touch on her lady's shoulder confirmed her deep sleep.

At the door, Kuro's hand was gentle on the handle, easing it open just enough to slip through with a whisper. Her presence was now a shadow in the hallway, eyes reflecting the scant light and holding it.

The corridor greeted her, a muted gallery of secrets behind closed doors. While each hid slumbering worlds of their own, Kuro sought only one in particular.

Kuro continued methodically, her ear held close to each door, head tilted in concentration. She sifted through the nighttime chorus—a rough snore here, a strained exhalation there——no, these were not the ones she sought. She continued her silent vigil, door by door—no, no, and no again.

She continued her search, her senses extended outward, reading the invisible script of the night air until, at last, she found it—the laboured, yet calm breathing of age, a rhythm Kuro had filed away upon their first meeting.

Beyond this threshold lay the innkeeper, her target.

The door, however, did not yield to a gentle test—locked. Kuro paused, her silhouette motionless in the darkened hallway. A lock was to be expected, of course. The challenge lay in the subtlety of the solution.

Her tail flicked once, the only outward sign of her contemplation. There were ways to coax an opening, methods that relied on subtlety rather than force. 

The window to the innkeeper's quarters appeared in her mind, a vulnerability she was prepared to exploit.

Her shadow dissolved into the gloom as she retreated from the door, her movements as fluid as she descended past the remnants of candlelight, melting into the night's embrace. The rain had stopped, and the clouds parted like curtains, revealing a stage of starlight.

Pausing momentarily, she gazed skyward, contemplating the celestial display. 'Juliana would appreciate this clear night,' she thought. Treading softly on the moist ground, her steps caused a faint rustle in the grass as she circled her way to the back of the building.

Kuro's gaze settled on the window ledge above—her objective. It was a distance that teased the edge of human ability. 

With a breath drawn deep into her lungs, she coiled her muscles, the sinews winding tight like the strings of a lute. The leap, when it came, was a revelation. She soared, much to her own surprise, and her landing was silent.

For a moment, Kuro was motionless, confusion etched into the grace of her posture. Her original plan had been to use nearby objects to aid her ascent, yet instinct had taken over, propelling her to her goal. She found herself perched with ease, almost as if she had been plucked from the ground and placed gently upon the sill by the capricious hand of the night itself.

"…"

The library had stated that demihumans had much greater agility than normal humans—which was what made them dangerous. But to see it demonstrated first-hand… Kuro had to wonder what were the limits if she devoted herself entirely to training such a skill.

Yet, There was no time to dwell on such revelations. The night was fading, and with each passing moment, her purpose grew more urgent.

Kuro turned her attention back to the task at hand, the window now an invitation. Her transformation, whether it pleased or perturbed, was a tool to be wielded, and she was its master.

Her hand, reshaped into a tool of precision with sharp claws, moved with an artisan's confidence. Slipping her index finger into the slim divide between window and sill, her claw located the latch with ease.

There was no hesitation as she disengaged the lock, and the window was pried open. She slipped through the narrow space effortlessly, the room accepting her presence without a sound.

The scent of the room was musty and lived-in; quite repulsive compared to the crisp night air she had left behind. Kuro's nose wrinkled involuntarily before she composed herself with a single, steadying breath.

As her eyes adapted to the dimness, Kuro moved—silent, deliberate. She approached the bed, her presence now looming over the sleeping old lady.

Kuro extended a single claw and pressed it gently against the rough, exposed skin of the innkeeper's neck. The old woman's eyes snapped open, wide with the primal recognition of danger. Her breath hitched as Kuro's claw dug in deeper, her voice caught on the precipice between silence and a shout.

"If you scream," Kuro's voice was a thread of silk spun with shards of ice, "I will slit your throat." The simplicity of the threat hung in the air, a guillotine poised with chilling precision.

She paused, her claw an unwavering promise against the woman's skin. "Blink once if you understand." Her command was a murmur, leaving no room for defiance. Kuro's eyes, twin pools of crimson red, held the innkeeper's gaze, ensuring the gravity of the situation was understood without any doubt.

The old woman's eyelids fluttered once, a single slow descent and rise, conveying her comprehension. Satisfied with the silent acknowledgement, Kuro began her questioning.

"Leon von Wickten," Kuro whispered smoothly. "What did he tell you to do?"

One question at a time—It was a rule she had learned many years ago. Bombard the recipient with too many at once, and she'd never get a straight answer.

The old woman, despite the claw at her throat, mustered a kind of defiance that seemed to push back the shadows. Her voice, when it came, was surprisingly steady, edged with the steel of someone who had seen too many years to be easily cowed.

"Do what you must," she rasped, her eyes locked onto Kuro's with a challenge. "Kill me. The village will awaken to a corpse and a tale. A dirty demihuman, succumbing to her base instincts."

Her smile was a creased and crumpled thing, the expression of a woman who had played the game of gambits and bluffs for decades. "They'll hunt you, it's in your nature. Creatures of your ilk belong caged or free, but never amongst the order of men. A simple tale for simple minds."

Kuro's eyes, gleaming slits of calculation, considered the woman beneath her. Kuro was no beast, but the whisper of instinct wound tightly around her heart—a tumult of impulse and intellect. The old woman swallowed, her throat moving against the ghost of Kuro's touch. 

"I seek not the chaos of your death, but the order of knowledge," Kuro continued, her claw receded, leaving a superficial mark. "Speak the truth, and your life shall be spared."

The old woman's eyes met Kuro's gaze evenly, taking the measure of the creature that held her life in the balance. She had lived long, seen much, and it had been long since she had experienced fear. A small thing like this would not shake the old lady, but she decided to play along. 

"He paid me extra, he did," she admitted with a conspiratorial whisper. "Not for anything sinister. Just to keep an extra eye on the girl. To ensure she's safe, nothing more."

Kuro's stance relaxed imperceptibly, though her senses remained attuned to any flicker of deceit. "And what did he fear? Why the need for vigilance?" she pressed, her question hanging in the air, mingling with the dust motes that danced in the moonlight.

The old woman shifted slightly, "He never said what. Just that she's not to come to harm. It's a dangerous world for a girl like that, and the lad knows it."

Juliana, though of noble blood, had little to defend herself with. Her lack of magical talent was certainly what the old lady was referring to. "Is that all he asked of you?" she inquired.

"That's the heart of it, yes," the innkeeper confirmed, her voice a match for Kuro's hushed tones. "Watch over her, protect her. You noticed the sum that he left behind."

Kuro considered the innkeeper's words, watching the play of emotions across her weathered features. The woman's heartbeat, a steady drum beneath the parchment of her skin, spoke of sincerity, or at least the sincerity that money could buy.

Kuro's voice held the final note, a question that could not go unanswered.

"How does Leon know you?"

The innkeeper's eyes, under the weight of Kuro's steady gaze, seemed to travel back through the years, sifting through memories like one would thumb through the pages of a well-worn tome.

"He's the son of this land," she began, her voice taking on the timbre of aged wood, "just as his father was, and his father before him. The von Wicktens have long memories, and I am in their debt, you see."

She paused, a faint smile playing upon her lips. "Leon was but a boy when I first set eyes on him, tagging along with his father on matters of estate. I met him there."

Kuro absorbed this, weighing the costs of having a witness to her midnight activities alive, or a potential ally in protecting Juliana. Eventually, she decided on the latter. "Then keep watching and keep silent," she restated, not a question but an order.

"Yes," the innkeeper affirmed, "to watch, and if need be, to act. But there's been no need with you around, of course."

Kuro's external composure was a mask of stillness, yet beneath it, doubt prowled—how could this seemingly fragile woman offer protection to anyone, much less Juliana? As scepticism crept up her spine, the room's energy shifted, drawing Kuro's attention to the innkeeper's eyes—they now gleamed with smugness.

"I see you are questioning my abilities, young one. Protection comes in many forms," the woman's voice now resonated with an unexpected strength. "Not all guardians wield swords."

The illusion shattered like a soap bubble bursting. The figure under Kuro's grasp collapsed into nothing but straw and old cloth. Stepping from the veil of shadows, the true innkeeper stood in the periphery of her vision.

She was a striking vision, youthfully poised yet exuding authority. A vibrant green garb clung to her form, woven with golden threads that caught the faint light. Her hair, a cascade of blue locks, framed two emerald eyes that gleamed.

In her presence, the air itself seemed to hum with expectation as she commanded the shadows themselves to draw back in deference. 

Before Kuro could recalibrate to this new threat, she felt the air crackle. Shimmering strands shot towards her like moonlight turned solid. She moved instinctually to dodge, but the enchantment was quicker, binding her in a glow that seared her skin like white-hot chains.

A stifled growl escaped her as she was ensnared, the ethereal fibres responding to her struggles with a punishing tightness. The more she struggled, the tighter the strings seemed to tighten, reacting to her every motion.

"You're fortunate you hadn't slit the puppet's throat," the woman said casually, "The recoil curse would have killed you on the spot."

The woman leaned in close, her breath carrying the scent of herbs and earth. "The strings are made of wool, in case you were wondering," she whispered. "You saw me working on them earlier."

Bound and ensnared, Kuro's wild eyes blazed with frustration and pain, then widened in realisation of the trap she had fallen into.

"You were only pretending to eavesdrop the usual way… without magic." 

Kuro had underestimated her opponent, disregarding too quickly the possibility of the woman being a magic user. Her guard had been lowered too soon.

"Clever bitch," she hissed through gritted teeth, the insult a blade thrown in desperation.

The woman's eyes sparkled, her amusement clear.

"Ara, it's pronounced 'witch', my dear kitty."