Chapter 5: The Innkeeper's Daughter
Rowan woke to the faint clatter of dishes downstairs, the sound cutting through
the fog of a restless sleep. His shoulder ached, the scar beneath the bandage
pulsing like a second heartbeat, and the memory of last night's growl lingered in
his ears. The red moon had faded to a pale sliver outside his window, but the mist
still clung to Skyevale, turning the world into a damp, gray blur. He rubbed his
face, trying to shake the unease that had taken root since the attack. He needed
coffee, something strong to clear his head, and maybe a chance to dig deeper into
what this town was hiding.
Downstairs, the inn's common room was warm, the fire crackling faintly as Elara
moved behind the counter. She was stacking plates with a quiet grace, her dark
hair catching the weak morning light, and there was something about her that
stood out against the village's jittery tension. She didn't flinch or whisper like the
others; she just worked, steady and calm, like the eye of a storm. Rowan slid into a
chair, his gear still slung over the back, and watched her for a moment. She was
young, maybe mid-twenties, but carried a weight in her eyes that made her seem
older.
"Morning," he said, his voice rough from sleep. "Any chance for coffee? Tea's not
cutting it."
Elara glanced over, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she reached for a mug.
"Americans and their coffee," she murmured, pouring a steaming cup. "It'll wake
you up, at least." She slid it across the table, her fingers brushing the wood with
care, and met his gaze. There was a depth there, a quiet strength that piqued his
curiosity.
"Thanks," he said, wrapping his hands around the mug's warmth. "You've lived
here all your life, right? You must know the place better than anyone."
She nodded, wiping her hands on her apron, her movements deliberate. "Aye,
born and raised. It's a hard place, but it's home. Why do you ask?"
Rowan leaned forward, keeping his tone casual but probing. "This Silent Moon
stuff.... the pack, the attacks. What do you make of it? The others seem
convinced, but it's all a bit much for me."
Elara paused, her eyes flickering to the window where the mist pressed against
the glass. "It's part of Skyevale, like the fog or the cliffs. People believe because
they've seen things, things that don't add up. Disappearances, bodies torn apart,
always when the moon turns red. My gran used to say it's the pack's doing, but
she never said much more."
He sipped the coffee, the bitterness grounding him, and jotted a note in his book.
"Any details? Tracks, witnesses? Something I can follow up on?"
She hesitated, her fingers tightening on the rag she held. "Tracks vanish, like the
mist swallows them. As for witnesses... folk don't talk much. They're scared. My
gran once saw a man change, bones shifting, skin tearing, but she wouldn't say
who. Said it was a curse, passed down."
Rowan raised an eyebrow, skepticism warring with intrigue. "A curse? Sounds like
a good story, but I need more than that. I'm after signs... claw marks, prints,
anything real."
Elara's gaze shifted to his shoulder, where the bandage peeked out from his
sleeve, and her expression tightened. "You'll find signs, but they won't tell the
whole story. The forest... it hides things. Be careful what you stir up."
He followed her look, rubbing the spot absently. The ache was there, sharper now,
but he brushed it off. "I can handle myself. I've tracked wolves in Canada, bears in
the States. This is just another job."
She didn't argue, just nodded and turned back to her work, but the air between
them felt heavier. He finished his coffee, the warmth doing little to ease the chill
creeping up his spine. Grabbing his gear, he decided to head out again, into the forest. Callingg despite the warnings. Elara's calm hid something, he was sure, a knowledge
she wasn't sharing, and it pulled at him like a thread he needed to unravel.
Outside, the mist was thicker, wrapping around him as he made his way to the
clearing. The camera trap blinked steadily, and he swapped the memory card,
hoping for more footage. The claw marks from the deer were still there, stark
against the muddy ground, and he crouched to study them again. Too big, too
jagged, nothing he'd encountered before. His shoulder twinged, and he winced,
the sensation spreading like a ripple under his skin.
Back at the inn, he reviewed the new footage on his laptop, the screen casting a
pale light across the room. The first clips showed nothing but swaying trees, but
then a shadow moved, quick and fluid. He froze the frame, zooming in. Amber'sr
eyes glowed back, and a paw print pressed into the mud, the claws leaving deep
gouges. His breath caught, the image too clear to dismiss. It wasn't a hoax; it was
real, and it was close.
A knock at the door broke his focus. Elara stood there, holding a tray with bread
and cheese. "Thought you might need this," she said, setting it down. "You've
been up here a while."
"Thanks," he muttered, gesturing to the screen. "Look at this. Caught something
again .... big, fast. Those eyes... they're not normal."
She leaned over, her brow furrowing as she studied the image. "That's what they
fear," she said quietly. "The pack, the alphas. They say the Silent Moon calls them,
turns men into beasts."
Rowan rubbed his temples, the scar itching now. "And you? Do you buy that?"
She straightened, her expression unreadable. "I've seen enough to know
Skyevale's got its secrets. But I also know you're not listening yet. That wound,
how's it feeling?"
He glanced at his shoulder, the bandage still in place. "Sore, but... better than it
should be." The admission felt like a crack in his armor, and he hated it.
Elara's eyes softened, but her voice stayed firm. "It's not just sore. It's changing
you. You should rest, think about what you're chasing."
She left, closing the door behind her, and Rowan sat back, staring at the frozen
image. The villagers' fear, Elara's warnings, the healing wound, it was piling up,
chipping at his certainty. He pressed a hand to his shoulder, the scar warm under
his fingers, and for a moment, he thought he heard a whisper in the wind, low and
wild. The forest was alive out there, and Elara's calm was a mask for something
deeper. He wasn't sure what it was yet, but it felt like it was pulling him in, whether he wanted it or not.