Enter the Inn

The inn found me. I want to be clear about that.

I wasn't looking for it. I was walking away from something — I've been walking away from things longer than I'd like to say. The crossroads was just a point on a map where five roads met. I didn't know yet that roads lead places for a reason.

The door was open when I arrived. Fire already lit. Soup already on. No one behind the bar. The building felt like it had been waiting — not for anyone in particular. For whoever needed it most that night.

I kept the inn. Or it kept me. The distinction matters less than you'd think.

If you've come this far down a road you didn't plan — you're probably in the right place. The fire's warm. There's a room with your name on it, even if you haven't told me what it is yet.

— B. Thornheart, Keeper