As a storm rages outside, ten souls gather around a living map inside an inn called Fantasy, debating whether to follow its mysterious path. Tensions rise, secrets surface, and eerie changes begin — windows turn to mist, doors seal shut, and binding glyphs are revealed beneath the floor. The inn shifts into something ancient and alive, whispering for them to stay. What was once a tavern becomes a vast, shifting world shaped by their fears and pasts. The inn isn’t just cursed — it’s awake, and it wants them inside.
CHAPTER THREE
The scroll lies open on the table, a map shifting like living ink. Thunder growls outside. Inside, ten souls orbit the parchment like moths around a cursed lantern.
Sir Kostanto crosses his arms, staring hard at the map. “We are not children playing with stories. If this path breaks the law of the realm, I will not follow it.”
Koump’aros, eyes bloodshot and voice rasping, replies, “Good. Then stay behind. Less brain clutter for the rest of us.”
Kostanto turns slowly, not angry — just disappointed. “I’ll remind you: the last time your kind broke the law, a whole village lost its minds.”
Gogos chuckles from the corner, sipping wine. “Oh don’t fight. Not before I’ve had the chance to impersonate one of you dramatically while you’re not looking.”
Sir Patsir’ I.0. leans across the table, banana in hand. “Can we not turn this into a courtroom or a circus? Let’s be real. I’ve trained with the best — I say we take the scroll, follow the map, win some glory, and get very famous.”
Gaslord Nikoko, slumped but alert, mutters, “You’re always chasing glory like it owes you money. It doesn’t. It laughs at you.”
Patsir bristles. “At least I haven’t drowned my honor in a barrel.”
Nikoko just raises his mug. “Yet.”
General Pando’ Spiros, arms behind his back, steps forward, calm and composed. “Enough. If this is truly tied to Aetharion, strategy must prevail. This is not a race. It is a war of time. Of mind.”
Doc Pitoros nods. “Agreed. We need knowledge before swords. There are riddles here. Words in the ink that change when the fire flickers.”
St. Amou suddenly laughs. “Of course it changes. Truth is a reflection. Reflections move.” He taps the map gently. “This… is a mirror. And I want to see who stares back.”
Nikiforos, who had been silent in the shadows, finally speaks. His voice is gentle, almost a whisper. “Perhaps none of us arrived here by chance. The storm outside was merely a whisper of the one within. This scroll… calls to certain souls. Tattered ones.”
Gleg pours a mug of dark ale for himself. “I don’t know what you lot are planning, but if this turns my inn into a battleground, at least pay your tabs first. Especially you, Amou.”
“I paid in wisdom,” Amou replies, wide-eyed.
“You paid in screams,” Gleg says flatly.
Suddenly, a gust of wind throws open the door. A bolt of lightning flashes. The map glows.
The air shifts.
Everyone goes still.
Pando’ Spiros: “That wasn’t just the wind.”
Nikiforos: “Something’s awake.”
The door slammed shut with a thunderous crack.
The fire in the hearth dimmed, shifting to a sickly blue.
The fire in the hearth dimmed, shifting to a sickly blue.
At first, they all blamed the storm — until Gleg looked genuinely terrified.
“That…” the brewmaster whispered, “…wasn’t the storm.”
Patsir’ I.0. rushed to the door and tugged the handle. It didn’t budge. He kicked it, hammered it, cursed at it.
Nothing.
Nothing.
General Pando’ Spiros examined the windows — now rippling like oil instead of glass. They showed not the storm outside, but swirling, endless mist.
Nikiforos pressed his palm against the wood of the door. His hand came away blackened, like soot had bled through the grain.
Sir Kostanto instinctively drew his blade, holding it high. “Some enchantment is at work. Who among us wields it?”
Eyes flicked to St. Amou, who just smiled knowingly. “Not me, dear lawful knight. This place was already hungry before we arrived.”
Gogos moved to the back hallway — the one that led to the rooms. He walked a few paces, then reappeared from the kitchen door across the hall.
“What the hell?” he muttered.
Doc Pitoros bent down, examining the floorboards. He scraped away some dust — revealing etched symbols. Not natural carvings, but binding glyphs. Old. Powerful.
Gleg, finally finding his voice, said what they all feared.
“This Inn… Fantasy…” He swallowed. “It was built on borrowed land. There’s something beneath it. We don’t talk about it. We just poured ale and sang songs over it.”
Gaslord Nikoko laughed a broken laugh. “A cursed tavern? Perfect. That’s exactly my luck.”
The walls creaked.
The rafters groaned.
A voice — no, a sensation — seeped into their minds, whispering without words:
The rafters groaned.
A voice — no, a sensation — seeped into their minds, whispering without words:
“Stay.”
The map on the table sizzled, its ink reshaping itself — not a path outward, but rooms, corridors, passages that hadn’t been there before.
Fantasy had transformed.
It was no longer an inn.
It was no longer an inn.
It was a world.
A world built from their fears, regrets, hopes — and something older still.
Sir Kostanto lifted his sword. “We are trapped.”
St. Amou giggled. “No, my dear knight. We are invited.“
Nikiforos whispered like a prayer, “And something… waits for us inside.”
