*[SCENE: The Last Dry Hearth — The Trade Way, a mile south of the Misty Forest.

A sudden squall has turned the road to mud and the sky to ink. Rain slashes sideways, lightning splits the dark, and the wind howls with a voice that sounds almost… curious. Through the downpour, a lantern flickers in a roadside hollow—an old stone hostelry that wasn't there the last time you passed this way. Its sign creaks in the gale, but the letters are too weathered to read. The door swings open before you touch it.*

The common room is warm. Impossible warm. A fire crackles in a hearth large enough to roast a boar, its flames casting dancing shadows on walls lined with empty tables. Ale casks sit broached on the bar, beads of condensation rolling down their sides. A cauldron of stew bubbles over a hook, filling the air with thyme, rosemary, and something faintly sweeter—memory, perhaps, or longing. There are chairs enough for everyone. Blankets folded at the end of a long oak table. But no innkeeper. No staff. No other guests. Just the storm hammering the shutters and a silence that feels like held breath.

You find a note pinned to the mantle, written in a looping hand and slightly damp:

"Rest, travelers. The storm will pass. In the meantime, eat, drink, and be truthful. The hearth listens."

*As the last of you drips onto the threshold, the door swings gently shut. Not slammed by the wind. Closed. Quietly. Deliberately. The fire pops. A ladle rises from the cauldron, seemingly of its own accord, and stirs the stew. A tankard slides across the bar and lands in front of the nearest empty seat. Whatever this place is, it wants you here. It wants you to talk.

The blankets are warm. The ale is cold. And the first confession is already rising in someone's throat like a song they didn't know they remembered.*

[SCENE: Enter Parisa — The fire pops. The stew stirs itself. The tankard on the bar is still full, no matter how many sips are taken. Outside, the storm redoubles its fury, and the inn's door swings open one more time. A young woman steps inside, a bluebird huddled against her cheek, her light brown hair plastered with rain and still somehow managing to look like a crown of flowers. She's soaked, shivering, and absolutely radiant with delight.]