As a violent storm rages outside, the mysterious Inn “Fantasy” traps its guests within, sealing the building with supernatural force and shifting from eerie haven to deadly arena. The time for passive survival is over—now the Lockdown has begun. A cryptic voice reveals that the guests are part of a larger trial designed to test their truths, betrayals, and hidden agendas. A glowing map reveals four ominous paths beneath the inn, each leading to unknown trials. The group splits into four balanced teams, combining strength, strategy, and suspicion. The inn watches, listens, and waits—for not all who entered will leave the same… if at all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The storm outside still rages, but something in the air has changed. The Inn “Fantasy” has claimed its guests, shaped their fears, and revealed the cracks in their souls. But now… it begins to shift again. The time for reflection has passed. Now the true game begins… The Lockdown! Thunder cracked like a cannonblast above the inn.
Gleg leaned behind the bar, drying mugs that never seemed to dry. “Anyone else feel that?”
Nikiforos narrowed his eyes. “The air thickens. Something binding is settling in.”
Gaslord Nikoko shivered. “Feels like the storm’s not outside anymore…”
Suddenly, the floor shuddered beneath them. A low rumble echoed from the cellar below — and every window slammed shut, boards nailing themselves in with spectral force. The flames in the hearths flared blue, then green, then flickered into a sickly crimson.
Sir Kostanto was already standing, sword drawn, posture perfect.
“We are locked in,” he said, voice calm, “not by wood or stone — but by fate.”
Gogos stepped toward the door. “Let me try.”
But as his hand reached for the knob — the door vanished. Melted into the wall like wax.
But as his hand reached for the knob — the door vanished. Melted into the wall like wax.
“Oh, delightful,” he muttered.
St. Amou moved to a panel behind the bar, previously unseen. His fingers danced across a set of strange runes. “This inn… it’s reacting. As if we’ve triggered a sequence. A design.”
Pitoros leaned against a beam. “Or it’s alive.”
General Pando’ Spiros stood in the center of the room, his mind already racing through a dozen hypothetical plans.
“Ten doors,” he said. “Ten trials. That wasn’t just for fun. That was selection. Calibration.”
Koump’aros grunted. “And now what? We wait for the next trick?”
Suddenly, a deep creak echoed through the ceiling beams.
The chandeliers above began to swing… slowly. The shadows stretched unnaturally long.
And then, from the fireplace, a voice emerged.
Soft. Silken. Unseen.
“You’ve scratched the surface. Passed your first tests.”
“But this place… this inn… is not a refuge.”
“It is the arena.”
They all turned, eyes wide, weapons drawn — but there was no source.
Only flame.
“You will uncover truth. And betrayal.”
“You will face lies. And gods.”
“And one of you… has already begun to unravel the threads from within.”
Silence.
Gogos was the first to speak. “Was that… me?”
Koump’aros glanced sideways. “We all have shadows.”
Gleg frowned. “And some are longer than they seem.”
Nikiforos said nothing, but his fingers subtly moved beneath his robes — counting, perhaps. Or praying.
The Map Appears
Without warning, the center of the inn’s floor peeled open, revealing a circular, rune-etched table. Upon it, a map formed, glowing with ethereal ink.
It showed the Inn itself, far larger than it should be. Beneath the main hall were layers, entire wings, dungeons, sanctums — some labeled, some blurred.
Sir Patsir pointed to a blinking symbol near the western wing.
“Looks like… the next part.”
General Pando’ Spiros stepped forward. “We need to split. Small teams. Explore. Search for answers.”
Sir Kostanto raised a brow. “Split? In a haunted fortress masquerading as a pub?”
Pitoros smirked. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Nikoko coughed, raising a finger. “You had to say it.”
The Inn has locked them in.
The trials have begun anew — deeper, darker, connected.
And not all who entered will remain who they were.
The trials have begun anew — deeper, darker, connected.
And not all who entered will remain who they were.
The room glowed with the map’s soft light. Shadows flickered along the walls, warped by the dancing flame. Ten figures stood around the circular table, none eager to be the first to speak — or the first to trust.
Finally, Pando’ Spiros cleared his throat.
“Logic dictates we split into smaller units. Three or four groups. Move faster, cover more ground.”
Sir Kostanto crossed his arms. “Splitting up in hostile, cursed terrain? That’s not logic — that’s suicide.”
St. Amou, staring at the map’s blurred sections, muttered, “This structure… it’s shifting. Like a quantum vault. Some paths may only open under specific… stimuli.”
Nikiforos chuckled darkly. “Which means the Inn is watching. Listening. Waiting.”
Gogos leaned on the map. “Then maybe it’s time we give it a show.”
Sir Patsir’ I.0., sword loosely slung on his back, scoffed. “Whatever. Just don’t pair me with Nikoko. That guy smells like fermented regret.”
Nikoko raised his tankard. “Better than smelling like unearned nobility.”
Patsir stepped forward, face reddening, but Pitoros casually stepped between them.
“Cool it. We’ll get plenty of chances to hit things soon enough.”
Koump’aros, watching it all unfold, finally spoke — calm, slow, deliberate.
“We split. But not randomly.”
“Each group should have… balance. Skill. Muscle. Mind. And someone we’re unsure about.”
All eyes flicked around the circle. Suspicion settled like ash.
“You’re saying someone’s hiding something,” Nikiforos said, voice low.
“No,” Koump’aros replied. “I’m saying several of us are.”
Silence.
Then Gleg, arms crossed, spoke from behind the bar.
“Right then. You want teams? Here’s how I see it.”
Gleg walks to the table, pointing at various wings of the map — marked The Glass Hall, The Withering East, The Sunken Kitchen, and The Forgotten Stage.
“You’ve got four paths open now. Four teams. We rotate who leads. No one goes alone.”
Team One – The Glass Hall
- Sir Kostanto (Discipline, honor, brute force)
- Gogos (Trickery, infiltration, unpredictability)
- St. Amou (Mad genius, unstable power)
Kostanto: “This is going to be insufferable.”
Gogos: “Looking forward to it already.”
Gogos: “Looking forward to it already.”
Team Two – The Withering East
- Pando’ Spiros (Tactician, strategist)
- Nikoko (Broken soul, resilient fighter)
- Sir Patsir’ I.0. (Volatile, unpredictable skill)
Pando: “One of you doesn’t talk. One talks too much. I’ll manage.”
Team Three – The Sunken Kitchen
- Doc Pitoros (Practical, combat medic)
- Koump’aros (Internal war, alien touch)
- Nikiforos (Dark spiritual knowledge, manipulative)
Pitoros: “Great. The brooding squad.”
Koump’aros: “We’re the ones who’ll survive.”
Koump’aros: “We’re the ones who’ll survive.”
Team Four – The Forgotten Stage
- Gleg the Brewmaster (Knows the inn best… or so he claims)
- Floating between groups as support and observation
- The stage area pulses strangely — as if waiting just for him.
Gleg: “Someone’s gotta stay behind. And this stage has secrets I don’t like leaving alone.” The map pulses. The passageways behind each marked section crack open, leading into darkness and color and impossible geometries.
Gleg raises a glass.
“To clarity.”
Nikiforos mutters, “To confession.”
Gogos smiles, “To chaos.”
The groups begin to walk toward their paths.
And somewhere, behind the walls — a whisper stirs. A name is spoken, one none of them recognize… yet.
